CHAPTER SIXTEEN
REID
If Jason and Milo’s grandma taught me anything—you know, besides the fact that you can’t always outrun the elderly—it was that panicking did nothing to help the situation. So when Jordan told me I needed to hash out some romance advice, yeah, sure, I got a little nervous, but I didn’t think it would be that hard.
By the time I went to bed that night, I decided that I’d think back on all my past relationships and figure out how they started.
The problem arose almost immediately when I realized: I’d never legitimately asked a woman out.
Ever.
Not even in first grade, when Sara Murf offered to share her carrot sticks and pronounced us married once I jammed one in my mouth.
It took me six months of bringing the woman ranch dip for her carrot sticks to get back into her good graces after I told her I didn’t want to be her boyfriend because girls had germs.
There was also that time in high school when the vice principal trapped me in a janitor’s closet and said, “Nobody has to know.”
I thought she meant that nobody had to know she showed me the janitor’s closet. That thought was extremely short-lived when she grabbed my hand and placed it on her ass. To be fair, she was just out of college, so it wasn’t as creepy as it sounded.
And I was eighteen.
But still.
I shivered at the memory.
At least she didn’t have a mustache, like Grandma. I shivered in bed and pounded my pillow with my fist.
There had to be one moment, at least one, in my short life when I actually asked a woman out and dated her.
My brain hurt.
And after another half hour of tossing and turning, the panic set in. It was slow, almost like jumping into a hot tub and midair yelling, “Oh, shit!” into the night, knowing that the heat was coming, knowing I was about as screwed as a lobster in Maine.
The worst part, if I can be completely honest, was that I’d always been extremely secure in my ability to get women, only to finally realize at age twenty-eight that I never actually pursued them in the first place.
I needed Max.
Loath as I was to admit it.
I just needed to do it in a way that he wouldn’t hold over my head for an eternity.
There are ways to ask for favors and there are ways to ask for favors. Max was the type to whom you never actually admitted out loud that you needed help. Rather you tricked him into talking so much about a certain topic that he inevitably bragged about himself and his experiences, and then suddenly started spouting off what he considered wisdom. Really, his advice was just a lot of bullshit that he managed to make creatively smell like roses, but somehow it ended up being spot-on at least 90 percent of the time.
Damn it! There I go with the roses again.
What’s the saying? Gird your loins? Yeah, I was going to do a hell of a lot of that in the next few minutes. I told Max to meet me for lunch at Shake Shack. I hoped that the sheer volume of people would deter him from either making a scene or stripping in public or landing us in jail—take your pick. Nothing was out of the question where my brother was concerned.
“Well, well, well.” Max peeled off his aviator sunglasses and shook his head slowly. “The prodigal returns.”
“Never left.”
“And by the looks of it, he needs my help.”
“No, I don’t.” Oh, and by the way, of all the people to gift with mind reading, God gifted Max. It’s a real thing, just ask anyone who’s ever met him.
“Yes, you do.” Max ran a hand through his wavy dark-brown hair and grinned. A few teens standing next to us started whispering. I half expected him to turn around and pose for a picture, not that I blamed him. It was an Emory thing, females being drawn to us. Women stared, and Max had always been more than happy to let them look their fill, all the while signing their bra straps like he was a rock star. I hated that I needed Max, but if anyone could help, it was him. How the hell was I supposed to romance? Did I even know the definition of the word? “You’re stalling.”
“Huh?” I blinked against the sun, shielding my face with my hand.
Max motioned me toward the long lunch line. “Spit it out, we don’t have all day, and by the looks of your shaky disposition the longer you keep that shit in the more susceptible you are to the elderly.”
I rolled my eyes. “Please.”
“Grandma loved it when you played the victim.”
“You know what? Thanks for meeting me for lunch, but—” I stepped away, but Max jerked me back by my white T-shirt, nearly hanging me in the process, and shoved me toward the cash register.
“What can I get you two?” the chipper adolescent squeaked, braces flashing, black-rimmed glasses falling down her nose.
“Two burgers.” Max wrapped a muscled arm around my shoulder and squeezed hard enough for my spine to pop. “A large fry to share with my lover.”
“Oh, dear God.” I looked heavenward, although I wasn’t sure why, considering all these years God’s been ignoring my plea to strike Max where he stood.
“And a strawberry milkshake . . .” He winked. “Brings all the boys to my yard, feel me?”
The girl blushed and typed in our order, then called it via the microphone. “Will that be all?”
“For now . . .” Max said, almost like a threat, though the girl seemed excited about it.
“And we’re walking . . .” I shoved him toward the tables.
Our order came a few minutes later.
I stared at the fries.
And my burger.
“Spill.” Max made a slurping noise through the straw, his expression bored. “I don’t have all day and I need to get back to the office to make sure my new desk gets delivered to the right floor.”
“New desk?”
He nodded. “The other broke.”
“How?”
He grinned. “He asks how . . .” With a bout of laughter he made a spanking motion with his hand. “Taking my work home, feel me? Or maybe it’s taking my home to work? Becca liked the idea of possibly getting caught, though thanks to you the only thing people may catch is a flash of boob and some heavy kissing—maybe some blue balls if they’re lucky. BTW, have I told you how much I loathe you and this little stunt you pulled? No?” He sneered. “Lean forward.”
“I’m not letting you slap me.”
“Damn it, and I was so sly about it.”
“Your slapping hand was midair.”
Max looked up, then brought his twitchy hand back to the table. “That it was.” He placed the milkshake back down and shrugged. “Now, tell Max your problems.”
“It’s not a problem . . . per se.”
He nodded emphatically. “I see, and when did you first realize you had ED?”
“WHAT?” I roared.
“It happens!” he held his hands in the air. “Just ask Jason.”
“I’m not asking Jason about his ED.”
“Good call.” Max tapped his chin. “Because last time I mentioned it, he tried to kick me in the balls . . . probably because I asked it over the intercom at McDonald’s, but whatev.”
“They let you in McDonald’s?”
“Please,” he huffed. “Ronald McDonald had no basis for his claims!”
“Well, last I checked, we were both still blacklisted on account of the fact that we share the same last name.”
He popped his knuckles. “Jason may have snuck me in. I had a craving for a nugget.”
I groaned into my hands.
“Fine, fine, so if it’s not ED, is it the shrew?”
I didn’t answer.
“Ah, young grasshopper, is there trouble on set?”
I frowned.
“And by set, I mean is there trouble”—he leaned forward and cupped his mouth with his hand—“in the bedroom?”
I rolled my eyes. “Kinda defeats the purpose of you cupping your mouth if you aren’t going to whisper.”
“That was my whisper.”
With a sigh I dipped a fry into some of the sauce and shrugged. “Well, we aren’t exactly in the bedroom, considering we aren’t really together, therefore no sex.”
Max froze, fry midair.
I waved my hand in front of his face.
“Uh, Max?”
He shook his head, then pounded his chest as if he’d been holding his breath the whole time, then tossed a fry to the waiting pigeons. “Honest, Reid, I think I stopped breathing. What do you mean, you aren’t in bed together? What the hell are those noises I keep hearing at night?”
“First . . .” I held up my hand. “I’m ignoring the fact that you cup your ear to the door late at night. Second.” I gulped. “It’s the TV. She likes to watch Starz at night and then forgets to turn it off, so my guess would be you were hearing the latest porno.”
Max exhaled a sigh of relief. “Good God, I thought you were an animal! Honestly, I was starting to feel a bit insecure. Good to know the balance has been restored. Also, I may have been concerned when I started hearing barking. Never had that happen—not that I’m opposed to it, you understand.”
“Max.” I checked my watch. “This has been fun, but I’m just going to come out and say it. I need help, all right, and right now, you’re my only option.”
“Interesting . . .”
I clenched my teeth and crooked my finger. He leaned forward. “If you had to give someone dating advice . . . or relationship advice, what would you say?”
Max’s blue eyes narrowed into tiny slits. “So you’re asking for you or . . . a friend?”
“Friend,” I lied. “A friend I have to help.”
“Hmm, and this friend’s name?”
“Jason.” Sorry in advance to my accident-prone friend, but I was desperate not to be Max’s target. If he knew it was me, he’d probably send a singing hooker to set or sign me up for self-help classes, get me a prescription for ED pills. Hell, the possibilities were endless.
Note to self: send Jason a Christmas goose.
“Well.” Max rubbed his hands together. Oh, good, the evil genius was warming up. “First of all, I’d say that relationships take work. A lot of work—”
“Wow, Max.” I frowned. “That’s actually really—”
“—in the bedroom,” he finished. I sighed—he’d started off so good. “But in order to get there, you need to actually ask the girl out, make her realize you’re datable.” He shrugged. “Let’s be honest, if you aren’t an Emory man, you don’t really have a lot going for you.”
Yeah, like I was going to say that out loud and have men everywhere hate me. Pretty sure that was the opposite of what Jordan was trying to accomplish.
“Jason doesn’t have the eyes like you do, and let’s be honest, if he and I were running for president, his signs would say, ‘Vote for Boring,’ while mine would say ‘Join Team Awesome—Win a Free Puppy.’”
I hated when he actually made sense.
“So, for simple folk, like our friend”—he hooked his fingers and made air quotes—“‘Jason’”—he put his hands down—“the advice is this.” He closed his eyes very briefly before opening them again. His jaw had a slight tic. Either he was thinking too hard or the milkshake was making a comeback. “Start with a compliment, something innocent, nothing creepy. You can’t just walk up to a chick and say, ‘Nice ass,’ or, ‘Wow, you’re beautiful.’ The first gets you slapped, the second gets you ignored.”
“Okay . . .”
“So, pre-Becca, I used pickup lines, but only ones I knew would get the girl to laugh. Stupid pickup lines coming from a dead sexy guy equal immediate laughter and witty banter.”
“Should I be writing this down?”
Max frowned.
“For Jason,” I blurted. “You know, since he can read.”
“Can he? I’ve always wondered.” Max shrugged. “Sure, whatever, or I can just tell him myself. Why didn’t he just join our lunch date?”
“Not a date, and he’s helping his grandma with her groceries.”
“That woman has the strength of ten men and you know it. The last thing she needs is help carrying a banana.” He smirked. “Get it? A banana? Because she held your bana—”
“Focus!” I snapped my fingers to regain his attention. “I have to be back on set and you need to get back to work.” Right, let’s call it work, so everyone feels better that he earns millions a year by staring out a damn window.
Sure helps me sleep at night.
“Fine.” Max cleared his throat. “Once you’ve secured said laughter or the date by using your crazy eyes . . .”
“Thanks.”
“Welcome.” He examined a french fry, his eyebrows narrowing as if he was counting the salt crystals. “You need to actually secure that date, which is harder than you think. I mean, have you seen the type of crays that walk the streets out there?” Why, yes, I have. I’m looking at one and for some reason taking his advice. But I digress. “How can this feminine creature trust you if she doesn’t know you? I’ve always learned it helps to call home.”
“Call . . . home?”
“I call Mom.”
“What?” I yelled, startling the pigeons as they swarmed away from our table. “You call our mother?”
Max grinned shamelessly. “She vouches for my awesomeness.”
“Is she drunk every time you call?”
Frowning, Max checked his phone, then answered. “I may send Dad a text just to make sure she’s had her nightly wine. I find she’s much more agreeable when she’s liquored up.”
I chose to ignore the fact that he used my alcohol-induced mother to get girls. “Fine, so you call Mom and she says what?”
“Well, sometimes she goes off script—”
“There’s a freaking script?”
“Dude, let me finish.”
I held up my hands in defense.
“‘My Max is the sweetest gentleman.’” Max spoke in a high-pitched, feminine voice that had pigeons sweeping in and landing near our table. “‘Why, he saved four little ducklings when they were just hatched! He’s a beautiful soul. Did you know he’s wanted to be president since he was four?’”
I rolled my eyes.
“And usually this gets the girl to engage more . . .” His voice returned to normal.
“Really? Why?”
“‘Well.’” Oh, good, the voice was back. Pigeons continued gathering, and I kicked them away. “‘I’ll never forget the moment he watched the news and said, “Mom, I want to change the world someday. Who makes those changes?” I said the president, and the very next day he wrote “President Max” on his door.’”
“You weren’t even potty trained until five!” I yelled.
“Details.” Max waved me off. “At any rate, the advice I’m giving is this: third-party references seal the deal at least ninety-nine percent of the time. It’s marketing genius. Think of dating as a lesson in business marketing. Don’t take my word for it, but this guy over here? The one with the kind smile and ‘I Love Kitties’ T-shirt? He just LOVES me—you should too! Oh, what? What was that? You need someone trustworthy? Shucks, I just helped him save an old lady from a tree! And that police officer over there accepting an award? My cousin. I shit you not!”
Mouth open, I simply nodded. “So, they trust you by association.”
Max rolled his eyes. “It’s all on my website. Have you seriously never read my book?”
“I thought you were joking.”
“It was a New York Times bestseller.”
“Now I know you’re joking.”
“Publishers Weekly called me a literary genius.”
“Were they high?”
“Please, like I’d drug my own reviewers.” His lips curled into a smile that I chose to ignore, for obvious reasons. “Okay, so once you have the date, it’s important to spend more time listening than talking.”
“Right.”
“You’re not listening!” Max slammed his fist against the picnic table, tears filling his eyes. “Are all men this dense?”
“Uh.” What the hell? Why was I panicking? It was Max! Not some crazy girl!
“Boo.” Two giant thumbs pointed downward. “Wrong. The first date is crucial, you are never right on the first date, you are never smarter than her, better looking, or funnier. You are simply honored to be sitting at the same table as her. When you pick her up, you get down on one knee and bow your head in humble adoration. Whatever the hell it takes to get her to get in the car without having to hit her over the head and drag her, caveman style.”
“Because if that doesn’t land you in prison . . .”
“Look!” Max stood. “I’m just trying to help our friend Jason. On second thought, I’ll just call him. It’s so hard explaining romance to simpleminded fellas.”
I think I was the fella to which he was referring. “Jason changed his number.”
“Did he?” Max’s eyes narrowed. “Without telling his best friend?”
“Colt’s his best friend.”
Max pulled out his cell.
“Wait!” I grabbed Max. “It wasn’t for Jason, it was for me.”
“And now you’re covering for him!” Max shouted.
“No.” Oh, shit, Jason was going to kill me. “You know what? I should go, and remember, you have that desk delivery don’t want to miss, right?”
Max’s eyes clouded. “It’s made of steel. Do you even know what I can do to that desk?”
“You mean on the desk. Please tell me you mean on the desk.”
He rolled his eyes. “Duh, I mean the other way around would be . . . well, there has to be a word for that. Sex with inanimate objects? Probably lands you in the cray-cray bin, am I right?”
“Go to work, Max.”
He saluted me and started walking off, then turned. “Hey, Reid?”
“Hmm?”
“You do realize that this won’t end well.”
“What won’t?”
“You and Jezebel.”
“Jordan?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Stay out of it, Max . . .”
He held up his hands. “Just don’t get too attached. She isn’t the type to stay around. She scares easy. Trust me.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Just trust.” He pounded his chest and walked off.
I checked my phone. In less than two hours I had to meet with Jordan and give her my relationship advice.
And all I had to go on was “Call my mom.”
I was screwed.