Just One of the Guys

“Do you want to be next, Santo?” I ask.

“It’s her way of standing out in a crowd,” Mark states, closer to the truth than he realizes. “Knock ’em down and drag ’em off to her cave.”

The guys howl with laughter. Only Trevor doesn’t join in, but I’m feeling too bleak to feel grateful.

“Oh, and you’re such an expert on the opposite sex, right, Mark?” I say. “You’re still mad that I beat you at the race.”

“So you’re a jock, Chas. A lonely, spinster jock,” he returns spitefully.

“Mark, would you like me to share the fact that you once told me you thought Patrick Swayze was much hotter than Luke Perry?” I ask. “No? Then shut up.”

The men’s tenuous attention is successfully diverted. Granted, Mark will have to deal with g*y jokes for the next several decades, but I find I don’t care a bit. He showed up at Elaina’s yesterday to pick a fight about something in the proposed divorce settlement, yelled at Elaina, snapped at Dylan, slammed the door so hard on the way out that a windowpane cracked. Shithead.

“Your mother had three dates last week,” my father whispers fiercely in my ear. “She has to stop this. It’s ridiculous, not to mention—”

“Shut it, Dad! Haven’t you heard of keeping the kids out of your ugly divorce? Okay? Can we talk about something other than Mom’s amazing social life and me kicking guys in the nuts? Can we? Huh, Dad?”

Dad starts to say something, wisely reconsiders and slides away to a more amiable product of his loins. Can’t say that I blame him. Screw it. I’d feel more cheerful if I were home alone watching Tony Soprano beat someone to death. At least I’d have Buttercup…and one of the king-sized Snickers bars I bought at CostCo last week. Make that three Snickers bars. Maybe I’ll go home, get the bag of Snickers and my dog, and go over to Elaina’s, where we can both be cheered by the sight of Tony Soprano beating the shit out of someone.

I drain Scorpy—I’ve learned that one is my limit—and swivel around on my stool, ready to leave. Trevor is standing right in front of me. “Hey, Chas,” he says.

“What do you want?” I grunt, in no mood to deal with anyone, let alone The Man I Love.

“I just wanted to say sorry about your, um, incident.” He smiles a little.

My heart leaps, which causes fresh irritation to flood my veins. “What for? I felled a black belt. I’m so proud.” I glance over his shoulder. Dad is playing darts with Jack, Lucky is shooting pool with Santo and Jake, Mark is ordering another Jameson’s. There are no other women in our group. Just good old Chastity, one of the guys.

“Here’s your beer, Trevor,” Lindsey the Kitten sighs, squishing her boobs against Trevor’s chest as she sets his glass down on the bar. “Do you need anything else?”

I can’t help rolling my eyes. “No thanks, Linds,” Trevor says. “See you later.” Sex Kitty wiggles away, practically purring. And yes, Trevor is watching her go.

Since my night is pure, unadulterated, grade-A, made in America crap and not looking to get better, I decide to make it a clean sweep. “Trevor, are you getting back with Hayden?”

His mouth drops open. “Uh…no. No. I just ran into her at the race, that’s all. But, well, she did move back to the area. She’s in Albany.”

Shit. “But you’re not seeing each other?”

He shakes his head.

“Well, here’s the thing. I know this woman from work. Very nice, very attractive. Want her number?”

Trevor’s eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me?”

“Do you want to date Angela, the food editor? She thinks you’re cute.”

Trev pauses. “You okay, Chas?”

I roll my eyes. “For God’s sake, Trevor, yes or no?” He’s so close that I can smell his soap, can see that he needs a shave, and if I leaned forward just a little, I could rub my own cheek against his, then lower my head to the crook of his warm neck and kiss the skin there. Bastard. “So?” I snap.

“Sure, I guess so, Chastity,” he answers slowly, frowning.

“Great! I’ll e-mail you her name and number and whatever. Look, I have to run. Buttercup needs me.” I slide off the bar stool and shove past Trevor, who hasn’t moved an inch.

“Chastity?” a new voice asks.

My head jerks around. “Shit!” I exclaim.

It’s Ryan “the Groin” Darling. The blood drains from my face, then floods back. “Uh, um, hi,” I stammer. “Um, how are you?”

“A little swollen,” he admits. I can’t suppress a grimace.

Trevor is watching us. “Hi. I’m Trevor Meade.”

“Ryan Darling. Nice to meet you.”

“You work at the hospital, don’t you?” Trevor asks.

“Yes,” Ryan answers. “I’m a trauma surgeon.”

“Okay. I’m on the paramedic unit of Eaton Falls Fire,” Trevor says.

“Right,” Ryan says. “Hello.” He offers nothing else, and I can tell he doesn’t remember Trevor. Well, I guess a surgeon would be concentrating on the patient—one would hope so, at any rate. But still. Not remembering Trevor is something I can’t imagine.

“Chas, I’ll see you around.” Trevor looks assessingly at Ryan. “Nice to see you.” He joins the rest of his platoon in the O’Neill booth.

I turn back to face Ryan. “Again, I’m so, so sorry.” Closing my eyes, I shake my head. “I guess instinct just took over.”

“It’s…well, it’s a good example of what I try to teach, I suppose.” He attempts a smile, and another wave a dismay washes over me. Why is he here? A lawsuit? Am I being arrested for assault and battery? The burning attraction I felt for him yesterday seems like a thing of the distant past.

“So…well, would you like to have a seat?” I ask, gesturing to the stool next to me.

“Sure.” He slides gingerly onto the stool.

“Oh, crap, I’m sorry. Would a booth be more comfortable?” I blurt. “Or some ice? Would you like some ice?”

He grins. “No, no, that’s fine. I’m here. May as well stay.”

My father is eying me suspiciously. He murmurs something to Jack, who looks over, gives me a reassuring chin jerk, then turns Dad back to the dartboard. I make a mental note to babysit Jack and Sarah’s kids soon.

“So, um, Ryan, right?” As if his name wasn’t burned into the shame section of my soul already. “What can I do for you?”

“You never did the interview. I was here with a colleague, saw you, thought I’d come over.”

“The inter—oh, right!” I exclaim. “Of course. Well, sure, I’d still love to do it.” Not that I thought we’d be speaking again, ever, but crap!

“Great. I was hoping that was the case. And it’s not often I get to talk with a woman after she beat me up.”

Dear God in heaven, he’s flirting. I suck in an audible breath of joy. I wave to Stu, elation bursting in my heart like a bleeping sunrise. “Well, how about a drink?” I ask Ryan. “I definitely owe you a drink. Possibly more.”

“A drink will do,” he answers, then smiles. “For now. I’ll have a single malt, if you’ve got it,” he tells Stu as my toes clench in my high-tops.

“Maclaren okay?” Stu asks, taking away my empty Scorpy.

“That would be great.”

“How about you, Chas?” Stu smiles. “Another Scorp—”

“Water! Water would be perfect, Stu. Thank you.”

A million thoughts are flying through my head. One, God pities me and is giving me another chance with Ryan. Two, must use inside voice. Three, Ryan is flirting with me! And four, the one I like the best, every guy I know—including Trevor—is watching me chat with a very attractive man. Very attractive.

Ryan accepts the drink from Stu and turning to give me the full power of the cheekbones. “So what kind of an angle were you looking for?” he asks.

“Well, you know…um…” My mind is blank. “Local people who, uh…” He’s staring at me with those green eyes. I’ve always been a sucker for green eyes. “Local people…you know…who um…”

“Make a difference?” he suggests, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Yes! That’s it. Yup. Give of themselves and all that.” I take a few glugs of water to buy some time and get it together. Though I humiliated him in front of his class yesterday, Ryan Darling is still the first man who really grabbed my interest in a long, long time. I want to make the best impression I possibly can. A little forethought (and sobriety) would definitely help.

“You know what, Ryan? I hate to do this, but I’m wondering if we can reschedule this. I don’t have a notepad or my questions or anything.” I pause. Scorpy tells me to go for it. “Since I still feel bad about the um, injury, how about I buy you dinner and we can do the interview then?”

“Sure. I’d love that,” he says instantly, and I nearly fall off the stool. He said yes! Yes to me, the O’Neill girl, one of the guys. Mr. New York Times and I are going out for dinner!

“Um, yikes, I have plans this weekend,” I say regretfully. “How about Tuesday or Wednesday?”

“That should be fine, barring any emergency surgery. Can I have your cell number?” Seeing him smiling at me, those cheekbones, those green eyes, a surreal cloud envelops me. I haven’t been this attracted to a guy in a long, long time. Maybe, just maybe, Trevor isn’t the only guy in town.

We exchange numbers, and I tell him I’ll call Tuesday morning with the details. Then I decide to get out of Dodge before my father or any of the other guys decides to join us. “I’m so glad you’re feeling better,” I say with absolute sincerity. “And thanks. I’m really looking forward to the interview.”

I slip a twenty under my water glass, say goodnight and flee before my menfolk realize that he-of-the-battered-scrotum is sitting in their midst.

By the time I get home, my head is clearer and my mood, needless to say, is much improved. “I have a date, Buttercup,” I tell my dog as she charges me. She leaps, slobbers, collapses and rolls over onto her back. “Exactly what I’m thinking, girl. Come on. Let’s go for a drag.”

The night air clears my head. It’s not just Scorpy, but Ryan Darling who is fogging it. I have a date—well, almost a date. An interview-date. I will pump Angela for recommendations on the very coolest, most intimate restaurant around here.

Speaking of Angela, she’ll be pleased to hear that Trevor’s interested. As Buttercup crumples on the Manleys’ lawn, I decide to be really pleased about Trevor and Angela. Better Ange than Perfect freakin’ Hayden Simms. Hauling Buttercup to her feet and luring her down the block with a Slim Jim, I make a resolution: Ryan Darling is going to be the new man in my life whether he knows it or not. And he’s going to adore me.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ON SATURDAY NIGHT, when Christopher, Annie and Jenny are finally in bed (I only had to threaten the use of duct tape once), I clean up the devastation and invite Buttercup to join me on the couch. Surely Luke and Tara won’t mind my giant dog on their furniture, not after their children have been so lovingly cared for. Stroking my pup’s enormous head and thin, floppy ears, I let myself relax, wincing as the new bruise on my thigh twinges.

It was a fun day…we played not only Bucking Broncos and Wild Wild Wolves, but also a marathon game of Monopoly, which we had to stop because Jenny kept trying to eat the hotels. We went for a hike, had milk shakes and burgers at the diner, made a Lincoln Log zoo and watched Finding Nemo. Then I pretended to be a giant baby and staggered around the house bellowing “Dada! Mama! Feed me!” while the older two clutched themselves and wept with laughter. Supper time (chicken nuggets shaped like dinosaurs, quite delicious), bath time, story time, jump on Auntie time, call Mommy and Daddy time, bedtime for the girls, another game of Monopoly (the speed version), and finally, bedtime for Christopher.

I don’t think I was this tired after I ran the New York City marathon, quite honestly. I hurt in places I didn’t know I had. So much for rowing being the ultimate sport. Motherhood has it beat. And I get to do it again tomorrow. But I find that I’m smiling. Jenny looked so cute in her crib, her little rump sticking up in the air. Annie, who is quite a demon child, was downright angelic with exhaustion, clinging to me as I put her to bed. And Chris, well, he’s just a great kid in general. No one got so much as a boo-boo, luckily.

Actually, the only time I don’t freak out around blood is when a kid is hurt. Last year, Graham fell and cut his lip, and I was quite competent administering ice and Hershey kisses, the O’Neill cure for any injury. Once, Claire scraped her knee pretty badly when we were riding bikes, and if my hands shook a little as I blotted, I certainly didn’t pass out. Granted, Olivia reduced me to jelly with that loose tooth of hers, but if she’d actually been hurt and needed me, I think I would’ve been okay. It’s nice to think that my maternal instincts outweigh my blood phobia.

Buttercup sighs, her jowls fluttering. “Who’s a good baby?” I croon, and her tail whips the couch four times. She’s only a puppy still, about ten months old, but she acts like she’s a hundred and four, if you ask me, lying around all day, her only activity rolling onto her back for a tummy scratch. “I don’t mind,” I tell her, pulling her ears up just for fun. She looks like a cross between a dog and a jackrabbit, very ugly, very science-gone-wrong. “I think you’re fabulous. Unique. One of a kind.” I pull her jowls out from her face. She snuffles happily. “Who’s a pretty girl? Hm, Butter-boo-boo?” Drawing her ears together under her chin, I decide she looks like Aunt Jemima.