Barclay

I take a deep breath as I pick up my cell phone. I’d rather have my chest hairs waxed than make this call, which is pure torture. Damn all the metrosexual grooming trends. A hairless man is like one of those hairless cats. They look naked and frightening as hell. A man needs to look like a man for fuck’s sake.

Grumbling under my breath, I find the number I need and press call, wondering how to even begin this conversation. Kill me now.

“Barc,” Lucas yells into the phone. Bells ring in the background, so he must be working on the trading floor. “Is everything okay? It’s nine in the morning, and a workday. We rarely talk during daylight.”

“Yeah, no emergencies or anything like that. Why don’t you call me when you’re off the floor.” Even as I say the words, the noise in the background fades.

“I was just leaving that jungle. Getting the young guys set for the day. What’s up?” Lucas gets right to the point, and I swallow before answering. I swore I’d never do this, yet here I sit in my executive chair about ready to do the unthinkable: pay for a date.

“Well,” I say in a stalled response. “I need a number from you.”

“A number? You know I can’t give you any insider info on stocks. No perp walk for me, even for my closest friend. I will not be someone’s bitch in a federal prison.”

“Jesus, Lucas. I’d never ask for those kinds of numbers. I need a phone number.” I pause a beat. “The escort one.”

A bitterness lands on my tongue, but it’s a pill I have to swallow because finding a date with a new woman by Saturday will be impossible with my workload.

“Wait a second. Did you say ‘escort’?” Lucas’s voice is filled with disbelief, and I feel the same way.

“Yes, it’s a long story, revolving around my meddling sister, but I need a date for Saturday night. The Warwick Awards.”

“Are you fucking with me, Barclay? It’s only Thursday, dude. A guy like you could swing his briefcase and have a score of women willing to do just about anything with him—or for him.”

“I’m not the same guy I was in my twenties.” There’s a reason I don’t see my friend outside of the gym or sporting events. He still lives like he’s twenty-five. “Maybe you know a specific woman who could work. She needs to be refined and real, not a Botoxed supermodel type.”

“What gives?” Lucas asks. “You need to hang out with me tonight. There’s this new place in The Village. We’ll have this issue knocked out by nine, maybe sooner.”

“Listen, forget I asked,” I say, forgoing the crazy idea and hoping Lucas will forget this conversation ever happened. He has the memory of an elephant, so the chances are slim, but webs this tangled usually end up strangling someone in lies. The idea of going dateless and attending my father’s birthday party with one of Victoria’s friends sounds better and better by the moment.

“I have no idea why you need it, but it’s yours. No questions. After all the jams you’ve helped me out of, I’ll never be able to repay you. I’ll even include the name of a girl you should request. Sending the text now.”

“Thanks, but you know you’re dead if this gets out.”

“Hell, no one would believe the ‘It’ guy of the city would need an escort. Which worries me, dude. Let’s get together Sunday. I have the company’s box seats for the Yankees game. What’cha say?”

“Yeah, sounds good.” A knock sounds on my office door, ending this distraction in my day. “Gotta run.”

“Me, too. See you Sunday. And good luck with whatever happens.”

“Thanks.” We end the call, and I lay my phone face down on the desk, trying to put the unpleasant conversation behind me. “Come in,” I call out, already knowing it’s my assistant, Gail Mackenzie.

“Sorry to disturb you, sir, but do you need anything before the editorial heads’ meeting?” My assistant has been with Hammond Press for forty years and could likely sit in my chair and run the place.

“You have everyone’s coffee favorites, right?” Mrs. Mackenzie nods. “That should get the meeting rolling then.”

She pulls out her phone and clicks away on it. “Order done. I’ll be back in twenty, tops.”

As she turns on her sensible heels to head out the door, I notice the pink scarf she’s wearing. It reminds me of the young woman I saw last night whose beauty shined like the stars, practically blinding me. And for a split second, I consider wandering back to the hotel bar after work to see if she’s staying there, but I think better of it.

Instead, I focus on my computer screen and read over the upcoming meeting’s agenda. I try to convince myself she was a figment of my imagination—a mirage sent to distract my overworked mind—but I know she’s real and likely too sweet for a “commitment-phobe.”

I guess that leaves me with one option for Saturday night. And really, how bad could one escort date be anyway?

When my phone buzzes with an incoming text, I flip it over and view the message from Lucas.

He included the number and added a woman’s name below it, but it’s not the type of pink I was thinking about.

Ask for Barbie