Chapter Three

Booker

Today could be a good day. Correction, it should be a good day. All the right elements are there. Shining sun. Cloudless sky. Birds chirping. Air in my lungs.

I'm on the precipice of feeling half way sane, but then, reality creeps in, sinking me back down before I have a chance to claw my way out. It’s been three weeks since I came here. Three long weeks of putting this house back together—sanding, painting, tiling–and it still has a long way to go.

I sit up and give my head time to adjust to the spinning downstairs guest room before padding my naked body (I’m alone, so who cares.) across the now gleaming hardwoods into the kitchen. All the visible traces of footsteps that marred the skin of the foundation are gone. New stainless-steel appliances fill the former gaping holes giving the space a pulse. It still needs new countertops, new fixtures—a priest to exorcise the ghosts. So much fucking work.

Instead of reaching for the Jim Beam, I put on a pot of coffee. Today, I have to deal with the real world and its different breed of insanity. My job. It started off as something else entirely and morphed into the ridiculousness it is today: a website—The Heartbreaker—a place where men, and sometimes women, come for advice. I write articles, answer questions, advise them in finding ‘true love.’ I'm a fucked up Cupid.

Most of the time, I just help guys get laid. But, who am I to judge? I only play a hand in manipulating fate, the rest is up to them. I have my own shit to deal with.

My latest jobs back in LA consisted of playing the proverbial asshole so the ‘hero,’ my client, could swoop in and save the girl. It's a dirty job, but somebody's gotta do it.

In this cruel world, where love is blind, men need all the help they can get.

And I'm just the man for the job.

Besides, what do I care if I break a few hearts if they just go on to find true love? That's what I tell myself, break a heart so she can meet the man of her dreams.

Don't get me wrong, most times I just hit on chicks at bars and get drinks thrown in my face. It's still up to my client to prove his worth to the girl.

Amidst the spam, I spot an email from an Austin Matthews with the subject line ‘Desperate. Need Your Help’ and open it up.

Heard about you from a friend, and he said you were in town. I’d like to meet and talk with you about a co-worker of mine. This is a last resort, but I feel like she's worth it. Correction, I know she's worth it. Some things you have to go the extra mile for.

I scrub a palm across my jaw. I should say no. I should, but I don't. Instead, I answer back, needing to escape the responsibilities of this god forsaken house and set a meeting for tomorrow.

***

The next day, I pull into an overcrowded parking lot at the diner where Austin and I agreed to meet and park my black convertible Mustang. The name Jonah’s blinks in neon pink on a blue, steel and aluminum whale shaped restaurant. How do people come up with this stuff? I snap a shot and text it to my best friend, Jonah.

If you don't hear from me in three days, send help.

His reply is immediate.

Playboy: Dude, it's been three weeks. Chelsea and I were ready to drive up there and find your ass. Everything ok?

My brown eyes reflect back at me in the rearview mirror. Other than a few bloodshot lines and faint charcoal smudges, I’d say I look ‘ok.’ The scruff lining my jaw could use a trim, probably the dark hair peeking out from beneath my ball cap too. Nothing that's not ‘ok.’ But that's not what he asked. Everything, he said. He knows why I'm here and for the first time, I wish he didn't. Because now I have someone holding me accountable for the solitude I want. The urge to lift the console and take out the flask hidden inside, buzzes through my veins. My mouth waters.

Me: Sorry, man. Been busy with the house. Gotta run, meeting a potential client for breakfast.

Playboy: Call me later. The guys and I can come up and help.

Even though I should, I don't reply. He's a good friend, a better friend than I am, but the guys driving up here is the last thing I want right now. People filter into the mouth of the diner like tiny fish being swallowed up, and I follow.

Austin said he’d be wearing a Wells ORCAstrated Tours tshirt. I spot him by a window in the bowels of this mammoth restaurant. He’s a brute of a man. Square shoulders, bulky arms and legs, solid neck, leading up to a chiseled jaw. He’s all geometric shapes and colors—blue eyes, every shade of blonde and brown mixed in his hair that topples a little past his ears, and a few freckles to match.

He shakes my hand with a firm grip and looks me directly in the eyes. A slightly crooked smile when he laughs, but other than that he seems ok. Maybe even a little nice. We exchange awkward pleasantries about our mutual friend, he was an old client, and I order a coffee from the waitress.

“So, tell me the problem,” I begin.

“A girl I’ve dated before wants nothing to do with me. She’s great… she’s smart as a whip… pretty too.” He stops.

“But…”

The coffees arrive and we take a few seconds to garnish them the way we like. One cream, two sugars for me. Just three packets of sugar for Austin.

After he stirs his coffee a moment, he resumes, “Maybe I’m too nice. She friendzoned me.”

Ah, the kiss of death. I don't tell him that, though. “Why do you think that?”

He shrugs. “Well, everything was going great, so I don’t know.”

I mull over his words, scratching the scruff along my jawline. “Have you asked her?”

He laughs, his eyes lighting to a softer shade of blue. “No, every time I get the chance, her father comes around.” He points to his tee. “He owns the whale tour company. When she's not digging around in people's yards, she works part-time for him.”

“So, you want me to meet her, be an asshole and what? She’ll come running back to you?”

He leans forward. “Yeah, pretty much.”

I take a sip of the hot coffee. “Hmm.”

“Listen, just think about it. I can offer a lot of money. I'm willing to pay triple.”

Lots of money to sink in the house so I can unload it and get the hell out of here sounds good right about now. “Convince me.”

He nods at my answer. “I just really want her back. I think she’s perfect for me.”

“Yeah, but are you perfect for her?”

“I think so.”

The sincerity in his tone makes me want to believe him, but I’m a cynic. “Email me everything you can about her. I’ll let you know.”

“Deal.” Austin beams. “Here’s a few pictures. Her name’s Catherine Wells.”

I grab the photos Austin has laid on the table.

It’s her.

The girl from the beach.

The ‘hard rock’ girl.

“Forget the email, I’ll do it.”