How could I be wrong? I’m never wrong when it comes to women. I’m not my obnoxious older brother, Oliver, who lacks the ability to pick up on any romantic cues. In comparison to him? I’m a goddamn love guru. In comparison to most men in general? I’m a fucking four time gold medalist. I get women. I understand the shit they’re spewing and more importantly the shit they’re not, but want to.
I slyly pull out my phone from my pocket at the dinner table.
Sixteen new IG likes from my pre-dinner pose at my apartment with Runt’s Beer, the beer the company brews. Six new comments on my Facebook photo from my post morning jog. Four new tweets about the beer tasting we’re hosting on Wednesday. As for anything regarding Abby? Nothing. Still. This is ridiculous. She should’ve texted last night or at the very latest this morning. I doubted she would call because it didn’t seem her style, but I didn’t think she would just throw away my number. I didn’t even consider it an actual possibility….No. She didn’t. There’s no way she did. She probably lost it. Damn, I hope she didn’t lose it. Fuck, now I don’t know what’s worse, her having my number and not using it or her having lost my number and wanting to use it.
“Blake Jenkins Shaw, I swear if you check that goddamn phone one more time, I will put it in the microwave to keep it warm while you finish your supper.”
My younger brother, Ford, and his girlfriend, Ollie, snicker.
Once it’s back in my pocket, I offer her an award winning smile. “My apologies, Mama. Expecting a call.”
“From the president?” Pop pokes the situation between bites of his pork chop. “Because this has to be the only time in history of dinners you have ever been this adamant about checking your phone.”
“It hasn’t been that bad.”
“Yes it has,” Ford argues, sliding his arm around the back of Ollie’s chair. “Pop’s point is true.”
He may be the brother I am closest too and without question my best friend, but sometimes I swear to God I could slug him for being a suck up.
His expression overflows with concern. “Never seen you this obsessed with missin’ a call.”
“Are you my secretary now?”
“Could you please refrain from any bent over the desk and dictation jokes you’re dyin’ to say?”
Pop chuckles to himself.
He’s thinking the same ones I am…It’s where I get it from. Truth be told, it really comes from both of my parents.
Ford doesn’t budge. “Who you waitin’ on a call from? Somethin’ for work?”
I stab at the asparagus on my plate. “No.”
He leans his face a little further down until I make eye contact with him. “Is that a real no or a no you just don’t wanna ruin Sunday dinner?”
“Don’t you dare ruin Sunday supper,” Mama fusses instantly. “We had years of that with the demon in cowgirl boots. We don’t need any more.”
Her reference to Ford’s ex fiancé causes him to cringe and Ollie to smirk.
Thankful for the attention to be on another subject, I add, “Remember how much she hated to be here?”
Ford gives me a shake of his head in warning.
With a playful smile, I inform my mother, “You know she always said you overcooked your meatloaf.”
“And may she burn in hell for that and the other fifteen commandments she broke,” Mama says, swiftly swiping her beer from its place in front of her.
My little brother diverts his attention her direction. “Mama, you know there are only ten.”
“Yeah, but she’s such an abomination they had to make five more so the world would know the true depths of hell she truly came from.”
Under his breath, he mutters at me, “You see what you did? Happy now?”
Mama’s rambling of hatred for his ex-fiancé begins at the rapid rate it always does.
I immediately nod. “Extremely.”
His fault. This is what he gets for his pursuit of more information about the phone call or text message that apparently is never going to happen. No…She’ll call. She has to call. Or text. She feels more likely to text me. If she texts than I can’t hear the way her voice tries not to quiver when I’ve turned her on. Man…Talk about an unusually sexy sound. I know I’m not wrong about Abby. I’d stake my career on it. Despite the extremely hard exterior she wears, most likely from being hurt by an ex, she was interested. Highly. And while I have no plans on offering to put a ring on her finger, or giving her ex the ass beating he deserves for breaking her heart, I can at least show her a good time. A damn good time. Put a smile back on that beautiful, dark skinned face. She needs one. I could tell. I’m good at reading women. Been doin’ it over half my life. I even tried to warn Ford to let his no good ex go hundreds of times because I knew what kind of person she was when they first met at sixteen. She had money sucking slut written in her bright pen to match her bright ass red tube top my little brother couldn’t see past. I may not be great at many things, but reading people? That I do amazingly well. Oh and Ollie? The adorable, curly haired, nerdy woman he brought home? Well, let’s just say they’re a perfect match that makes his years of touch and go with Carol Ann actually worth it since it’s what led to their paths to crossing.
“So, who is she?” Mama’s question lands back on me.
“Yeah,” Pop joins in on the interrogation. “Daughter of an oil billionaire?”
“Daughter of a stock market billionaire?”
“Daughter of a Duke?”
“Daughter of a Prime Minister?” Mama tosses out. “Perhaps Swedish?”
“He does like them blonde!” Ollie squeaks out.
I lean around my chuckling brother to scold her. “Not helpin’.”
“Is that a yes?” Mama eagerly asks. “Tell me it’s a yes and I win the weekly datin’ pool.”
Bewilderment jumps onto my face. “You’re bettin’ on me?”
“I get better odds on you than I ever did at the horse races.”
“Is that supposed to make him feel better?” Ollie meekly questions.
Mama innocently shrugs. “It should.”
The horror on my face deepens.
While most people would probably be in serious shock to hear their parents talk or behave like this, I’m grateful to say, I’m not most people. I have the best family in the whole world. Mama’s got a crass mouth, a kickass conqueror of anything that stands in her way attitude and Pop has an equally filthy conversation tendency along with a short temper for bullshit. But what matters most is the welcoming heart of gold they both possess. They’re oddly enough very open minded individuals who would rather give people several chances to be better than leave them out in the cold to get worse. They’ve always drilled the importance of allowing people a chance to show you who they really are on the inside without caring about what’s on the outside. They’re probably the reason I’m good at understanding people or, more accurately women, the way I do…
Pop reaches for his beer, eyes seated on me. “Is there a problem, Blake?”
“With you bettin’ on me like the ponies?”
“Yeah.”
“Pop.”
My father cracks a crooked grin. “Is that…wrong?”
“You’re seriously askin’ me if it’s wrong to bet on your son’s love life?”
“Love life?” Mama sarcastically says. “Blake you haven’t been in love with anything other than tits and beer your entire existence.”
She’s not wrong. Never really stuck around women long enough to do the ‘love’ thing. Never understood the point either. You both wanna hop in bed and hop out as soon as possible to do shit with people you like more anyways. I’ve always been honest. I’m good for one night, maybe a week if I don’t have other shit going on. But long term? I’m never what a woman’s looking for. Truth be told, they’re never what I’m looking for either. I’m a pretty basic guy. I wanna drink with my family, laugh when I should be working, and get off at a consistent rate. Not looking to be anyone’s saving grace or hero. A companion for the night is really what most women need. Just a few hours to be free, let loose, and remember how great it is to have someone worship them between their thighs. Most people think that makes me some sort of disgusting asshole. Honestly? I don’t care. We were raised not to give a shit what other’s thought about us so much as what we thought about ourselves. I think I’m a pretty decent man, even if the one woman I want to text me has her pretty little mind wrapped around me being just another jackass looking to get off. Huh. I mean I do wanna get off with her. But there’s more to it than that…even if I never admit it for longer than a split second.
I casually nod my agreement.
“Now I wanna sing titties and beer,” Pop says on a chuckle, leaning back in his chair.
“That’s a song?” Ollie squeaks.
“Rodney Carrington,” I reply with a wide grin.
My music knowledge truly is more vast than it seems. Still. Who doesn’t love a little Rodney Carrington in their life? Comedian and artist. Pretty awesome.
Innocently she questions, “Should I look it up?”
Ford and I reply with opposite answers in unison sending our parents into another round of laughs.
Typical Sunday night dinner. I know most people wouldn’t make the time to do this every weekend they could with their parents, but again, not most people.
My brother picks up his beer and returns to probing on the prior subject, “What are the terms of the bet?”
“It varies from month to month,” Mama explains with a devious smile.
I place my fork down. “Month to the month?”
“That’s what I said,” her head bobbles at me, like I’m the one out of line. “Sometimes we bet on hair. Height. Size. Place-”
“Opportunity,” Pop interjects.
With another shake of my head, I ask, “And jus’ exactly how long have you two been doin’ this?”
“Couple years,” Mama says sweetly.
“Are you kiddin’ me?!”
Ford breaks into laughter, which prompts her to state, “I’m not sure why you’re laughin’. We used to place bets on you and Carol Ann breakin’ up all the time.”
“Mama!”
“Ha!” I snap in his face.
“Why are you bettin’ on your boys?” Ford practically whines.
“Keeps life entertaining,” Pop joyfully answers. “Between that and tryin’ out stuff we’ve seen in porn, we’re pretty happy people.”
“Pop!” Ford and I shout in unison.
Mama snickers and scoops up a bite of her food as if she couldn’t care less who knew what they did behind closed doors.
He grouses, “This….is so not dinner conversation.”
“Ollie’s not complainin’,” Mama casually points out.
“She’s probably too traumatized to think,” Ford defends.
“They’re happy,” his girlfriend retorts. “I don’t really see a problem. They’re spending their personal time in a personal way.”
Another reason she’s perfect for Ford. Aside from her fumbling attitude, which in its own way is kinda cute, she’s never appalled at the family antics. She takes them with huge smiles and does her best to just go with the Shaw flow. Probably another reason remaining a bachelor for the rest of my life is the best call. Takes a helluva woman to put up with this bunch.
“Did you retire and not tell us?” I question slowly.
“Basically,” Pop replies unexpectedly. “Marty pretty much handles the entire business, and I just have to make the tough calls when the time comes. Ranch pretty much runs itself when you make it to this point. I rarely work more than five hours a week. Plenty of time to play with my grand boys, sleep with my wife, and bet on the shit my idiot sons will do.”
“And now that we’re back to this topic, who are you hoping’ will call you?” Mama asks, her tone more curious than ever. “Was it the woman you slept with last night?”
“I didn’t sleep with her.”
The volunteering of information is instantly regretted by the glee in her eyes.
“Why not?”
“Yeah,” Ford echoes, amazement in his voice. “Why not?”
Less than comfortable with the corner I’ve been backed into, I defensively snap, “You all know I am capable of not sleepin’ with every woman I meet, right?”
“Married, engaged, and currently in a relationship aside?” Pop playfully jabs.
My brother quickly sells me out. “Nope. He’s slept with at least one of all of those.”
“Blake Jenkins, I oughta come across this table and pop you in the mouth! You know better than to be a homewrecker!” Mama shouts.
I turn my face to Ford’s. “Happy now?”
It’s his turn to childishly nod. “Extremely.”
“Blake!” She snips.
“Let me start by clearin’ the air and informin’ all of you, I do not sleep with every woman I spend more than five minutes talkin’ to.” Ford starts to hum his objection, but I cut him off quickly, “Second my sex life should be none of your concern-”
“Then why do you frequently post vague comments in regard to it on Facebook?” Mama glowers. “Example. ‘There was plenty of room for me in those jeans.’.”
The reference to a post I made a couple weeks ago, which was quoting a 2000s R&B song briefly makes me smirk. While the woman wasn’t anything special, it did have me listening to Ginuwine non-stop for that next week.
I shake away the thoughts. “Why are you on Facebook?”
“That’s where Dawn and Sienna frequently post the pictures of my grandchildren!”
“Why are you bein’ so touchy about this?” Pop leans onto his elbows. “You’ve been chasing skirts since you were thirteen and bragging about it just as long. Why are your boxers in a twist now? What makes this woman special?”
She’s not special. She’s…Well she’s…I don’t know what she is other than a little unpredictable. I was expecting her to text me seconds after I walked away from her. With the way she could barely breathe and was practically moaning every time I licked my lips, I figured, hook, line, and sinker, yet nothing. Not a word. Not even a second glance as she left the restaurant just minutes after she finished her meal. It’s not about conquering a challenge or childish bullshit like that. Just because I’m not afraid of one, doesn’t mean that’s what I’m about. I’m 34. Too old for games when it’s clear we both want the same shit at the end of the night. Maybe I just feel more obligated to give her some reprieve from the obviously stressful life she chooses to live because it feels like she’s less likely to give it to herself. Maybe something inside of me wants to know why I want to see her smile more than I want to see her naked.
My silence doesn’t go unnoticed, but thankfully it goes unacknowledged verbally.
Mama picks her fork back up. “Well, when this woman does call or text-”
“When?” Pop tries to lighten the situation. “Are we takin’ odds on when versus if?”
“I want in on that action,” Ford declares, mirth in his voice.
She shoots them both scowls before dropping her eyes back on me. “When she calls or texts, Blake, just remember to be yourself.”
“I’m always myself.”
“No.” The quick shake of her head ceases my reaching for another dinner roll. “You’re always who women want you to be. Who you think they need you to be. The shoulder to cry on. The protective type. The asshole who smacks her on the ass and tells her she looks fat in that dress-”
“That’s an image…” Ollie mutters.
“You are a chameleon of sorts, Blake. It’s what makes you so charming and great at your job. You know the right things to say to make people feel the way they want to feel.”
That doesn’t sound like a terrible thing.
“But in doing all that you never give anyone outside the family a chance to know the real you. Give this woman the opportunity. From your actions at supper alone, it’s not hard to see she’s different. And you Blake Shaw, need different.”
I abandon the idea of grabbing another roll and drop my attention to the barely touched plate in front of me.
Why is being who someone needs you to be a terrible thing? Isn’t that a great thing to be? Isn’t that a service? Shit. That is probably exactly what an escort service is…Is my mother actually calling me a male whore who doesn’t get paid? No. Wait. That’s not…I’m missing the point. Truth is, when you’re whoever someone else wants you to be, you don’t have to really invest yourself. It’s like playing a role for a few hours and then stepping back into reality. No. I never lie about my name, what I do, or the bullshit topics we discuss. I’ve just learned the art of choosing which aspects to flash for the better results. It’s an easy thing to accomplish when you let a woman do all the talking. That doesn’t mean I’m not myself. That doesn’t mean I’m not okay showing someone who I really am…Why is it the more I think about it, the more I feel my mother is right?