CHAPTER ONE
They say men have sex on the brain 99.99 percent of the time. You’re not going to catch me trying to dispute that.
Why would I? It’s pretty much dead-on accurate, especially when you consider the remaining 0.01 percent of brain power is tirelessly dedicated to finding the remote.
Also, sex rocks.
In my case though, and I suppose, in my defense, sex is part of my job.
And so is schmoozing and signing autographs. Ergo, here I am, at an Open Book, a cool bookstore on the Upper West Side. When this signing shindig started a few hours ago, a long line of fans snaked out the door. The event my network set up is almost over, so the line is winding down. The crowd has been 55-45 in favor of the fairer sex, which is absolutely not something I’m going to complain about especially since my fans were nearly all dudes several years ago.
Some still are. Like this guy.
“My favorite episode is based on that one,” a squeaky-voiced, messy-haired, awkward teenager says as he points to a panel that features Mister Orgasm rescuing a dozen busty beauties from a remote island where they’d been deprived of sex for far too long. The upshot? Only a cartoonish caped crusader could replenish their depleted stores of pleasure, which had dwindled to terrifyingly low levels.
I shudder at the thought of what those women must have gone through.
“Yeah. That one does rock,” I say, flashing the kid a quick grin, then nodding seriously. “Mister Orgasm did a great service for the ladies, didn’t he?”
“Yes,” the kid says, with wide, earnest eyes. “He helped them so much.”
It’s weird, because he’s probably sixteen and there’s a part of me that thinks why the fuck are you watching my raunchy TV show? But, on the other hand, I get it. When I was his age, I didn’t have a clue about girls either. Which probably explains why I started drawing The Adventures of Mister Orgasm, the online cartoon that includes the storyline about the aforementioned good samaritan act the titular hero performed.
Titular.
I said titular.
In my head.
Anyway, that was definitely a popular episode, and one of the reasons my network packaged up some of my old strips into this graphic novel. Special edition and all, like the gold raised stamp on the cover says.
“Can you sign it to Ray?” he asks, and as I raise the black sharpie, I catch a flash of gold out of the corner of my eye. Then a hand in a pocket.
Oh shit.
I think I know what the woman in line behind Ray just did.
I finish signing, and hand him the book. “Go forth and give pleasure, Ray,” I tell him, like it’s a mantra. I knock fists with him, and he stares briefly at his hand afterwards, as if he’s been blessed by a master.
Of course he has.
“You have my word. I want to be a pleasure purveyor,” Ray says solemnly, as he clutches the book to his chest, reciting one of Mister Orgasm’s famous lines.
Man, someday that dude is going to be blowing the minds of the ladies. He’s got some serious determination. But not yet. Because, ya know, he’s sixteen.
I turn my eyes to the next person in line, and I’m practically blindsided by the sheer amount of breasts on display. It’s pretty much enough to activate a full-on man trance, that glazed-eye, stupid-struck look that only tits can induce in a guy. I’m not immune to it, because… tits.
They are one of my favorite playgrounds.
But I’ve had some serious training in combating the condition. Part of my job is interacting with the public. And I can’t just walk around slack-jawed staring at chests. This woman is going to put my skills to the test though. She’s wearing a scoop neck white T-shirt. That’s kryptonite for most men.
She leans forward, making sure I get a front row seat. I cast my eyes around, hoping Serena, the very pregnant, perennially smiling, but oh-so-savvy PR woman who works with my show at Comedy Nation, returns quickly from yet another bathroom break. She’s skilled at knowing when to hold the eager ladies at bay.
Look, I’m not complaining. I do not mind whatsoever that some of the show’s viewers get a little frisky at events like this. It’s all good. But I’ve got a feeling this one isn’t supposed to be playing.
“Hey there,” I say, giving a smile to Bleached Blonde. Interact. Engage. That’s part of the job. Be the public face of the hit TV show that runs at 11 p.m. and is crushing the mother fucking competition at that hour, and also earlier in the night. That both thrills the head of the network, and drives him batshit crazy, but we’ll get back to that later.
Right now, I’m unbelievably focused on this woman’s gray eyes even as she brings her hand to her chest, trying a time-honored tactic to invoke the trance. I remain stoic. “I’m Samantha, and I love your show so much,” she coos. “I read the profile of you in Men’s Health the other week too. I was so impressed with your devotion to your craft, as well as your body,” she says, since the profile — ‘cause it’s Men’s Health —featured a shot of me working out. Then, because she’s not subtle, she roams those pewter irises along my ink-covered arms, over my chest, and well, let’s just call a spade a spade. She pretty much tries to fuck me right here in the bookstore with her eyes.
“Devotion is my middle name,” I say with a smile, and push my glasses higher. Nervous habit. She makes me edgy, and it’s not the ample cleavage, but what she did in line a few minutes ago in her pocket.
She bends closer, gliding the book across the table to me. “You can sign right here if you want,” Samantha whispers, dragging her finger across her cleavage.
I grab the book with quick hands. “Thanks, but I’ve found the title page is an equally excellent location.”
“You should leave your number on it,” she adds, as I sign Nick Hammer, and hand her the book.
“Funny thing, I don’t actually know my number,” I say with a harmless shrug. “Who can remember numbers anymore? Even our own.”
Where the hell is Serena? I hope she didn’t give birth in the ladies room.
Samantha giggles like I just said the most clever thing, then looks at the page, just in case I left a secret number. I did not. She is undeterred. She drags a long, candy pink nail across my signature.
“Hammer,” she says coyly, letting it roll around in her mouth. “Is that your real name or is it a term of endearment about —”
No no no.
Abort.
Can not go there. Will not play the Dirty Synonym game with my last name with Samantha, who’s about to run those sharp nails down my arm.
“Oh excuse me. Did you drop something?”
I straighten my shoulders when I hear a familiar voice.
Deadpan and pure innocence at the same time.
The blonde startles. “No,” she says with a snarl, snapping at the questioner. “I didn’t drop anything.”
“Are you sure?” The tone is of complete and utter concern.
I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face because I know the woman behind the voice is up to something sneaky.
Harper Holiday.
Red hair. Blue eyes. Face of a sweet, sexy angel; body of a badass, ninja warrior princess; and owner of the most pitch perfect delivery of sarcasm, as well as the uncanny ability to appear out of nowhere. I’d play Dirty Synonyms, Dirty Antonyms, Dirty Anything with her.
Harper steps from behind the blonde in line, and opens her palm. “Because I’m pretty sure this is your wedding ring,” she says, a concerned look in those bright blue eyes as she plucks a gold wedding band from her palm and offers it to the hungry blonde.
“That’s not mine,” the woman says defensively, all that flirty sweetness swiped clean from her voice.
Harper smacks her other hand against her forehead. “Oh, my bad. You put yours in your pocket a few minutes ago. Right there.”
She points to the woman’s right pocket, and sure enough there’s the outline of what looks to be a wedding band. And that’s exactly what I suspected she was doing in line. Stuffing it away. Probably had forgotten she was wearing it, then tried to hide it at the last minute.
The married woman’s face goes pale.
Busted.
“This one,” Harper continues, holding up the ring and letting it catch the light from the ceiling, “This is the one I keep handy for situations like this.”
Samantha mutters bitch under her breath, turns on her heels, and marches away.
“Enjoy the book,” Harper calls out, then turns to me, cocks her head, and shoots me an I-just-saved-your-ass grin. In her own imitation of the Mister Orgasm groupies, she says, “Nick Hammer. Is that your real name?”
Just like that, I’m hoping Serena stays in the restroom for a lot longer.