Chapter One
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“It’s not like I sent him a pic of my amazing rack or something, so there’s no need to get your granny panties in a twist, Frau Frances.”
My neighbor from across the hall, who I’d guess is older than the gates of hell, covers her ears and closes her eyes like a toddler.
“Oh, that’s really mature. Here I am trying to inject some color into your black-and-white-silent-movie-like old-lady existence, and you’re going to ignore me? Nice. Really nice.”
In all honesty, I don’t give a damn that Myrna Frances doesn’t want to hear about this texting-but-not-sexting relationship I have going on, because I’ve gotten to the point that I have to tell someone. My best friend is AWOL, and therefore I’m left with little choice but to spill here.
Actually, that’s a lie. I would have tortured Myrna with it anyway just to get this very reaction out of her. I consider it my good deed of the day. Without my daily doses of color, she might die of boredom.
Our apartments each take up half of the next-to-the-top floor in our Manhattan building, and while I leave every day no matter what, even if it’s just to replenish my vodka supply or go to work, she rarely makes it past the sidewalk into the outside world.
Myrna drops her hands from her ears and opens her eyes. The wrinkles around her mouth deepen when she scowls at me. “Why are you still here? And why won’t you give me back my key, dammit?”
“Because your daughter asked me to check on you five years ago, and for some reason that I can’t explain, I really enjoy that arching thing you do with your eyebrow when you pretend to be shocked by things I’m saying. Very Maleficent of you. You can admit it—you watch the movie and practice, don’t you?”
Myrna’s frown deepens to villainess levels at the mention of her daughter. “Ungrateful child. Never comes to visit. Too busy with her superficial life to even remember the woman who gave birth to her.” This isn’t the first time she’s said it, or even the twentieth time.
“Yep, she’s really superficial, what with being a member of Congress and all.”
“I’m sure she slept her way to the top.”
Ouch, Myrna is especially pissed today. I play along with her anyway, because at least this way I know she’s getting her heart rate up. Being pissed off is about as close to cardio as she gets.
“You know, I’ll have to check. Chances are she really did—with every man, woman, and tranny in her congressional district. She’s going to need surgery to tighten up that cooch of hers.”
“Get out!”
Myrna’s tone has crossed into screech territory, but I can see she’s fighting a smile. The old bat will eventually admit she loves how much I bother her. Eventually.
“Not until you open your present.”
Our exchange of ridiculousness isn’t going to be over until Myrna sees what I brought for her. I haven’t given her a heart attack yet with one of my gifts, so I’m pretty sure she’s not going to kick the bucket today.
Mumbling something to herself about the world going to hell if I’m an example of the quality of the generation left in charge, she tears open the pink paper (not noticing the even fainter pink penises on it, much to my disappointment), and flips the lid off the box.
“What in the hell is this?” She lifts the black-and-silver silicone phallus out of the box.
“You told me to eat a bag of dicks last time—good use of Urban Dictionary, by the way—so I brought you a big black cock. It even vibrates. I swear that thing can even get you off.”
I’m not sure how to describe the sound that croaks from her old lady lips, but it turns into a shrill battle cry as she hurls the gorgeous faux phallus toward me. Jordana, Myrna’s dog, bounds off her pink princess cushion and pounces in the direction of the vibrator.
“Are you trying to kill me with that thing?”
Myrna recoils as the dick rolls harmlessly across the floor as the Chinese crested hairless dog, clad in a green-and-pink argyle sweater, sniffs at it. Quite frankly, I’m impressed that the battery compartment didn’t burst open.
Good to know it’s durable.
I rise from the torture device Myrna calls a chair as Jordana gives the cock a lick.
“Jordana, don’t you dare— Ugh, Banner! Get it away from her! She’ll choke on—”
“A dick? That would be a sad way to go for Ms. Jordy.” My words are sincere. Well, they are through my laughter.
I grab the vibrator off the floor before the dog can sink her toothless gums into the silicone, and toss it back onto Myrna’s lap.
“All right, esteemed elder of the world. Have a lovely day plotting my death.”
“Get out! And take this with you!”
“Nope. You need a good O more than I do. Same time tomorrow?”
She glares at me with such force, I’m a little shocked I’m not feeling the daggers shred my skin.
“Of course, you horrible child.”
“That’s what I thought.” I give her a cheeky wave and a wink.
Sofia, Myrna’s caretaker, emerges from the kitchen with afternoon tea service comprised of crustless watercress sandwiches, peppermint tea, and Fig Newtons as I head for the door. Nasty combination, but I nab a Newton off the tray anyway and pop it in my mouth.
“You better not be stealing my cookies,” Myrna yells from the living room.
Sofia rolls her eyes. “Why do you both delight in torturing each other? It’s a mystery of the universe I’ll never quite understand.”
Sofia’s Eastern European accent clings to the words, despite how hard I know she’s worked to lose it. The statuesque brunette looks like she stepped off a runway, but the twenty-two-year-old came from a much rougher beginning.
“Drinks tomorrow night?”
Sofia’s eyes light up. “Yes, please.”
“Good. Come over when you finish your shift. I should be home from work.”
Before I can escape from the apartment, Myrna comes out from the living room, leaning heavily on her cane to impart one last bit of wisdom.
“You know what’s wrong with your generation, Banner? You don’t understand a damn thing about relationships. You’re all texting this and sexting that. You don’t actually meet people in person and talk to them. You hook up and sneak out. Men don’t ask permission to call because they’ve already gotten what they wanted. You don’t hold back and make them work for it.”
“Are you calling me easy, Myrna?”
She shrugs a frail shoulder. “You said it, not me.”
Her insight stings, but I keep my smile pinned in place.
“Enjoy the big black cock. It might just change your mind about how good it can be to get some dick.”
She waves me off with a middle-finger salute, and I escape her pearls of wisdom and judgment.
Myrna is the crankiest old woman I’ve ever met, but for some reason, I love being around her. Her daughter and son-in-law drop in no more than three times a year, and the rest of the days she’s left with paid caretakers like Sofia, who are kind but are still no substitute for family.
Basically, Myrna’s exactly what I’m terrified my future is going to look like—old and alone with no one who gives a damn except the people who collect a paycheck from me. At least her dog is loyal. If I weren’t still one hundred percent selfish and could actually keep a goldfish alive, maybe I’d get one. Nah. Too much commitment.
Annnd we’ve just crossed into the depressing-as-shit portion of the afternoon.
My phone vibrates with a text as I jam my key into the lock on my apartment door. I freeze, excitement humming through me. I can’t believe I’ve gotten sucked into this weird texting relationship with a man I’ve never met. But I can’t stop.
I mean, I would have stopped, but then my investigative (okay, call them stalkerish) skills got the best of me, and I found his picture.
Wearing fatigues, a wifebeater, and combat boots, Logan Brantley looks like one of those pictures women post on Pinterest boards but know they’ll never meet in real life unless it’s possibly on the stage of some Magic Mike strip show. Except Logan is the real deal.
But we don’t sext. We don’t send naked pics. And there’s no dirty talk. We’ve actually become friends in the last couple of weeks, and his texts fill some kind of need in my life I didn’t know I had.
Manhattan’s Queen of One-Night Stands, my self-proclaimed title, has suddenly fallen into a friendship with a guy who lives hundreds of miles away. And the more we text, the more I realize that maybe the men of New York I’ve been one-nighting aren’t the most masculine specimens around.
Basically, every time I go on a date, I end up texting Logan the same question, but with multiple variations. Would a real man . . . and I’d fill in the blank.
Wear a rose-and-gray cashmere scarf?
Pair a bow tie with pressed jeans?
Order an elderflower martini?
I think it’s safe to say that Logan Brantley’s opinion of the men of Manhattan, at least the ones I’ve gone out with lately, is sinking faster than the Titanic.
I pull out my phone, anticipation zinging through me. That anticipation dies a quick death when the name on the screen isn’t Logan’s. Instead it’s the guy I met on the sidewalk outside my office while waiting for my car service to pull up. No cashmere scarf, bow tie, or pressed jeans. So maybe he’s a better bet?
I swipe and read the text.
Brandon Sidewalk: How about we grab a drink at 8? My friend’s new bar is opening tomorrow, and he’s having a preview tonight.
My fingers are poised over the keyboard to say no. All I want right now is an amazing orgasm, and I already know I’m not going to get it from Brandon of the Sidewalk. I have a sense for these things.
But . . . maybe I could get my martini fix there. I am a sucker for the extra dirty.
Banner: Where?
Brandon Sidewalk: 8th and 43rd. The bar is called Olivesque.
I pull up Google and do some quick searching. There are a few articles about Olivesque’s impending opening and lots of good things to say about it. Apparently Brandon Sidewalk has some fancy friends, because it’s predicted that Olivesque will be impossible to get into for at least three or four months after it opens.
As a born-and-bred New Yorker with a taste for the exclusive, I can’t say no.
I’m only going for the martini, I tell myself.
Banner: I’ll meet you there at 8.
Brandon Sidewalk: Great! Looking forward to it.
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