Very Truly Sexy. Dawn Atkins
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Now there were no savings. Not since Blaine. How had she been so wrong about the man?
They’d been together for nearly a year, spent most of their free time together, and Blaine had behaved as though she hung the moon, set the sun and fluffed up the clouds to boot. In truth, she’d felt a little uncomfortable because she didn’t feel quite as connected to him as he’d seemed to her.
But when he’d disappeared, she’d been stunned. She’d thought she had good people instincts. Basically an optimist, she expected the best from people, and they usually delivered. Yes, toward the end, Blaine had seemed more distant, unusually preoccupied about his business. He’d mentioned some difficulty with funding for his limited partnership, and his enthusiasm about their long-planned Caribbean cruise had ebbed, but she’d never doubted that he cared for her, loved her, wanted to be with her.
Maybe his infatuation had blinded her to what was really going on. Something had, because somehow, right under her nose, he’d forged her name on a check from her money-market account and taken twenty-thousand dollars, leaving her with a balance of just two hundred.
The experience had destroyed her confidence, for sure, and it would be a long time before she got serious with a man. Or even stuck her toe in the dating pool—no matter what Sara said about getting right back on that board and diving in.
She wasn’t risking another belly flop anytime soon.
Back to the column. Beth played the tape of Sara’s words, closed her eyes to picture Sara, so comfortable in her body, so easy with her sexuality. If Beth could just channel Sara, she would be fine.
Four hours later, she had a draft that held enough detail to be believable and was as refined as she could manage. She’d described the specifics of the experience vividly, but tastefully. She’d been frank, not vulgar; erotic, not graphic. Pleased with the result, she shot a courtesy copy to Sara and was just about to e-mail her draft to Will—early, to make sure she was on the right track—when her phone rang.
“Tell me you haven’t submitted this,” Sara said without preamble.
“I’m about to. Why?”
“I’m sorry, Beth, but you can’t use it.”
“What?”
Sara lowered her voice. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but Rick thinks it’s too personal.”
“You’re kidding. No way could anyone tell it’s him or you.”
“But we know, he says, and that’s enough.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I wish I were. Personally, I thought it was pretty hot. And, get this, now he wants us to only date each other.”
“But you don’t do exclusives,” Beth said, her brain struggling to absorb the bad news about her column. “What about ‘a pair and a spare’?” This was Sara’s dating philosophy: date two guys with another one in the wings…just to keep things interesting.
“I know, I know. But it’s kind of cute. He’s, like, zap, all protective and sentimental. About the tongue swirly thing, can you believe it? I said I’d try it for a while and see how it goes. If he goes weird on me—possessive and jealous—I’m outta there, of course.”
“I’m glad for you, Sara. I hope it works out.” She sighed, trying not to think about her nixed column.
“I’m sorry to do this to you, Beth,” Sara said, reading her mind. “Maybe you could modify the column a tad? Snip out the detail?”
“The magic is the detail. Let me see…” She clicked open the file and scanned its contents. Removing all signature elements, she was left with a measly two paragraphs. “Without you two, I’ve got an introductory blurb. And a week to fix it.”
“You know the answer—go pick up a guy. Fresh is better than canned in more than spinach, you know.”
“Can you honestly see me doing that?”
“Yeah, if you don’t bring a book.”
“That was one time. And it was a great novel.” Sara was notoriously late and Beth had happened to have a paperback in her purse while she waited for her. Reading in a bar. Sara had never let her hear the end of it.
“You can do it, Beth. Wear something slinky and look friendly.”
“I’ll just fake the column, I guess. Fictionalize it.” She sighed. “Maybe add some statistics on favorite kinds of foreplay or something.”
“Statistics? Come on. Think what a great column it would make—Em really on the town…. Give it a try.”
“Nope. Not me.” When it came to picking up a man, Beth was as far from the coolly sophisticated Em as a virgin from a call girl.
She hung up and looked at her computer screen, the cursor pulsing like her own nervous heart. She pictured herself throwing on something slinky and marching into a bar, pickup radar pinging. No way. Not in a million years.
“THIS DOESN’T WORK for me, Beth,” Will told her, holding the printout of her revised-to-death column. He’d asked her to come in to talk it over. Not a good sign. “It’s too wooden, too cookbook. Like a kinder, gentler Cosmo anecdote.”
“Tell me what you really think,” she said glumly. The worst was, she knew he was right.
“Where’s the energy? The scrumptious detail that is Em’s trademark? Hell, your description of the wine is hotter than the bedroom stuff.”
“I had to change it at the last minute. I can do better.” Except her expertise was in reporting, observing and interpreting real experiences, not writing fiction.
Will grabbed a magazine from a pile on his desk— Man’s Man, she saw—the California-based cross between Esquire and Maxim whose parent company was about to take over Phoenix Rising. He opened it to a page he’d dog-eared, tapped it and turned it to her. “Man’s Man Gets Some” by Z. “This is what we want—our version of this Z writer.”
“This is a men’s magazine,” she said. “Phoenix Rising has women readers, too.” She tried to hand it back.
“Keep it for inspiration. Give me something I can work with, Em. We’re leaking readers all over the place. And women like to read about sex, too.”
She noticed deep worry creases in Will’s forehead and sweat rings staining his shirt. Something was worse than he was saying. “What aren’t you telling me?”
He sighed. “The thing is, the VP of Man’s Man editorial will be here next week to talk about the makeover. He’s going to reassign and refocus. The mantra at MM is edge, titillation, heat. I want to keep your column, but it’s got to deliver. You have to dazzle me—and him.”
“I’ll do my best,” she said, her stomach twisting with tension.
“I know you will,” he said. “You can do it. Just, I don’t know, make it more vivid, more fresh, more real.”
Vivid, fresh, real? Right. Her heart heavy, Beth read over the Man’s Man column as she headed out of the building. It was sex, sex, sex—no warmth, no class, no sensitivity.
This was lame. And gross. A bunch of phallo-centric drivel. Which was the last thing Phoenix Rising readers needed, no matter what the Man’s Man hatchet man wanted.
She could do better. She had to. She couldn’t fake it, though. Not and make it vivid, fresh and real. There was only one way to do what she needed to do.
On the sidewalk outside the building, she shoved the magazine under her arm and hit speed dial three on her cell.
“Hello?” Sara said.
“Tell me everything I need to know about picking up a man.”
“Really?”
“No.