Serena Bell - Hot and Bothered

Elisa snapped out of her reverie. “The point is, you don’t have to find the perfect man to break the losing streak.”

“Sex is a lot of work. If I’m going to do it, it’d better be good.”

Elisa narrowed her eyes. “Sex is a lot of work? Are you doing it right?”

“Pumice stones and moisturizers and Brazilians and lingerie shopping and the good sheets and candles and—”

“It’s not an Olympic event, Hav,” Elisa interrupted. “You’re allowed to just do it. Like on the living room couch, drunk, and with the full complement of God-given body hair.”

Haven knew from personal experience that while guys might claim not to need things groomed and romantic and perfect, over time they would come to crave the fantasy version. Once the early, oblivious bliss wore off, Elisa would find that out, too.

“If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right,” Haven said.

Elisa crossed her arms. “Are we talking about ‘right’? Or are we talking about ‘looking good’?’”

“When it comes to men, there’s no difference.”

Elisa gave her a hard look. “I’m a dating coach. There’s a difference.”

“I’m an image consultant. There’s not.”

Elisa laughed. “Agree to disagree.” She shut the laptop and came around the desk as Haven stood. “You’re a hoot, girl.”

Elisa put her arm around Haven, and Haven rested her head on Elisa’s shoulder, glad Elisa thought it was funny. But she hadn’t been joking. When it came to men, image was everything.

* * *

MARK STEPPED INTO Mad Mo’s and was assaulted by screens and vintage neon signs, piped music and raised voices. Even years of having his ears blown out on a stage and in blues clubs hadn’t made him immune to the overstimulation. He had to pause in the doorway to get his bearings.

Mad Mo’s had been around since the 1940s, and it was the antithesis of the place where he’d had lunch with Haven yesterday. At Charme, everything was calculated and calculating, from the color scheme to the people who chose to put themselves on display there. Here—well, it had all happened through year after year of accidents. Someone had once given Mo a neon beer sign and then he had become a known collector of them. The art on the walls was a mélange of photos of Mo’s family, crayon pictures kids had drawn and postcards from every corner of the world. And the food was— It was just food, the fries spilling over the top of the burgers, pickle wedges stuffed wherever they’d fit. Haven Hoyt would have a heart attack if she saw this scene. She’d want to call up whichever of her friends was responsible for giving restaurants image makeovers and have them here before close of business.

Earlier that day Haven had sent him a color-coded spreadsheet that laid out his fate at a series of fund-raisers, openings, soirees and cocktail parties. Nothing in her schedule—not even the two-hour appointment at the high-end barber or the afternoon of shopping at the department store—had struck as much fear in his heart as the text Jimmy had sent him a couple of hours ago, telling Mark to meet him and Pete Sovereign at Mo’s.

Mark had called Haven for help and together they’d worded an apology. She was sorry she couldn’t accompany him to Mo’s but she had to attend an event. She told him she had faith in him; he should just deliver the apology and get out, fast.

While he’d needed the help in getting the words right, he was grateful she wasn’t with him. It would have felt too much like having a babysitter. Better to face up to Pete and do his best.

And so he was here. He kept putting one foot in front of the other, trudging toward what felt like his doom. Love you, Dad. Doing this for you.

He lifted his gaze and found Jimmy in the crowd, beanpole tall and narrow faced. His former manager waved him toward the wide bar that formed a U on one side of the restaurant. Pete was leaning on the bar, his blond bangs hanging in his eyes, as insufferably cocky-looking as he’d been the last time Mark had seen him. Mark was a poor judge of male beauty, but he’d never gotten Pete’s appeal to women. He looked—to Mark—like an overgrown kid. Countless promoters and image consultants had championed Pete’s boyishness back in the day, claiming he was popular precisely because teenaged girls didn’t really want men. They weren’t ready for them yet. Body and facial hair still secretly scared them. They wanted the illusion of innocence. Hence the appeal of the barely-past-boyhood pop group.

Mark crossed to the bar and Jimmy clapped him on the shoulder, as if they were friends. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

Years ago, Mark had believed that Jimmy liked him. Jimmy was a straight shooter, and Mark had been, too. In an industry that was full of hot air, that was a rare commodity. This last week, though, had made it clear how little Jimmy thought of the man Mark had become—and how unnecessary he considered him to the tour.

It would be humbling, if there were anything in him left to be humbled.

Behind Jimmy, Pete shifted but didn’t step forward to greet him. He wasn’t going to make it easy for Mark. And as much as Mark hated him, he couldn’t blame him.

Moment of truth. He had to lower himself enough to apologize to the piece of dung leaning on the shiny teak bar. Otherwise, all the image rehabbing in the world wasn’t going to make this tour happen.

Pete’s arrogant half smile made Mark think of Lyn. Her beauty, her passion and her promises, the romantic ones and the professional ones. Pete had taken away not just those promises, but something deeper, something Mark had never been able to get back.

The noise in Mad Mo’s formed a cushion around Mark, making everything feel faintly unreal. It still seemed possible to turn and leave, without consequences. His father and the medical bills were far away.

Jimmy shifted uncomfortably. Pete’s smile grew bigger and more smug, the smile of a man who knew his opponent was between a rock and a hard place. Mark wondered how much of this Pete had orchestrated. Did he even give a shit whether or not Mark apologized? Did he just want to see Mark squirm? Had sending Mark to Haven been Pete’s idea? He could imagine Pete howling with laughter at the notion of Mark undergoing an image rehab.

Jimmy gestured loosely toward Pete. “So, um—”

Mark’s mouth refused to open. It was wrong, just dead wrong, that he should be the one apologizing.

Pete Sovereign boosted himself off the bar, giving Mark the full force of his superior grin and thrusting his hand out. “Nice of you to come all this way to beg.”

For a moment, Mark could feel the world stretch and shift—déjà vu. He could feel the moments that had just passed and the moments that were creeping up on them. He remembered how Pete’s nose had given way to his knuckles ten years ago, and he imagined—no lived—with unapologetic clarity, the way Pete’s cheekbone would crack under the force of the even more heartfelt blow Mark was about to deliver.

What stopped him from throwing the punch, oddly enough, was not thinking of his father. It was thinking of Haven Hoyt and the way she’d looked at him in Charme, her eyebrows slightly drawn together as if she were trying to figure him out. As if he were worth figuring out. And even when he’d called her about this meeting, Haven had not said anything about watching his temper or not getting in a fight. She had, in fact, told him he would be capable of handling it maturely.

He heard himself sigh, and he saw Pete’s eyes widen. He leaned as close to Pete Sovereign as he could bear to, steeling himself against the guy’s cologne, and said, “It will be a long, cold wait in hell for you if you think that’s going to happen, douche bag.”

Then he turned and walked out of Mad Mo’s, the din fading behind him as the door swung shut and the cacophony of Manhattan’s streets filled his ears.