CHAPTER ONE
RONNIE
My brand new shoes bite into the back of my heels and squish my toes. I fill a paper cup with water and set it aside without ingesting so much as a sip.
Shayna takes my elbow as I pass by for the fifteenth time. βFor Christβs sake, sit down. I wasnβt nervous until you started pacing.β
I press my finger to the twitch at the corner of my left eye. βThis is going to be a disaster. I know it.β
βItβll be fine. Relax.β My best friend for the last three years fluffs my corkscrew curls around my shoulders and grasps my upper arms. βA live studio audience will be good. I promise. Youβll be so happy you did this.β
βSomehow I doubt it. Why couldnβt you have kept your mouth shut when Sam called?β Blah blah blah, thatβs what she did. Info dump right into my agentβs ear, and that was the cannonball on the catapult that shot me straight to the gates of Hell.
Shayna was the first to be invited on the show, and after she talked to Sam, I got a call too.
Shay whirls me around to face a blank wall. She holds her hand up as if sheβs painting a scene. βPicture this: Youβll sell a million books, and then you can take me to Cancun. Weβll sip fruity drinks with tiny umbrellas, delivered to us on golden trays by hot cabana boys who donβt speak our language. Weβll say the rudest things and smile and still get laid at the end of the day.β
A smile pulls up the corner of my mouth even as I rub the ache between my eyebrows. βIf you say so. Letβs just hope Jackson Tremaine is feeling charitable tonight.β
She sticks her tongue out. βJackson Tremaine can go fuck himself.β
I straighten her platinum blonde, not-quite-human-hair wig and tip her bug-eye sunglasses down enough to stare into her baby blues. βYou think all men should go fuck themselves. You know, most of them want the same things we want. To be loved. To be respected. You just have to give them a chance.β
βEvery year, I offer about a hundred of them a βchanceβ. All but three have failed, and those already belonged to other women.β Shay quirks her auburn eyebrow. Good thing the shades hide the dead giveaway that she isnβt really a blonde bombshell.
A sad sigh escapes before I can catch it. βIβm so sorry, sweetie, but maybe you need to consider another career path?β
Even though her eyes are hidden again, itβs as though I hear them rolling.
βThanks for the advice, but I make an excellent living in my current line of work. As much as I love you, Ronnie, you and I have two different philosophies when it comes to men. Iβm good with that.β
A petite woman pops into the room. βLadies, heβs going to bring you out one at a time, starting with you, Ronnie. In five.β
My stomach grabs hold of my esophagus and trembles as the second hand ticks away the moments. My first live appearance on television is tying me into knots.
Appearing on the Up Late with Jackson Tremaine show should be a boon, but itβs probably going to blow up in my face. Like a big fat dirty bomb. Lights out.
My instinct says that heβs a shark and Iβm a guppy. Heβs going to chew me up and spit me out. Thatβs if Iβm lucky, and he doesnβt swallow me whole.
No. I wonβt let him. Heβs a man, like all the other men Iβve studied since I was twelve and Dad skipped out on my overbearing, never-to-be-pleased mother. If sheβd have shown him some love and compassion, heβd have stayed. Iβm sure of it.
I have to remember that about Jackson. Underneath his Armani suits and Rolex watches, he wants the same things as everyone elseβrespect and love. Thatβs all. Show him some respect, and heβll return the favor. And, after tonight, I can move on and watch my book sales skyrocket as I ring in the new year, and my bank account will follow suit.
Shayna stands in front of the full length mirror in the corner and applies a fresh coat of the blood-red lipstick she purchased specifically for tonight. βCan you tell that itβs me?β
I rub my finger along my bottom lip. βWell, I can tell itβs you, but Iβd know you with a bag on your head. That sassy sway of your hips and the way you talk with your hands would give it away. But, I think youβre all right. Most people donβt pay that close of attention. Iβm certain your secretβs safe.β
βI only want to ensure my potential clients can be assured that their unsuspecting, cheating bastards wonβt know whatβs coming when I make my move.β
I shake my head. βOne of these days, Shayββ
βI know. I know.β She brings her tone up an octave, mimicking me. ββOne of these days, youβre going to meet the man of your dreams. Youβre going to read my book. Youβll fall in love. And wah,wah, fucking wah.β Save it, Rons. I am perfectly happy with my life. Iβll let you do the loving. Iβll stick with fuck and release, thank you.β
Offstage, the silent monitor flickers in the dark. On screen, two insanely gorgeous men smile at a shared joke and holiday lights twinkle in the background. The host tidies his stack of note cards, tapping them on the desk and tucking the one at the front behind the others.
Jacksonβs voice has a velvet covered rasp, even sexier in person than on television. βEleven days to Christmas, and a brand new year waits just around the corner. Many will make and break resolutions. How about those resolutions to find love or dump a dead weight relationship?β
His smile widens as he holds up his hands, trying to calm the masses as they cheer.
When the crowd quiets, he says, βThe ladies who make up this duo are actually very best friends. The livelihood of both women depends on love, in one capacity or another. I call them Love βEm and Leave βEm, if that tells you anything at all about their respective career fields.β
He brushes his fingers through chocolate-colored hair. βLetβs meet Love βEm first. How many of you gals have your eye on a man who seems to stay just out of reach, or one who doesnβt want to commit?β
Someone in the audience cat-calls about her guy.
βAnd weβre glad youβve got a man whoβs hung like King Kong.β Jackson answers the bawdy lady while he winks at the camera. βAnyway, our next guest thinks she knows men. Love βEmβs got us all figured out and has put her wealth of knowledge into book form.β
My stomach takes a plunge to my feet. Here we go.
He holds up my book and exchanges a knowing look with his first guest as he stands. βThis guide for women is supposed to help you ladies catch and keep your dream lovers. Please welcome the author of Decode the Man in Your Life, Ronnie Fitz.β
The handler ushers me toward the stageβs side entrance. βWatchββ
Applause drowns out whatever heβs saying as I clear the edge of the royal blue curtain. The clipboard-wielding guy gives me a shove toward Jackson Tremaine who waits three feet ahead with his hand held out in greeting.
Jackson has the clearest sage green eyes Iβve ever seen, dark around the edges but almost white at their center. They crinkle at the corners as he smiles at me, sending my heart into an abnormal rhythm. The hand he holds out to me waves me out, drawing me to him like aβ
Something grabs my ankle. Crap. A cable running across the floor is wrapped over my beautiful new shoe. I try to compensate with my other foot, but it makes it worse. I stumble forward, losing my balance as my plastered-on smile falters. Instead of shaking his hand, I fall against Jackson Tremaineβs muscular chest.
Strong arms come around me, pulling me up and tight against him. His scent, something like sandalwood and cinnamon, envelopes me. His laugh vibrates through my breasts, now pressed firmly against his pecs.
The audience goes bat-shit wild with applause.
Oh myβHell. In Hell. Right now. This canβt be happening.
Mr. Tremaine hangs on tight until the crowd quiets.
βWell, thatβs a great start to a new relationship. But Iβm afraid Iβm happy in my bachelorhood, Ms. Fitz.β He sets me away from him, adjusting first his tie and then his junk right in front of God and everybody.
Heat floods my face, and I donβt know where to look. βOh, Iβmβso sorry. I tripped.β
He tosses a sly look at the closest camera. βNo worries. I donβt mind at all. I enjoy a beautiful woman in my arms any timeβbut only for a short time.β
Jackson takes my hand, sending tingles up my arm. βIβll hold on to you until we get you safely into your seat.β
He leads me to the chair between guest number one and the side of the desk.
Jackson stage whispers to the other man. βBe careful of this one, Bax. Love βEmβs quite a handful.β
Casino mogul Baxter Ransom nods as he offers his hand. βNice to meet you, Ms. Fitz.β
I do the best I can to swallow my embarrassment. βLikewise.β
Jackson returns to his seat. βSo, Ronnieβyou donβt mind if I call you that? Youβve put together this instruction manual, if you will, for women.β
I brush my wild curls away from my face with trembling fingers. βI suppose you could call it that. Itβs really only common sense things that most of us already know but fail to put into practice in our everyday lives.β
βI read the book last nightβwell, parts of itβand Iβm not convinced.β
The lead weight in my gut grows.
No, itβs okay. Heβs playing Devilβs Advocate. Itβs his job.
βOh? What part do you need help with?β I smile, but inside my heart is shriveling into a raisin.
Heβs making me out to look a fool, and no one is going to buy my book by the time heβs done with me.
He leans back in his chair, propping his feet on his desk. βWell, this whole idea that a woman can get the guy she wants, simply by showing him deference and respectβ¦β
I take a quick breath, heat simmering in my stomach. Dumbass is twisting my words. βI didnβt say deference.β
He laces his fingers across his flat belly. βOh, maybe I read that incorrectly. Donβt get me wrong. I like the idea of a woman who shows a man respect. I donβt buy that it will get him to commit.β
The fire in my gut stirs. βWell, think about it, Mr. Tremaine. What man doesnβt want the woman in his life to tell him how amazing he is on a daily basis?β
I wait, but he just sits there, smugness poised on his too handsome face. Itβs as if he didnβt hear the question I asked.
βWell?β I prompt.
His eyebrows go up, fake surprise in his expression. βOh, that wasnβt rhetorical?β
No wonder heβs still single.
I let out a huff of air. βHow many men get the respect they want and deserve from the women who profess to love them? The principals in my book all come down to one thing: men arenβt as complicated as ladies think they are. They want love just like women do. The biggest difference is what they perceive as love.β
He squints as though considering my words. βWell, they do say perception is ninety percent of reality. My ninety percent says this is a load of rhino dung.β
My jaw drops.
Did he really just say thatβabout my book, my magnum opus, in front of billions of people?
I snap my mouth shut and glare at him. βMaybe your perception is whatβs full of shit.β
His eyes widen, and his gaze darts to a man on the sidelines with a clipboard and an apoplectic vein popping out on his forehead.
βOops, probably shouldnβt have cursed. All those pesky FCC regulations.β I smile sweetly at my asshole of a host.
Jackson nods to the vein guy, whips his feet off his desk, and holds my book up once more. βAnd there you have it, folks. Want to know how to get a man? Buy the book and have him in the bag by Valentineβs Day.β
He tosses the book aside and smiles directly at the camera set in the middle isle of the gallery of seats. βOur next guest, BFF to Ms. Fitz here, is pretty much her polar opposite.β
In ways he will never understand.
Jackson grins. βLeave βEmβremember thatβs her nickname. Sorry, I canβt reveal her true identity, because she needs the anonymity to run her business. Leave βEm claims she doesnβt believe in true love. Well, I suppose not, considering itβs her job to prove it isnβt out there.β
Jackson stands and claps. βPlease welcome our next guest. Sheβs the person other women hire to test the men in their lives.β
Shayna glides onto the stageβno tripping for her. Sheβs much too graceful as she waves and blows kisses Marilyn Monroe style. Maybe sheβs taking that wig too seriously.
Shayna takes Jacksonβs offered hand in both of hers as Baxter and I shuffle chairs to make room for Shayna in the seat I vacated, closest to the host.
Jackson seats my friend and takes his own chair. βSo, youβre the temptress who actually tries to get men to cheat before you report back to your clients.β
βI suppose you might describe my work that way.β Shaynaβs lacquered fingernail taps out a rhythm on the arm of her chair.
βYou set up and ambush unsuspecting men?β Mr. Ransom shifts in his seat.
She licks her bright red lips. βI only make an overture they could easily ignore. Itβs only a trap for those men already predisposed to cheat on their significant other.β
Jackson Tremaine leans forward, his elbows on his desk, chin in his hands. βSo, Ms. Leave βEm, do you actually screw these cheating guys?β
Shayna grins. As usual, sheβs unfazed by direct barbs. As a matter of fact, Iβm fairly certain she likes it.
βNo, I never go that far. Iβm not a prostitute. I simply do my best to lure the men to willingly place themselves in a compromising position. I always stop before anything too serious happens.β
Baxter rubs his chin, as though contemplating what Shayna has said. βNever?β
βNever.β Her shades hide her rolling eyes, but Iβm certain thatβs what she did.
Baxter lifts one eyebrow. βHmm.β
Jackson barks a laugh, which he unsuccessfully tries to cover with a cough. βExcuse me. Iβoh hell, I canβt lie. I just had a fantastic idea.β
Our host sends a sly look toward the camera to his left before he turns his full attention to me. βSo, Ms. Love βEmβRonnieβwould you be willing to wager that should a woman use the techniques in your book, her man wonβt have the propensity to cheat, because heβd be so enamored of her and happy at home?β
Baxter Ransom coughs, and Shayna whips around to me, her mouth slightly agape.
My throat goes bone dry. βUmβwell, I meanβIββ
Shayna jumps to my rescue. βA cheater will cheat, no matter how wonderful his woman is. Some guys are scum. Cheaters cheat, no matter what.β
I lay my hand on her arm. βWait. No. I believe most people cheat because something in their relationship is lacking.β
Shay elbows me. βShh.β
I toss her a look.
She ignores me. βNo. A cheater is a cheater is a cheaterβno matter what.β
The mischief coming off of Jackson Tremaine is almost palpable, and the audience goes silent. Itβs as though they know heβs going to do something outrageous, which he probably will. And theyβll all think itβs epic, only Iβll probably be shoved to a lower level of Hell. Even the slight shifting and shuffling that usually goes on in a crowd dies down as he continues to study me and my friend.
He looks around both of us. βBax, youβre a gambler.β
Mr. Ransom draws back. βWell, my business is gambling, butββ
βLetβs make a wager, shall we? Right here on live television.β
My bladder twitches. Nervousness makes me need to pee. I could probably fill up three adult diapers at this very moment. Whatever Jackson has in mind is bound to be bad for me, terrible for my book, and probably horrible for my long-term career goals.
Baxter leans closer to Jackson. βGo on.β
βLetβs see which of these two ladiesβ juju works best.β Jackson wags his eyebrows like heβs a villain in a cartoon.
Shayna pops up out of her seat. βThatβs not how I run my business.β
βAw, cβmon, now, be a sport.β Baxter grins, his eyes trailing from her fake hair all the way to the five-inch heels of her platform fuck-me boots.
Jackson looks straight into the main camera. βWhat do you think, America? Shall we wager that Love βEm canβt use the techniques in her book to keep Leave βEm from taking her man?β
Shayna falls into her seat with a thud. βShe doesnβt even have a man.β
And there it is. I let out a sigh. All of America knows Iβm a love specialist whoβs not in love and has no man. No hint of a man in my lifeβnot even an old toothbrush still haunting my medicine cabinet from a man I once had. Iβm sunk.
Jackson cocks his head, as though he can hardly believe what heβs heard.
I open my mouth to rebut her statement, only to be interrupted.
βDo you not have a significant other, Ms. Love βEm?β His green eyes are too beautiful for someone like him. Nasty, evil people shouldnβt get to be gorgeous. Not fair. They should be ugly as a warning to children not to become emotionally corrupt.
I close my eyes. I so hoped this wouldnβt come up. Of all the things, why this?
I clear my throat. βThat has absolutely no bearing onββ
He holds up one finger. βWait. Hear me out. I take it from your reply that the answer is no?β
Panic sweeps over me in a rush of hot tingles up the back of my neck and across my face. I fight the urge to jump up and run off stage. βNo significant other at this time.β
The twinkle in his eyes makes me want to scratch them out of his skull. Iβve never met a man I liked less.
Ever.
I toss my purse onto the counter in the kitchen. βWorst. Day. In. History.β
βI donβt want to hear it. You couldβve avoided that entire exchange.β Shayna drops into a chair at the table and unzips her thigh-high boot.
My jaw falls almost to my navel. βI could have avoided it? What about you?β
Shay kicks off one boot. βNot me. Youβre the one who shouldβve said no.β
βYou should have, too.β
She tilts her head to the side, glaring. βNo. I couldnβt. My work depends on women trusting the fact that if their guy is a cheaterβif heβs going to cheat at allβit would be with me. If I were to say I couldnβt possibly entice your guyβwhoever the fuck that ends up beingβinto cheating, then why would anyone ever hire me?β
βWhoβs going to buy a book on how to catch and keep their man from a woman who isnβt confident enough to say that she can keep her man enthralled enough that heβll turn down the opportunity to go at it with a blonde dressed like a prostitute?β
βProstiβ¦β Shayna looks down at her outfit and giggles. βYeah, I guess I am kind of dressed to head down to the boulevard and hawk my ample wares.β
She shimmies her tits in her too tight black leather jacket. βDay-umn. I didnβt even get the big O from that one. How about you?β
βWhat?β
She makes no sense to me sometimes.
Shay extricates herself from her other boot. βI mean, Jackson Tremaine fucked us both, and good.β
βI guess he did.β I drop into the chair adjacent to hers. βItβs not exactly like we can bailβnot now that the entire country is waiting to see which one wins.β
She side-eyes me. βWe could tell Jackson to fuck off, and dust off our hands and move on.β
I let out a weary breath. βNo. We canβt.β
βWhy not?β
βBecause millions, if not billions, of people saw us on that show. Youβre fine if you bow out. Youβll continue to do your thing. But me? If I back out, Iβm screwed six ways to Sunday.β
She rubs the teensy crease between her brows. βAw, cβmon, Rons. Your bookβs success isnβt completely dependent on Jackson Tremaineβs show. You just donβt want to rock the boat.β
βRock what boat?β
βThe boat where everyone does whatβs expected and no one does what they shouldnβt. The viewers expect you to be part of this bet. Youβll do it, if for no other reason than that youβre afraid to break the rules.β
I huff. βWhat rules? I donβt know what you mean.β
βGirl, youβll fall in line behind whatever perceived rule there is in any given situation. I hate to break it to you, but you, my friend, are a goody two-shoes. In your mind, thereβs some invisible rule that states the gauntlet has been thrown. Therefore, you must meet the challenge.β
Goody two-shoes? Gauntlet?
βI break plenty of rules, thank you. Itβs only that I happen to know this particular thing can sink my career faster than the Titanic went down. Iβve worked too hard for that to happen.β
Shay cast a skeptical glance at me. βWhat rules have you broken lately?β
The answer eludes me. I search through my recent memory. Nada.
I scratch my head. βIβI donβt know. Who keeps a journal of broken rules? Justβ¦ ugh, stop already. We have to do this bet.β
βOh whatever. Iβll do it, because youβre my friend, and Iβd cut off my right arm for youβthatβs my masturbation hand, just so weβre clear about what Iβd be giving up.β
Only Shay would point that out.
I canβt help but smile. βAt least this way only one of us will be screwed.β
βWell, if Iβm the one who loses, please make sure you throw me a pittance when you see me lying outside your gate with my tin cup.β She unpins her wig.
When she shakes her red hair down her back, it cascades like a waterfall. The slight wave in it is probably there from being rolled up under her Marilyn get-up. Itβs moments like this that I hate her.
βIβd almost kill to have your hair,β I lament for the umpteenth time.
She shrugs. βWell, I would kill to have your curls. So youβd best sleep with one eye open, bitch.β
Shayβs African Gray whistles and squawks in the living room. βBitch. Who you callinβ bitch?β