“Man,” I drawled out and then admitted in a low voice, despite the rowdy crowd around us, “I don’t know if this is a good idea. I mean… what if it’s too soon?”
I couldn’t remember feeling this…this…whatever in the fuck it was…ever. But considering I was practically turned in on myself, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, I was definitely feeling it.
Whatever in the fuck it was.
“Dude,” Alcide scoffed, with a roll of his eyes. “Get over yourself. Nobody’s gonna remember what some hack blogger bitch had to say about you a month ago.”
I wasn’t feeling as sure as he sounded. But then again, he hadn’t been the one named – and subsequently ridiculed – for being undateable.
What the fuck?
That wasn’t even a real word.
But that hadn’t mattered to the gossip rags or the late night TV hosts.
Or the writers of Saturday Night Live…
Viral video fucking bullshit skit.
Maybe Alcide was right though. No one seemed to be paying me any real attention. Coming to a Rangers game at Madison Square Garden had been a risk, but my trusty black ball cap disguise seemed to be holding out.
Maybe I could finally stop living like a hermit.
Because no sooner had I had the thought than Alc elbowed me and guffawed, “Fuck man. Don’t look now, but you’re on the Jumbo-tron.”
It was like time itself had slowed down into agonizingly long seconds. Seconds that each lasted a whole fucking hour. It felt like the eyes of the entire world were on me.
I knew all of Madison Square Garden’s eyes were…
Like I had ‘REJECT’ stamped across my forehead for all to see.
But unable to control my own eyes, much less anything else, they lifted in both dread and apprehension, with my greatest fear coming true.
Because underneath the live shot of my scared shitless face, along with my name, wasn’t musician or singer – in spite of being the front man to our Grammy award winning multi-platinum selling band for the last seventeen years – but instead was the word that wasn’t even a real fucking word.
Now I feared I would forever be known as Eric Northman – Undateable.
“You will never guess who’s here to see you,” the receptionist epically failed at whispering into the phone.
Maybe it was because of her utter fucking glee…
“But I’ll give you a hint,” she went on to whisper shout. “He’s tall. He’s hot. And he’s been known to leave a date at the dinner table, while he gets a blow job in the bathroom from her sorority sister.”
He’s also fucking livid!
But show me a guy who would turn down a blow job from a hot chick and I’ll show you a fucking eunuch.
Besides…I went back to my date afterward.
So what’s the big fucking deal?
How was I supposed to know they knew each other?
I wasn’t a goddamn mind reader.
“I know!” she squealed and added just as loudly, “The nerve!”
And then seeming to remember the fact that sound fucking traveled – so I didn’t need to be a mind reader to know what was going through hers – her eyes darted up to mine for a second.
And then both her gaze and her voice lowered fractionally, as she said, “And I would hazard a guess and say I’m getting on his last nerve.”
So maybe she was a mind reader.
But just before she hung up, she went back to her version of whispering when she added, “Take notes. A shit ton of notes.”
Acting like she’d had me on hold for their entire conversation, she hung up the phone and smiled up at me, gesturing towards the door to her right and saying, “Miss Stackhouse will see you now.”
Oh, she was going to see me alright.
Me and my gaggle of lawyers, if she didn’t take my name and photo off of her stupid ass website.
I probably should have headed there first. But no matter how much I forked out to keep them on retainer, admitting to a room full of suits that I was crying on the inside about some stupid bitch saying mean things about me on the internet seemed like a pussy move.
And I was no pussy.
I was Eric Fucking Northman.
Pussy made moves on me.
Walking into the office, I really had no idea of what to expect. I hadn’t given much thought to the person behind the Undateable website, but the little bit of time I had dedicated to it, I’d imagined a fugly bitch. One who couldn’t get a date to save her life and was taking it out on the rest of the beautiful people who could.
Turned out, I was wrong.
A perfect pair of 34D’s greeted me with, “Mr. Northman. How can I help you?”
Lose the top, for starters…
I’d seen thousands of breasts.
But those were truly a work of art, worthy of being displayed in the Louvre.
For now, however, I’d prefer to see them displayed on top of me.
“I’m afraid the top will be staying on,” she chuckled, alerting me the fact I’d either spoken my thoughts aloud or she was the real mind reader here, before she then dismissed me with a wave of her hand, saying, “If you need your parking ticket validated, see Amelia on your way out. Good day.”
“One,” I snarled out, now having found my balls and the rage we’d rode in on. “I didn’t know I was thinking out loud. And two…”
But I forgot what two was when my eyes were drawn back to her twin set of 34D’s.
I wasn’t sure how long I’d been staring, but I knew it was long enough for my mouth to go dry, which alerted me to the fact it had been hanging open the whole time.
Bringing my lower jaw up brought my eyes up to hers and I could see the apathy on her face I then heard in her voice as she carefully enunciated her next words, like I rode the little bus to school, when she said, “Yes, I have two of them.”
Not the fact her 34D’s came as a pair.
But instead of calling me out on it – instead of being flattered or flirty, like every other woman I’d shown so much interest in – she merely sat back down at her desk and started typing away on her keyboard, dismissing me yet again with, “If you feel the need, go ahead and alert Ripley’s. But it’s not an uncommon of an occurrence. They generally come as a set of two.”
“You labeled me as ‘Undateable’,” I accused, finally remembering what me, my balls, and our rage had rode in there for.
“And you wonder why?” she chuckled knowingly. But it must have been a rhetorical question – or she didn’t give a fuck what my reply would have been – because she didn’t give me any time to form a response when she went on to say, “But why do you care what I think? My blog is for fun. It’s based on my opinion. I’m opinionated and the last time I checked, our Constitution gives me the right to express it.”
Fuck her and her First Amendment.
“How can you have an opinion when you’ve never even dated me?” I spat out.
Without missing a beat, she looked up at me and shrugged, “I’ve never tried to wrestle a grizzly bear either, but I still know a bad idea when I see one.”
Having no comeback – because while I agreed wrestling a grizzly bear was a bad idea, I didn’t think that should extend to declaring I had the equivalent of dick leprosy – I just snarled out, “Take me off of your website.”
Her casual one word response only managed to make me see red.
Beyond the red of her blouse, although it was very good color on her.
It would look even better lying in a pile of our combined clothes on the floor.
Clenching my jaw to the point I probably cracked a few teeth, I wasn’t sure if it was more from my anger at her or my hope that I hadn’t said my last thought out loud. She didn’t appear put off any more than she had been, so my inner thoughts likely remained silent. But then again, she hadn’t showed much emotion at all since I’d walked through her door.
She was probably horrible in the sack.
I did my best to shake off the mental image of two seals slapping against each other and tried to take the edge out of my voice, while I asked, “What do I need to do for you to consider removing me from your website?”
Showing me a true emotion for the first time – hilarity – she posed her reply as a question, saying, “Build a time machine and when you get back to the past, not be a dick to the women you’re with?”
“We both know that’s not going to happen,” I sighed.
But while my mind was trying to remember the intricacies of the Flux Capacitor – and wondering if I could find a DeLorean anywhere – the sound of her snorting drew my attention back to her, while she snickered, nodding, “A dick doesn’t change its spots.”
“Is that what this is about?” I asked, feeling my temper ratcheting back up.
I didn’t think I was a bad person. I just didn’t feel the need to tie myself to any one person.
I was so fucking casual, J Crew should have been my goddamn sponsor.
Waving me off with one hand, the other reached for her coffee mug, while she shook her head and said, “I wouldn’t be surprised in the least to know your dick is spotted. Herpes is forever. But I don’t want firsthand knowledge, so keep it covered. Please.”
But knowing a pissing match with her would likely result in my picture going back up on her website with some sort of biohazard warning label, I tried to keep my voice level.
It was hard to do when all I could picture was a Where’s Waldo-esque picture-find posted on the front page of her blog, with the caption, ‘Spot Eric Northman’s Spotted Dick’ underneath it.
Fucking Fallon would make it a weekly segment on The Tonight Show.
He’d already busted me on his Thank You Cards just last week.
‘Thank you, God, for declaring Eric Northman Undateable before my daughters were old enough to date.’
But recalling that little dig, while seeing the old-enough-to-date woman in front of me, gave me an idea.
An idea that came out through my lips, completely bypassing what little filters I had, with me asking, “What if you went out on a date with me?”
I could prove to her that I wasn’t some sex crazed monster.
The fact I hadn’t had sex in the last month was a testament to that.
That – or the fact her opinionated blog held more weight with the women of the world than I cared to admit.
“Then I would ask that you bring me back to the hospital,” she answered in the next second. And at my raised brow, she explained, “Surely with so much head trauma, I shouldn’t have left the ICU.”
“Do you really believe that I’m that bad?” I huffed, not all that certain I wanted to hear her reply.
Something I found out to be true when she answered my question with one of her own, asking, “Did you really have sex with the bride-to-be in the coat room at her rehearsal dinner, while you were technically there with one of the bridesmaids?”
Both my actions and my emotions.
But I didn’t think trying to justify the former with the amount of tequila shots I’d consumed – or even admitting to the latter at all – would be in my best interests.
And I always looked out for my best interests.
Being taken off of her website was one of those interests.
With that thought in mind, I went for contrite and said, “Go out on a date with me and let me prove to you that I’m not that guy.”
My contriteness was met by her incredulousness as she snorted again with, “Rehearsal. Dinner. One date where you keep it in your pants for the sheer fact you want off of my blog is not going to make me believe you’ve changed.”
As much as I wanted to fight her on it, I could understand her reasoning.
Even if I would never understand why she felt like it was her calling in life to warn women everywhere about my sexploits.
But knowing that was a can of worms I didn’t want to touch with a ten foot pole, I nodded and offered, “Fine. Ten dates.”
“Pfft,” she hissed out, with another dismissive wave of her hand. “What could possibly be in it for me to want to make that kind of time commitment?”
The fact that I was a rock star – albeit an Undateable one at the moment, thanks to her – still, in my mind, should have mattered.
But I had a feeling my ego joining our conversation would only make things worse, so I countered with, “Five dates. And you get to blog about them. But you have to keep an open mind. No using my past actions to color your opinion about me during said dates.”
That seemed to get her attention and she looked up at me with a calculating eye, asking, “No restrictions? I get to tell all about everything?”
“As long as it’s the truth,” I agreed with a nod. “But I would ask that you don’t reveal anything about me of a personal nature.”
Seeing the argument building up in her eyes, I spoke up before it could pass through her lips and held my hand up, saying, “Personal things like my home address. My phone number.”
“I’m not an idiot,” she glared back at me. “Your dick might be spotted, but I would never give out an X-marks-the-spot map that would lead the crazies to your doorstep.”
Ignoring her spotted dick comment, I just stared back at her and held my hand out. This was a business transaction after all.
Getting myself taken off of her goddamn website, so I could get back to business.
So to speak…
“So we’re in agreement then?” I asked, when all she’d done so far was just stare back at me.
“That you probably have herpes?” she smiled softly and finally took my offered hand, giving it a firm shake. “Absolutely. But even if I had independent verification of that fact, I would never reveal it. It’s of a personal nature.”
The words had been forced out of my throat and through my lips.
I just didn’t know if it was because while a large part of me hated her and everything about her that had caused me to go there that day – in spite of that fact – an even larger part of me wanted her to find out firsthand that I was STD free.
So maybe she was a little bit right.
A dick didn’t necessarily change his spots.
“Man, I don’t know if this is a good idea.”
Hearing Alcide repeat the same exact words that led to this night coming about wasn’t helping to calm the ridiculous amount of nervousness going through me.
Because a large part of me agreed with him.
This night could either go very right or very wrong.
In the grand scheme of things, it didn’t matter. Not really. But for some reason I felt like my entire life hinged on whether or not my first of five dates with Sookie went off without a hitch.
Not helped by the fact it already felt doomed.
Because who in the fuck names their kid ‘Sookie’?
Maybe that was the cause of her dumbass website.
Her name alone made her ‘Undateable’.
However, it didn’t hurt that her 34D’s helped to tip the scales back in her favor.
But instead of saying that, I repeated what had become my mantra out loud by saying, “I have to.”
I didn’t know if my words were more for him or for me, but either way the fact of them remained.
I had to.
Standing her up or cancelling was out of the question because doing either one of those things would surely lead to that ‘Spot Eric Northman’s Spotted Dick’ picture-find I was doing my best to avoid.
“Where are you taking her?” he asked, leaning against my kitchen countertop with a beer in his hand.
And seeing him, at the moment, I hated him and his ‘Undateable’ label-free self.
I also hated the fact I’d had to wrack my brain, trying to figure out that very same thing because I hadn’t been on very many dates in my thirty-four years.
I’d had more hook-ups than I could count – or remember – but dates?
They were more infrequent than Haley’s Comet.
“Dinner,” I finally replied.
As much as I wasn’t looking forward to the sure-to-be tell all that would be appearing on her blog the following day, I figured it was my safest option.
Surely I could get through one dinner, without fucking it up.
Half the time our mouths would have food in them, so I wouldn’t need to say much.
That could only work in my favor.
“Lame,” was Alcide’s reply.
Punching him hard enough for him to spill his beer down the front of his shirt on my way by had been mine.
“Dick,” he chided, wiping the beer on his front and only managing to make it soak in more. But we both ignored it, while he said, “You’re Eric Fucking Northman, Rock Star. Shouldn’t you be trying to dazzle her with your you-ness?”
“That’s not a real word, Dickface.”
Also not a real word, but it really should be.
“Whatever Merriam Webster, but I’m telling you…you should go for blinding her with your Rock Star.”
The thought had occurred to me, but my Spidey senses were telling me she would see right through that and it would ultimately backfire on me.
Besides, it had been Rock Star Me that had gotten me on her website to begin with.
I could only hope that Real Me would be enough to get me back off of it.
Standing outside of her door only five minutes late, she opened it a few seconds after I’d knocked.
Seeing me standing there, she only shook her head with a raised brow and a small smile on her face, tsking me with, “You’re not doing yourself any favors by showing up late.”
“You live on the fifth floor of a building with a broken elevator,” I huffed, still trying to catch my breath.
I was fucking out of shape.
Probably because the majority of my workouts had been by fucking.
Which I hadn’t done in a while thanks to the woman in front of me.
“I told you I didn’t have access to your medical files,” she teased, grabbing her purse and stepping into the hallway. Locking her door, she turned to me and grinned, “If I had then maybe I would know that you would need the good parking spot and an elevator to make it to my floor.”
I only shook my head – more so because I still hadn’t caught my breath – and followed her back down the stairwell, cursing myself for telling her I would pick her up when she’d offered to meet me at the restaurant.
But meeting her there had seemed like a date-dick-move.
However, going up and down all of those stairs every day were probably why her ass looked amazing.
I wanted to find out firsthand.
With my hand mapping every inch of it.
And then giving my other hand a turn to do the same.
But knowing that would be a definite date-dick-move, I kept my inquiring hands to myself and when we reached the street, I made sure to open her car door for her – not a date-dick-move – and climbed in on the other side, saying, “I hope you like Italian.”
Our text exchanges that had led to this night were short and to the point.
Me: Dinner on Saturday?
Her: What time?
Her: Meet you there?
Me: I’ll pick you up?
Looking back, other than her giving me her address, our conversation consisted entirely of questions.
Which was only appropriate, considering I was questioning everything about why either one of us were doing this, when she pulled me from my thoughts by saying, “I’m allergic to garlic.”
“What?” I asked, nearly side-swiping a cab parked along the sidewalk when my head whipped towards her, while a part of my mind was running through my mental catalog of our other options.
The United Nation’s worth of dining options was still scrolling through my mind’s eye, while a part of my mind wondered how bad she would’ve railed about me in her blog post had I not mentioned what kind of restaurant I’d planned on taking her to.
Accusations about INTENTIONAL ANAPHYLACTIC SHOCK in bold-all-capital font were still blaring behind my eyes when she softly chuckled out, “I’m kidding.”
My eyes darted over hearing her words and seeing she was still white knuckling the door and seat beneath her, she went on to explain both her statement and actions by saying, “You looked so nervous, I was just trying to lighten the mood. But if you do that again, I’ll declare you ‘Undriveable’.”
Maybe it was because I’d automatically expected her to be a bitch – it had been the only side I’d seen of her before then – that had made me think she would’ve made all five dates a living nightmare.
I’d expected to have to carefully watch my words.
Watch my tone and be the fakest me possible in order to not give her any ammunition to rant and rail about me later on.
Considering all of her spotted dick comments, it had seemed like my only option.
I wasn’t sure what to think now that it looked like I might have another option available.
On the same hand, this didn’t really feel like a real date. I hadn’t asked her out because I’d found her attractive – even though I did find her attractive – or because I wanted to get to know her better.
I’d bartered away five dates for the potential reward of being taken off of her goddamn website.
But seeing the sincerity in her eyes, I couldn’t help the small smile I felt coming onto my face, as I said, “Like ‘Undateable’, ‘Undriveable’ isn’t a real word either.”
“Doesn’t make it any less real,” she smiled. “I bet that cabbie would’ve agreed with me if you’d slammed into his car.”
“I’m an excellent driver,” I playfully scoffed.
Because I so wasn’t going to say I was an excellent dater.
The fact I could only come up with dinner plans – and we still had four more dates to go – was proof of that epic lie.
“The jury is still out on that one,” she chuckled, making me wonder if she’d read my mind.
If she had telepathy in her arsenal of weapons, I had a feeling that wouldn’t work out well for me in the long run.
But cluing me into where her mind was at – because I wasn’t a mind reader – she went on to say, “But if I manage to make it home without needing a neck brace, I’ll agree with your assessment.”
We’d reached the restaurant by that point, so I parked the car and went around to her side to help her out – a dating-do, I was sure – but came up short seeing the look on her face and asked, “What’s wrong?”
The look of astonishment was wiped away, replaced by a genuine smile as she tore her eyes away from the front of the restaurant to grace me with her happiness instead, while she answered, “We haven’t even gone inside and I already love it.”
It was a place I’d discovered years earlier, back when I was still Eric Northman – Struggling Musician. It was a family owned restaurant in a decidedly un-trendy part of town, but I still stopped in at least once whenever I was in the city. The owners had taken a liking to me early on, comping my dinners when I couldn’t afford to pay, and letting me bus tables and wash dishes when I had no other source of income.
Even after I’d ‘made it’ in the business, they never treated me any differently. Never tried to capitalize on me or my fame, which was a big part of why I still went there.
They treated me like me – not Eric Northman, Rock Star.
And it didn’t hurt that I’d never had sex in their coat closet.
They didn’t have one and that little escapade hadn’t been a one-off.
But whatever it was she saw on my face had her explaining, “Honestly, I expected you to try and impress me with that rocker thing you’ve got going on. Flashy restaurants with fancy food that cost more than a month’s worth of groceries.” Then pointing at the un-flashy restaurant in front of us, she added, “This was unexpected. And disappointing, but only because I planned on skewering you about it on my blog.”
“Well then I am just as unexpectedly happy to disappoint you,” I smiled.
And I couldn’t wait to tell Alcide what a tool he was for suggesting that very thing.
Leading her inside, I was automatically greeted with all of the fanfare of a prodigal son returning home from fighting a war.
Much to Sookie’s amusement.
And – much to my amusement – she was then fawned over and congratulated in turn, for not listening to the hype of my ‘Undateable’ label.
When the owners finally walked away to give us time to look at the menu – not that I needed it, having memorized it years ago – she gave me a playful stink-eye and groused, “You brought us here on purpose.”
“If by ‘on purpose’ you mean I purposely brought you to a restaurant that has excellent food, then yes. I did that ‘on purpose’. Anything else you deduced from them about me being labeled ‘Undateable’ is merely coincidental and – I might add – their opinion.”
Then smiling outright at the look on her face, from me throwing her own words back at hers, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to add, “It’s also your own fault.”
Seeing the storm brewing behind her eyes – and honestly, afraid of what she’d blog about when it was done – I threw my hands up in mock surrender and said, “We’re both culpable here.”
I wasn’t going to take all of the blame.
She could have chosen to ignore my asshattery.
I didn’t need to be a serial dater to know that meant anything other than the opposite of ‘fine’, so I thought to distract her by asking, “What made you start writing your blog?”
I was honestly curious. She wasn’t some gruesome hag, whose only hopes of attracting anyone came with beer goggles and last call at a dive bar. Even the little glimpses of her personality – at least when she wasn’t accusing me of having an STD – were good.
She seemed intelligent.
She had a sense of humor.
And a body I would gladly get lost in until I couldn’t find my way back out again.
So what made her start writing about the dating faults of others?
The one thing I couldn’t fault her on though was limiting her blog to man-bashing.
Women were fair game to be labeled as ‘Undateable’ on her website too.
In fact, I was pretty sure the woman who sat at the desk outside of her office was on it.
Hers was the only picture that looked proud about it.
“Venting,” she shrugged. “I started blogging when I was a freshman in college as a way to keep in touch with my friends. My senior year, I found out my college sweetheart wasn’t such a sweetheart. I found out because his other girlfriend showed up on my doorstep with her positive pregnancy test and an explanation for all of the times he’d begged off spending time with me. My rant – which I admit was filled with childish, but accurate reasons why his mother should have considered abortion as a viable alternative – ended up being a hit with my friends. And, through the power of social media, it ended up being shared around the internet. A lot. So when other people started piling on, dishing the dirt on all of the people they found to be despicable daters, I ended up doing profiles on a few of them and ‘Undateable’ was born.”
“And you can make a living off of doing that?” I asked, hoping my tone didn’t come off as condescending.
My ass was still trying to un-pucker from her ‘fine’ comment.
“Six figures,” she shrugged again, without sounding egotistical at all. “It’s all about the ads and the traffic you can generate to your site. There are people on YouTube who make seven figures just by posting videos of their kids playing with toys.”
I was still dumbfounded by the fact she could make any money doing what she did, but remembering my initial plans of swooping into her offices with a gaggle of lawyers behind me, I found myself asking, “And you haven’t gotten sued?”
Surely, I couldn’t have been the only one who’d thought of doing it.
But I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d been the only one willing to date her – and have her blog about it – to get off of it.
Shaking her head, she replied, “I don’t post anything that I don’t get independent corroboration on. Witnesses of the actual incident and the like. And just like in a courtroom, hearsay isn’t allowed. I don’t embellish for embellishment’s sake. I state the facts, as I know them to be. I then give my opinion based on those facts. And I don’t post pictures that could be considered private. Like yours, for example,” she grinned, “They’re shots that are taken in a public setting.”
As much as I hated being included on her website, I had to give her credit. I’d read a few of those profiles she’d mentioned and while I knew all too well what it was like to be ‘outed’ in one, they were written in a professional – if not humorous – way.
‘Undateable’ was a lot like ‘The Onion’.
A tongue-in-cheek way of reporting about a version of events.
I still had a thousand questions, but before I could ask another one she beat me to the punch by saying, “Tell me something about yourself that I can’t find through an exhaustive Google search.”
I felt my brow hit my hairline and the corners of my lips inched up along with it, while I shook my head and said, “Knowing you’re going to be blogging about his night for all of the world to see, I think not.”
“That’s not fair,” she teasingly pouted and then added with a wicked grin, “But it’s true. So tell me anyway.”
I tried to think of something innocuous. Something I didn’t care if the whole world knew about me, but that I hadn’t really talked about anywhere else and finally settled on, “I wish I could have a dog.”
“Why can’t you have a dog?” she asked and then smiled, adding, “Are you on PETA’s bad side too? It’s from all of the leather you wear, isn’t it?”
“I happen to enjoy a good steak, so leather is a byproduct of not being wasteful,” I bantered back, while my ass was back to full-on-pucker-mode, preparing for the PETA onslaught I was sure to face in the future. “A dog, however, requires time I don’t have right now. I travel too much – work too much – for me to give it a proper life.”
Her eyes softened and she visibly swallowed before looking back at me and saying, “I don’t know if you’re buttering me up with talks of doggies and the lives they should lead or if you’re really that much of a commitment-phobe.”
“And I don’t know if you’re trying to make me trip up by putting images into my mind of oiling you up, with butter or anything else, so I would say that we’re even.”
But we weren’t even close to even.
Those mental images would be with me for a long time to come.
And cum wasn’t something I really needed to be thinking about at the moment.
Hers or mine.
I woke up the following day, feeling equal amounts of hope and dread. I didn’t know exactly when she would be posting the details of our date on her blog, but I did know the clock had started the moment I’d left her on her doorstep.
Sans goodnight kiss.
I hadn’t been sure that would have been received well, although I suspected the kiss itself would’ve been spectacular. If we’d gone out together under any other circumstance, then I had no doubt I would’ve tried.
For more than just a kiss goodnight.
But it wasn’t that kind of ‘date’ and my Spidey senses told me it would be a mistake to try to turn it into one.
However, the date itself had gone well – in my opinion – but she’d already made it perfectly clear that she had her own and would be giving it out to the world as she saw fit.
At least the conversation had flowed surprisingly easily throughout the rest of the night. She told me a little more about her life and I told her a little bit about mine. The life of a rock star wasn’t nearly as glamorous as the title made it sound, but I kept my stories on the light side, telling her of funny things that had happened on various tours over the years.
But the more we talked, the more I was coming to resent our arrangement. Not because I was forced to date her, but because I couldn’t be as open with her as I found myself wanting to be, knowing she was going to be blogging about it.
And I couldn’t even be mad at her for it because it was my dumbass idea.
Knowing sleep would be eluding me for the foreseeable future, I forced myself to get out of bed and ended up going for a run on my treadmill.
The amount of stairs that led to her door was ridiculous.
As was my ability to not cough up a lung when I finally reached it.
But knowing I had at least four more trips up and down those stairs, I ran until my legs felt like rubber – which sadly wasn’t all that long – before I jumped into the shower. I wasted more time by making myself breakfast, going through my email, and then my snail mail, before I couldn’t take it any longer and found myself pulling up her blog.
And I could see by the timestamp of her latest post, she’d put up the details of our date not long after I’d left her at her door. But I didn’t know if that would turn out to be a good thing or a bad thing, so I crossed my fingers and began reading.
I have something new for you tonight. Something that’s been in the works for the last few days, but I didn’t mention it before now because I honestly couldn’t see it coming to fruition.
And if it hadn’t?
You would be reading an ENTIRELY different post right now.
But it did come to pass, so now I’m here to pass it along to all of you.
You see, last week we had an unexpected guest in our Undateable offices by one of our very own Undateables.
Eric Northman himself.
At the time, I couldn’t imagine what he would want. Why he would be there when there wasn’t a coat room, a bride-to-be, or a blow job to be had. But there he stood nonetheless.
And I’ll let you all in on a not-so-little secret…
He’s a lot better looking in person.
But because I must have been a saint in a previous life, I can thank God for giving him a repellent personality that kept me from fawning and my panties in place.
So there he stood, acting like he had two pinballs in his eye sockets and my boobs were actually highly charged NASA-grade super magnets, telling THEM he wanted off of our website.
His pinballs seriously weren’t doing him any favors.
In fact, so much douchey-ness flooded into the room with his arrival, I began to secretly suspect his last name was really Massengill.
Because no matter how many times I snorted at his request – no matter how many times I showed him the door or offered to validate his parking – he just wouldn’t leave.
Like herpes, I didn’t think I would ever get rid of him.
But then he changed things up.
And by ‘changed things up’, I mean he actually looked up and INTO MY EYES and said things like “date me”. And I was like, ‘Ew’, because you know…Ew!
So I broke out my inner Yoda and told him, “A single good date did not a good-dater make.”
But obviously familiar with the Dark Side, my Yoda-ism wasn’t enough to scare him off. Instead he changed the terms to ten dates, making me pull out my Cuba Gooding Jr.
SHOW ME THE MONEY!
Or – more like – why in the hell would I when there’s nothing in it for me?
Ew! – remember?
Still undeterred, ten dates suddenly became five, but in all reality we know I’m reticent to give up any of my free nights.
Because I have Netflix and I’m not afraid to use it.
But then he said something that stopped me short. Something that got me excited in a whole new way and I could tell by the look in his pinballs that he knew he’d found my inner Renee Zellweger.
Because he had me at, “You can blog about it.”
So here I am, freshly home from my first of five dates with Mr. Undateable, blogging about it.
And I’m surprising even myself by admitting…I actually had a good time.
I fully expected to get The Eric Northman Experience. The razzle. The dazzle.
A full entourage who surrounded us at all times, like a horde of good little worker bees, following their leader everywhere he went simply because he’s the bees-knees. A mere snap of his fingers could produce anything from a crystal goblet filled with M&M’s (no brown ones!) to Chipotle. We would constantly be forced to come to a standstill, as never ending lines of cars-jewels-women were paraded in front of him for his pointy-fingered choosing. A ten piece orchestra would run along behind us and launch into Brahms’ Lullaby the moment any idle silence fell between us – because THAT is a seriously exhausting lifestyle – while choreographed dancers undulated in the background, acting out every word he said through dance.
You know – the complete compendium of Rock Star God, circa MTV 1984.
Back when they still played actual music videos.
But what I actually got was good company in a great family owned Italian place I’d never even heard of. Apparently he’s a regular there and I do believe THEY believe he’s the inventor of sliced bread, they love him so much.
And why wouldn’t they?
Who doesn’t love sliced bread?
But even more surprising was that he was surprisingly easy to talk to. He was funny and sweet at times. He was even a good sport when I teased him for being on my blog.
However, the kicker was when I spotted no less than three unfairly beautiful women in the restaurant, and all three of them couldn’t take their pinballs off of him. But if he noticed, he didn’t let on.
His pinballs stayed trained on me and any other balls he possessed stayed where they belonged too.
He didn’t go to the bathroom for a blow job even once!
I might have thought it a Christmas miracle if it had been December 25th. Then again, I do have those all-powerful NASA-grade super magnets…
In any case, it was only our first date and we all know you can’t fully trust a first-date-face. He also knows that I’ll be telling all of you about those dates, so he’d be a complete idiot to be a COMPLETE IDIOT on any of them.
But his dating history leads me to believe that isn’t entirely out of the question.
So, as much as I enjoyed our time together, I feel it’s only fair to give him a solid three out of five stars.
Acceptable, with room for improvement.
And if he has anything to say about my score, I’ll just remind him of the five minutes he was late and our near-miss at taking out a yellow cab.
Until next time,
As much as I appreciated her humor in describing our first meeting – all of it true – and her expectations of what a date with me might be like (I had no aversion to brown M&M’s, they all tasted the same) my head was stuck on her rating of three out of five.
I didn’t know whether I should be relieved or pissed.
So I settled on somewhere in between the two.
But after I’d reread it a thousand times and had some time to really think about it, I could admit she was right. It wasn’t a bad date. Nor was it one for Nicholas Sparks to write a book about.
Like she’d said, it was acceptable with room for improvement.
But seeing the option to leave a comment, I purposely ignored the ones left by others and left my own.
RSG says…A ten piece orchestra would’ve been a bit over the top, but I’m thinking a single violinist might be acceptable.
An improvement, if you will.
But background dancers acting out my words would be too creepy. Like mimes.
I like the idea of getting my heart’s desire with a mere snap of my fingers though. Maybe I’ll give it a try next time.
I find myself really wanting a pair of NASA-grade super magnets.
I didn’t begin to second guess my comment until I clicked the button to post it and saw it appear on her blog. I’d meant for it to be funny – and a bit flirty – but I didn’t know how she would take it.
Because there was no way she wouldn’t know it was from me.
RSG – Rock Star God.
But I didn’t have to stew for long because it was only a few minutes later when she replied to my comment.
SS says…Good luck with that! You’d have to REALLY blow my socks off if you expect my top to come off with them. I denied you that very thing in my office, so you should know better.
RSG says…Given my ‘dating history’, you should know better than to be discussing blowing of any kind and your top coming off in the same sentence or else I might get ideas.
But it was too late.
I already had them.
A lot of them.
My phone chimed in the next second and seeing the text was from Sookie, I worried I’d crossed a line.
Her: You DO know that EVERYONE can read those comments, right?
Me: You DID ask me to tell you something you wouldn’t be able to find through an exhaustive Google search, right?
She didn’t reply right away, but the unexpected knot I’d felt forming in my gut disappeared with her next text.
Her: Do you realize all of our texts end in a question mark?
Me: Would you believe I thought that very same thing when I picked you up last night?
My phone rang a second later and seeing Sookie’s name flash on the caller ID, I felt the smile forming without thought, while I answered with an enthusiastic, “I can’t believe that worked!”
“What do you mean?” she chuckled. “Or is this the first time anyone’s actually called you on your cell phone?”
Sitting back in my seat, I could feel the grin spreading across my face, while I answered, “I mean, I snapped my fingers and poof! You called me. So that must mean that you’re topless too, right?”
“Uh huh,” she snickered. “Too bad for you I didn’t Skype you then.”
“Damn it…” I teased. “My snappers must be broken because that’s what I meant.”
“You’re such a perv, but even an exhaustive Google search won’t find that for you.”
I could still hear the smile in her voice and found myself wishing she really had Skyped me instead.
But before I could offer up that kind of info she wouldn’t find in any Google search, she went on to say, “I called because I didn’t want to break our question mark texting streak, but now I can’t remember what it was I was going to say.”
“So then you’re admitting I razzle dazzled you?” I playfully asked.
“No,” she denied and said, “I’m thinking I need to go for a CT scan. My mind must have blanked with that head banging trauma I can’t remember.”
Thoughts of banging didn’t bring to mind head trauma, so I forced my mind out of the gutter and said, “So, three out of five, huh? I guess I can live with that.”
“A solid three,” she agreed. “But it’s hard to tell what you’re really like when you know anything you say or do might end up being told to the world.”
“That’s the world I live in,” I admitted, sounding more somber than I’d meant to or expected.
But it was true.
She – of all people – should know that.
“Well, that sucks,” she offered sincerely and then tried to lighten the mood by adding, “And I don’t mean in a good blow job sort of way.”
“There’s nothing worse than a bad blow job,” I agreed, returning her lighthearted tone.
I didn’t want for the conversation to turn heavy – or accusatory, since she was one of the reasons why my personal life had been put on display for the world to see – so I changed the subject by asking, “So what are you doing for the day now that you’ve already blogged about our solid three star date?”
“Well…” she drawled out, seemingly in thought. “It is Sunday, so you know…church. Feed and clothe the homeless. Gather stray cats and dogs and find them forever homes. That sort of thing.”
“Really?” I questioned, leaving no room for doubt about my disbelief.
“No, not really,” she laughed. “If I’m lucky I’ll get a load of laundry done. I should go grocery shopping, but I think I can survive for one more day on the magically delicious dust at the bottom of my last box of Lucky Charms. So instead I’ll probably take a nap and then doll myself up because it’s Skanksgiving Day and check out a place I heard about last week where they have an open mic night.”
“Really…” I repeated, only this time, without the questioning tone.
She had me at Skanksgiving Day.
Walking into the bar, with my trusty black ball cap in place, my eyes zeroed in on Sookie in a nanosecond.
They really were like NASA-grade super magnets.
Something I wasn’t the only one affected by, given the horde of dicks orbiting around her.
An unfamiliar but undeniable sensation moved through me, making me move my way across the room without thought to where she stood at the bar. And I made no apologies as I bumped into the dick closest to her and took his forcibly vacated spot next to her.
Looking up, she smiled now seeing me there, and without giving any thought to the potential repercussions, I used the cheesiest pickup line of them all, asking with a leer, “Come here often?”
“Nope,” she grinned. “I told you I haven’t been here before. But if we’d met up at O’Malley’s down on 21st, well…”
Then she blushed as she shrugged and admitted, “My only defense is that everyone is Irish on St. Paddy’s Day.”
“Sookie Stackhouse,” I mockingly accused and then teased, “I think you’ve just given me an idea for my own blog.”
Not taking the bait, she called my bluff and grinned, “They’re surprisingly easy to set up once you know what you’re doing. If you need any help, just ask.”
Picking up the drink the bartender had just placed in front of her, she then handed me the beer that had come with it and said, “You like beer, right? You look like a beer guy.”
“You didn’t ask Google?” I smiled, taking the offered glass and answering, “Of course I like beer. It’s what testosterone is made of.”
“Gives a whole new meaning to beer nuts,” she laughed, with me laughing along with her.
Something about her was different than the night before, but I couldn’t put it into words.
But I could define that it was better.
And perhaps seeing whatever it was on my face, she gestured for me to follow her and led me to a table in the corner. Once we were seated, she looked up at me with a smile and said, “The ground rules. This isn’t a date. It’s why I had you meet me here. Tonight we’re just hanging out, so anything you say or do will not be blogged about.”
Maybe that’s what it was. That feeling that something was different. I hadn’t been sure if it was because she wasn’t a complete stranger tonight, like she had been the night before. But I did feel more at ease once she’d said she wouldn’t be spilling about whatever I said or did with her tonight.
But feeling the need to tease her, I said, “If you wanted to up the amount of dates we went on, you only had to say so.”
“Don’t be a dick,” she grinned. “Because while I might not blog about tonight, anything you do or say will color my view of you on our second date.” And then faking a contrite expression, she added, “I’m only human.”
She could’ve fooled me.
I don’t know what she could’ve thought was skanky about her outfit because she was wearing a flimsy white dress that set off her tan, hugging her super magnets in all of the right ways. It was held up by a single strap that ran over her left shoulder, with the rest of the fabric flowing out from her midsection and ending at the middle of her thighs.
She looked like a goddess.
Pulling out my phone, I started tapping away, which made her say, “Tell me you’re not that guy who’s attached to his cell phone.”
Slipping it back into my pocket a second later, I looked up at her and smiled with, “Not at all.”
“So what was so important that you had to do it right now?” she playfully challenged.
Taking a sip of my beer, I set it back down on the table and leaned forward, meaning every word when I looked into her eyes and said, “Putting a reminder into my phone. I don’t want to miss out on Skanksgiving Day next year.”
It had been two weeks since I’d last seen Sookie, but that had been out of circumstance rather than want. While we’d hung out twice more before I’d had to leave town, we hadn’t been on our official second date. But thanks to prior commitments, now I was stuck on the other side of the country for two more weeks.
If only snapping my fingers really could work magic, then she would’ve been there with me.
We still talked or texted every day, but – as much as it was foreign to me – I could admit that I missed her.
Not that I would admit that to her.
We still hadn’t even kissed yet and while I was definitely looking forward to when – yes, when – that happened, I found I enjoyed just being in her company. She was funny. Quick witted in a way that kept me on my toes.
In a good way.
In fact, I liked hanging out with her so much that I was almost afraid of taking her on that second date, wondering if the shroud of date-face would make another appearance, on either one of our faces.
But just hanging out, I didn’t have to worry about what I said or what I did. Because while there might not have been any kissing – yet – there had definitely been some flirting.
And a hell of a lot of innuendo.
Sookie’s mouth would be at home on any one of our Navy’s fleet of ships.
And I couldn’t help where else I imagined her mouth could be and what it could be doing.
But she’d been true to her word. There’d been no mention of ‘us’ whatsoever by her on her blog, after we’d hung out together.
The ground rules hadn’t been broken.
There had been some initial buzz about her blog and our dating arrangement after her one and only post, but it had been pretty positive for the most part. Enough so that I gathered my former dick leprosy diagnosis must have been given the all-clear by the imaginary internet doctors because the women were back to fawning around me.
But with my imaginary cure came an unexpected and yet undeniably real immunity to every last one of them.
And the more I thought about it – and I thought about it a lot – I came to realize my aversion to them wasn’t because I was afraid of an exhaustive Google search by a certain blond goddess, with an already established forum, both ready and willing to vilify me.
It was because I wasn’t tempted by any of them.
Because it seemed my craving could only be satisfied by a certain blond goddess, with a godawful name and an already established forum, both ready and willing to vilify me.
And we hadn’t even kissed yet.
But since we were just hanging out, I hadn’t asked her if she was seeing anyone else. However the thought had crossed my mind – more than once – with me wondering if that was why she kept her flirting to just that.
The thought of her dating anyone else didn’t sit right – on that big hulking pile of denial that sat in my gut – but we’d only been on one official date.
One of five dates that had been agreed upon and had been meant as nothing more than a beneficial arrangement to each of us.
So I shouldn’t care if she was seeing anyone else.
My phone rang in the next moment and seeing Sookie’s name on the caller ID, I briefly mused that her sometimes telepathy worked on the 4G Network.
So I blamed mostly that thought for the smile on my face when I answered with, “Who’s on your Top Five Celebri-Do-Me list?”
We weren’t on a date.
This was allowed.
Besides, it was a game she’d started. If I called her, she would ask me a so-far-out-there question that would always trip me up, before she even said hello.
But she’d called me, so it was my turn.
However I was coming to learn that her brain was never in neutral because without skipping a beat, she answered in a single rushed out breath of air as though there was a prize at stake, “Oliver Queen, Daryl Dixon, Tom Keen, Neo – because it’s Throwback Thursday and I’ll always have a soft spot for my leather-clad Matrix lover – and The Avengers. They come as a team, so I should be able to count them as a single entity and cum with them.”
“Take your time,” I chuckled. “Don’t strain yourself trying to come up with any names.”
Never mind the fact that my name wasn’t on her list…
But before I could mention it – not that I would have – probably – or even figure out whether or not I was happy her list consisted entirely of fictional characters (because they were portrayed by very real men) she went on to ask, “So how did it go today?”
She’d known we were putting the finishing touches on our new album, which was why I was stuck in L.A. And we still had to film the music video for the first single from it, which was why I had another two weeks of being stuck.
After I was finished telling her about my day – something that had become commonplace over the last few weeks and that I enjoyed more than I probably should – I asked, “And what did you do today?”
I never realized how busy someone could be whose only job – in my mind – was writing a blog.
But I was wrong.
Sookie always had something go on that was work related and, despite the reasons why we’d even met to begin with, I still got a kick out of hearing her longwinded rants about whomever happened to be in her Undateable crosshairs.
That was usually when Sailor Sookie made an appearance.
“For some crazy reason, the almighty they want to turn Undateable into – I don’t know – a coffee table book?”
She’d answered in a way that I could actually see her nose scrunching up, like she smelled something bad.
It was cute enough to make me wish she’d Skyped me instead.
Without waiting for any response from me, she went on to say, “I mean, given what it is, they should really do some market research because it would probably do better as a flip-cards book. I say laminate those bitches and then restaurants could hang them up in their restrooms next to the signs telling employees to wash their hands. That way anyone out on a date could run to the bathroom and flip through the stack to see if their date is in there before wasting a whole night for nothing.”
I couldn’t help chuckling at the image she’d painted, which was why she had the time to go on and say, “But to answer your question, I hopped on a plane so I can meet with the publishing house tomorrow.”
“So, where are you at?” I asked, idly musing that it was better her trip was now, when I was already out of town.
I refused to think about why that was better.
After a small pause, she sounded like she was admitting state secrets when she softly replied, “L.A.”
“You’re in Los Angeles?” I may or may not have yelled.
But I could’ve picked her up at the airport!
I could’ve taken her to her hotel!
I could’ve offered her a place to stay with me!
And those thoughts had me most definitely yelling, when I asked, “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
“Because I can’t hold my phone to my ear and use my vibrator at the same time!” she yelled back.
Her laughter broke through before she’d even finished her sentence. I, however, made no sound whatsoever because my tunnel vision of that mental image caused my throat to close in on itself too.
Probably because every fluid in my body was currently south of my waist.
Sounding nonplussed, like she hadn’t just thrown down a gauntlet that would ultimately end with me in her, she went on to add, “I also can’t pat the top of my head and rub circles on my stomach at the same time. And it really pisses me off. I hate to fail. At anything.”
I had no idea of how many choruses of, “Hello? Anyone there? Bueller? Bueller?” from her came to pass before I finally found my voice again and only said, “You are a cruel, cruel woman.”
“Daww…” she crooned. “It’s like the first time we met all over again! Nobody told me it was Mulligan Day. Where’s Hallmark when you need them?”
Where was she, when – yes, I could admit to at least myself – for some inexplicable reason, I needed her.
I’d already been missing her, but knowing she was in the same city caused that feeling to grow like a wildfire.
So my calm tone was complete and total bullshit when I asked, “Where are you?”
“Do we ever really know where we are?” she asked in return. “What our purpose is in this vast universe of ours?”
“Speaking of universes and the like,” she went on, completely ignoring me. “I could really go for a Milky Way bar. A girl’s gotta eat.”
My unintentional growl of her name was met with an innocent, “Eric?”
“Where. Are. You?”
“Scooby doobie doo, where are you? You’ve got some work to do now…”
I could only shake my head with a small smile at her caterwauling.
Her singing was atrocious.
And that was being nice.
“Tell me where you’re at and I’ll take you out to dinner,” I offered, knowing she was serious when it came to eating.
I nearly lost a hand when I stole a few of her fries the last time we hung out.
“Are you finally asking me out for a second date or are we just hanging out?” she asked, sounding a little suspicious.
I didn’t know if it was because it had been a month since our last – and only – official date, but that didn’t stop me from answering, “Hanging out.”
My reply had been immediate, probably because I was still worried about that pesky date-face making an appearance.
That and the longer I drew out the dates, the longer I had a legitimate excuse to keep in touch with her.
“Oh thank God,” she laughed, sounding relieved. “Because I’m starving and date-me can’t pig out with date-you. But hang-out-me is going to eat hang-out-you under the table.”
And then her voice took on a foreboding tone when she ended with, “To hell with PETA. You’re taking me to a steakhouse. I’m wearing sweats. You have been warned.”
Laughing, I almost warned her that she should watch her words because I tended to only hear the ones I wanted to.
And they had me eating her under the table.
“Sooo fuuulll…” she moaned and rubbed her stomach before letting her hands drop unceremoniously at her sides. “It’s a good thing I did wear sweats, now that I have the meat sweats.”
“I wonder why,” I chuckled and then moaned too.
My stomach full of steak hadn’t appreciated the added movement, from my amusement.
After we’d polished off our thirty-two ounce ribeye steaks, we’d ended up back at my house. I’d wanted to show her where I lived anyway, but the deciding factor in going there was the added benefit of being able to park so close to the front door.
We didn’t have to roll ourselves very far to reach my couch.
“I can’t believe I didn’t have any room left to finish my potatoes,” she whined. “I love potatoes.”
“I can’t believe you’re whining about potatoes instead of thanking all that is holy you didn’t explode like one of those dumbass vampires on that HBO show, from everything else you managed to find room for,” I smiled.
She ate like a sumo wrestler.
It was impressive.
“That show got on my nerves,” she grumbled. “Too many storylines I didn’t care anything about and not enough naked Viking vampire. In the end, I just fast forwarded to the bits with him and kept the TV on mute, so I could make up my own dialog in my head. Doing it my way, he ended up with the girl in the end.”
And then letting her head flop towards me, her eyes narrowed while she growled out, “As he should have.”
“He wasn’t even on your list,” I chuckled and then added, “And you realize you’re getting all worked up over a fictional character, right?”
Shrugging her shoulders, she sounded completely unapologetic when she said, “He doesn’t need to be on my list if I’m going to marry him. And besides, I told you I’m opinionated, right?”
Seeing the firestorm brewing behind her eyes – and wondering if I should be jealous of her impending nuptials to a fictional Viking vampire – I figured I probably didn’t want to know the answer to that question and thought now was a good time to change the subject.
So I went with, “What time is your meeting tomorrow?”
It was already going on eleven o’clock, so I knew I should get her back to her hotel soon. But the thought of getting off of the couch felt like the equivalent of climbing Mount Everest.
Which was very similar to what my distended gut looked like at the moment.
“Ten,” she whined out. “But I don’t know if that’ll give me enough time for the meat sweats to go away.”
Her nose scrunched up in that cute way again before she sighed out, “Maybe it’ll rain and no one will notice.”
Laughing, I informed her, “This is L.A. It rarely rains.”
“Well, fuck,” she pouted.
I might have kissed her right then, if I could’ve found the fortitude to climb Mount Everest.
But we were both shit out of luck on that front.
So my reply had nothing to do with sunny L.A. when I agreed, “Fuck, indeed.”
It had more to do with how great I suspected that kiss would be put up against how high Mount Everest was in correlation to how out of shape I felt at the moment.
And thinking of climbing anything – Sookie or mountains – I looked over at her and hesitantly offered, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think you should stay here for the night.”
Not that I wouldn’t have loved for her to take it the wrong way and agree that it was in fact the right way.
That I could fuck her six ways from Sunday.
But she wasn’t the only one feeling the meat sweats, so at her raised brow, I explained, “Unless you feel up to rolling yourself off of the couch, out the door, and into my car. And then doing it all over again – in reverse – when we get back to your hotel.”
Her eyes went wide with my explanation and she nodded, “I see your point.”
“There’re lots of bedrooms,” I offered and swung my hand in their general direction. “That way.”
I didn’t want to assume she would want to sleep in my bed with me.
But I wouldn’t have turned her down if she asked.
After another beat of silence, I tried to tip the scales towards her agreeing to stay, by reassuring her with, “I’ll get you back in time for you to get ready for your meeting in the morning.”
“Okay,” she yawned. “It’s a good thing my laziness worked out in my favor for once. I didn’t unpack, so I won’t have to do much before I check out of the hotel.”
That got my attention and brought to my attention that we hadn’t discussed how long she’d be staying in town.
It was enough for me to somehow manage to push myself up out of my slouch, as I asked, “You’re flying back tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” she nodded, looking at me with a weird expression. “Why do you look so surprised? I only flew out here for the meeting.”
“But tomorrow is Friday,” I said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Because it was.
Calendars everywhere knew it was, so why didn’t she?
Nodding at my words, she again began talking like I rode the little bus to school and said, “And then the next day will be Saturday. Followed by Sunday. I might be a natural blond, but it’s a pattern I learned a long time ago.”
“But you don’t work on the weekends,” I argued back. “Why not stay until Sunday?”
Her expression softened before she admitted, “Eric, you’re the only person I know in L.A. You have a life here and things to do. In fact, all you’ve been doing lately is bitching about all of the things you have going on, so I know you’re busy. Why would I have made plans to stay?”
Well, when she said it like that…
I decided to give her plans, by challenging, “You’ll stay because we have a second date to go on.”
“Oh, we do, do we?” she smiled. And at my nod in the affirmative, she patted her stomach and sighed, “Well then, I guess it’s a good thing I ate enough to tide me over for a week. Date-me can get away with only ordering a salad.”
“Who says we’re going to dinner?” I asked, not knowing what we’d be doing.
But it didn’t really matter to me, as long as she stayed.
“So then,” she eyed me suspiciously. “What are we doing?”
“You’ll just have to wait and see,” I taunted back. But in reality I couldn’t tell her because I hadn’t thought that far ahead yet.
I had no idea what we would be doing.
“Alrighty then,” she lazily offered before pushing herself to her feet.
Watching her shuffle her way back towards the foyer – the opposite direction of where my waving hand had indicated the bedrooms were – I asked, “Where’re you going?”
“Bathroom,” she called out over her shoulder. “I hope you have air freshener and reading material in there. I might be a while.”
“What?” I laughed out and regretted it immediately when my stomach protested.
“What?” she repeated back to me unapologetically. And at whatever expression she saw on my face, she explained, “I’m going to guess the other girls you spent time with pulled the wool over your eyes, so I’m gonna let you in on a little secret. Girls poop too. The only difference is ours is rainbow colored and comes out with little unicorn-shaped cupcake toppers made of sugar. Unless, of course, we ate corn.”
I couldn’t be sure if the tears leaking from my eyes were from my barking laughter or from how much my barking laughter hurt my stuffed-to-capacity gut.
She just kept making her way towards the bathroom, like our conversation was the most normal thing in the world, and offered, “Don’t worry though. Date-me never drops a deuce when I’m out on a date.”
But, when she finally disappeared into the bathroom and my laughter died away, I realized that wasn’t what I was worried about.
My growing feelings for her though…
They had the potential to scare the shit out of me.
Finally leaving the studio, I climbed into my car and pulled out my phone to call Sookie. While we’d ended up sleeping together on the couch the night before, that’s all we did.
Literally, sleeping the night away.
But it had been nice to wake up next to her. I was still scared shitless about the things I was feeling for her, but when I tried to imagine pushing her away – keeping her out of my life and staying out of hers – that feeling was a lot worse.
And since I was still in the habit of looking out for my best interests, I knew that included staying in Sookie’s life and keeping her in mine.
We could figure out the rest as we went along.
It was already going on five o’clock and I figured her meeting would be done and over with by then, so I didn’t hesitate to pull up her number and hit send, fully expecting the question out of left field she would ask when she picked up.
But instead I got a distressed, “Eric?”
Even if we hadn’t already established a pattern to our calls, I would’ve known something was up the moment I heard her voice.
It sounded like she’d been crying.
Thinking the deal with the potential book had fallen through, I came to wish that had been the case when I heard her say, “It’s my Gran. She had a heart attack. I’m at the airport now, trying to get a flight to Shreveport, but they’re all booked. When in the hell did Shreveport become the be-all end-all destination?”
She was sobbing by the end of her mini rant and my chest clenched, wishing I was there with her.
And I knew in the next second that I would be.
But first there was something else I had to take care of.
Seeing her hands shake, I batted them away to clasp the seatbelt for her before lacing my fingers through hers and softly said, “It’ll be okay.”
Nodding, with a vacant look in her eyes, she weakly offered, “I hope you’re right.”
I could tell she was trying to shore up her nerves – preparing for the worst and hoping for the best – while she let her eyes roam, taking in the rest of our surroundings.
Then giving my hand a gentle squeeze, her eyes met mine again and she gave me a small grateful smile, saying, “I can’t believe you did this, but thank you.”
“It’s nothing, Sookie,” I smiled sadly back at her. “I’m just happy there was something I could do.”
As soon as I’d found out what terminal Sookie was in and told her I was on my way, I didn’t give her the chance to argue with me before I hung up the phone. Calling the head of my record label next, I explained what was going on and the favor I needed, and thankfully he didn’t hesitate to offer the use of their private jet.
And if he had hesitated, I would have just chartered one.
I was getting Sookie to her grandmother’s side, come hell or high water.
“It’s not nothing,” she argued back softly. More tears filled her eyes when she went on to say, “But I’m not just talking about the plane.”
Swallowing hard, she looked into my eyes and offered in a small sincere voice, “Thank you for coming with me.”
“I’d go with you anywhere.”
The words fell through my lips without thought, but as soon as I’d heard myself say them, I knew they were true.
And it was both sweet and bittersweet when that was what led to the first time she kissed me.
We’d been back for a week. The funeral had been on a Tuesday, but worse than that, Sookie hadn’t made it there in time to say goodbye to her Gran.
That fact nearly broke her.
And watching her go through it nearly broke me.
I stayed to help her in any way I could and at the end of it all, we’d flown back together. But it had been at her insistence that I go back to L.A. to finish up what I’d put on hold to be with her.
It had been tougher than I’d expected to leave her, but she’d assured me over and over again that she would be fine. She’d said she needed to try and find her ‘new normal’ now that the woman who’d raised her was gone.
She’d said it with tears leaking from her eyes.
That only made it more difficult for me to leave.
But I returned to L.A. like a man possessed. I wanted to get everything done and over with, as quickly as possible, so I could get back to her side.
I no longer cared about being on her website.
I didn’t give a shit about our arrangement.
In fact, I hadn’t even thought about it since that night on my couch – that felt like eons ago – with stomachs full of steak, when I’d attempted to keep her in L.A. for the weekend by offering her that second date.
Which was why I’d been so surprised seeing her newest post on her blog.
I know it’s been a while since you last heard from me, but a lot has been going on lately. Some of which you’ll get to read about as I tell you about my second date with Eric Northman.
It was completely unexpected in the best and worst of ways.
You see, he took me home so I could bury my Gran.
I was in L.A. a couple of weeks ago for a meeting about a possible book deal. But while I was there, I received a call informing me that my Gran – the woman who’d raised me – had had a heart attack. I couldn’t get a flight to Shreveport to save my life, but Eric…he got me there on a private jet.
It was faster than I’d even hoped to get there, but unfortunately it wasn’t in time to be at her side at the very end of her life.
But he’d undoubtedly saved what little was left of my sanity.
Because he’d gotten me there in time for her hand to still be warm when I held it for the last time.
Her features were still soft, looking like she was merely asleep, when I kissed her cheek one last time goodbye.
Her funeral was four days later and filled to capacity, with every person and every flower in a fifty mile radius in attendance.
And Eric was by my side every step of the way.
He might be a legitimate rock star, but during that time, he was just my rock.
I have no words that could adequately thank him for all that he did. All I have is my undying gratitude, a silly little blog that means nothing at all, and imaginary stars to hand out.
So, for all of that – for all that he did and for all that I’m coming to learn about who he is on the inside – my rock, the rock star, gets five out of five stars from me.
But I feel even that isn’t enough.
So I’m including another star. One fit for the man who held my hand and dried my tears, during the worst time of my life.
With Eric, I’m willing to share my Gran’s very own star now shining down on us from the heavens.
He certainly deserves no less.
Slowly but surely, Sookie was starting to come around to acting like herself again. There weren’t as many smiles as before and her playfulness wasn’t as prevalent as it had been prior to her Gran’s death, but she was getting there.
And I was willing to wait for as long as it took.
But because she wasn’t the only one who knew how to do a Google search, I knew her birthday was coming up. She hadn’t mentioned it, even in passing, so I didn’t know if it was something she celebrated or treated like any other day.
Either way, I wanted to be with her for it.
Which was why I used our third date as an excuse for us to go out.
Lately whenever we hung out, we tended to stay in, either at her place or mine. Which I liked because I got to know her better and at the same time, had her all to myself.
Not that we did anything more than just hanging out together, but the fact I was perfectly happy with that spoke volumes about the undeniable feeling that throbbed in my chest every time I saw her or even heard her voice.
Not that I’d given voice to it just yet.
But there wasn’t anything I could find that I didn’t like about her.
Well…maybe that wasn’t completely true.
If she never sang acapella again, it would be too soon.
Something I’d told her to her face, only for her to accuse me of being a vocal-snob.
To which I’d retorted that I was sure she’d have plenty to say about my blog, if I had one.
But knowing how much we both loved music – even if only one of us could earn an actual living singing – I knew of the perfect place to take her that night.
Walking into the bar together, she took in the room and when her eyes landed on the stage, she turned to me with an excited look, shouting, “Lip sync battles?”
Thanks to Jimmy Fallon, they had become the new karaoke night and bars all over the place were having ‘battles’ at least one night a week.
“Are you up for it?” I teased, knowing Sookie didn’t just eat like a sumo wrestler.
She fought like one too, no matter what was at stake.
I learned that the hard way over an innocent game of Monopoly.
Seeing the fire coming to life behind her eyes, I thought to fan the flames by adding in a condescending tone, “I mean, I would understand if you wanted to bow out. After all, I am a rock star.”
“Any other night of the week, that might be true,” she agreed. And then taking a step back to put her chest to chest with me, she looked up into my eyes and said, “But tonight you’ll just be my bitch.”
Running my hand down her arm, I eventually reached her own and shook it in a gentlemanly fashion, taunting her with, “May the best man win.”
“Woman,” she snarled back, while trying to crush my hand in hers.
I would have told her how adorable that was if I hadn’t been afraid she would kick me in the balls.
I was hoping I might need them later on.
But rather than thinking about them and all of the things they – we – wanted to do both to and with Sookie, I found us a table off to the side. We’d gotten a few looks of recognition when we first walked in, but so far we’d been left alone.
A byproduct of her post about our second date had been a newfound interest in both of us by the paparazzi.
They weren’t chasing us like Princess Diana or anything, but they were there…lurking.
It was a big reason why we’d started hanging out in private.
But tonight was her night and I would be damned if we spent it on the couch, arguing over the outrageous price of landing on Park Place when I had two hotels on it.
Let them take their pictures. I didn’t care.
I was proud to be seen with her and had even left my trusty black ball cap at home.
But knowing where we were going ahead of time, I did have something else on me that wouldn’t be revealed until the right time.
We watched several rounds of the battles, laughing our asses off at the people who’d braved going on stage.
After an hour or so – and with enough liquid courage flowing through our veins that we’d need to take a cab when we left – I looked across the table at Sookie and asked, “Are you ready to give it a try?”
“Bring it on, bitch,” she taunted, standing up and marching toward the stage like it had pissed her off.
My eyes narrowed hearing the catcalls from the crowd, when they saw her walk onto the stage, but I kept my inner jealous bastard to myself.
He would ruin everything if I let him loose now.
Sookie jogged over to the DJ and leaned into his ear, I assumed telling him what song she wanted, and her lips spread into a wide knowing grin when he nodded.
Then walking over to the emcee and pointing at the mic in his hand, she asked, “May I?”
The bastard didn’t just nod or smile or hand it over to her.
This clown bowed down like he was Prince Fucking Charming and held out the microphone to her like it was the goddamn key to his castle.
But I had to quickly wipe the asshattery off of my face, when Sookie used her free hand to pat against her thigh, while she spoke into the mic, saying, “Here boy! Come on! It’ll be okay. Come here boy!”
Turning a now playful glare onto her, I obeyed her command like the whipped puppy she’d turned me into, by standing up and walking toward the stage.
I was tall.
And without my trusty black ball cap disguise, with its Clark-Kent-like powers of anonymity to hide who I was.
So it didn’t take long for the crowd to figure out who the dog was in her pony show and they were whooping up a storm by the time I made my way on stage.
Sookie just smiled even wider and pointed at the vacant chair on the stage, where the opponent was supposed to await their turn, saying, “Be a good boy and sit.”
Every smartphone in the place was being held up, recording the whole damn thing, but I couldn’t find it within me to care.
Seeing the smile on her face made it all worthwhile.
I thought I’d done well so far in making her birthday a happy one and didn’t start to second guess my choice of venue for the evening, until I heard the first notes of the song she’d chosen begin to play.
And then I knew I was screwed.
The white dress she was wearing – different from the Skanksgiving Day one, but just as sexy – was a fitting choice.
Now that she was reenacting the MTV music video awards version of Madonna’s Like a Virgin.
The crowd was eating it up faster than she could plow through a thirty-two ounce ribeye.
But she didn’t just limit her movements to the stage.
Oh, no…that would’ve been too kind.
No, the birthday vixen decided as long as I was on the stage with her, then I could be useful.
As the prop she used to rub her ass on – among other things – pretty much relegating me to fulfill the role of ‘pole’ in her stripper-without-stripping routine.
Completely unlike a virgin, I might add…
But if I didn’t know any better, I would have thought it was my birthday.
Any time I tried to touch her, she batted my hands away, before shaking her pointer finger at me, like I’d been a naughty schoolboy who’d been caught pulling pigtails.
She was turning me on so much that I tried to think about anything else to distract me.
I thought about what the inside of a cat hoarder’s house must smell like.
A gutted animal left rotting in the summer sun.
I thought about any and every thing that would keep me from having to go through my upcoming routine with a hard-on.
At least the way the crowd cheered her on at the end of the song gave me a few minutes to center myself – and adjust myself – before she handed the microphone to me and smiled, “Top that, bitch.”
Shaking my head – at both her trash talk and what I was about to do – I walked over to the DJ and told him what song I wanted to do.
Once he was done laughing, he nodded and then waited for me to give him the signal I was ready. With my back facing the crowd – and Sookie – I closed my eyes and pulled on every ounce of experience I had as a performer for the last seventeen years.
I would need all of it.
Then opening my eyes, I flicked them towards the DJ to let him know I was ready, just as I reached down and grabbed onto the hem of my t-shirt. Pulling it over my head in one fluid movement, I dropped it to the floor, with the props I’d brought along for the performance now on display.
And with the first beat of the song sounding a second later, I spun around towards Sookie.
I ignored the crowd.
I paid no mind to the way she nearly fell out of her seat from laughing so hard.
It was harder to ignore the ridiculously large silver crosses dangling around my neck – what with the way they were smacking against my bare chest with every choreographed move I made towards her – but I didn’t let it deter me.
Because – only for her – would I trade in my Rock Star for the night and own my inner rapper, for all the world to see, by throwing myself into my performance of 50 Cent’s, In Da Club.
I thought it was a good choice because not only was it her birthday, but she was a shorty too.
If I had to guess, I would say I was halfway through my performance when it must have dawned on her.
What I knew about what day it was and why I’d chosen that song.
And by the end of it, she wasn’t laughing anymore. Instead she looked awed.
But she did appear to have to hold in a snort when I bade the crowd goodnight, with a shouted out, “Peace!” before I dropped the mic to the floor.
And then I nearly dropped to the floor with it when my knees went weak, because she used the chains around my neck to pull me down so she could kiss me.
It wasn’t sweet.
Nor was it bittersweet.
It was weeks of pent up sexual tension colliding with the undeniable chemistry between us and I let it consume me.
I didn’t give any thought to where we were.
On a stage.
Under a literal spotlight.
Something that became blaringly obvious by the roar of the crowd reaching decibels that overtook the sound of blood rushing through my ears.
And I knew exactly where that same blood was headed to.
My jeans were getting uncomfortably tight.
Forcing myself to pull away from her lips, I kept my arm around her, while the emcee tried to pretend either one of us gave an actual fuck as to who’d won the lip sync battle.
Turned out I was wrong.
Sookie apparently gave a huge fuck, given her Rocky-Balboa-reaching-the-top-of-the-steps-jumping-up-and-down-with-her-hands-in-the-air when it was announced she’d won the battle.
I just smiled because that wasn’t the only huge fuck she’d be getting if I had my way.
As soon as she had her dollar store plastic medal prize hanging around her neck, I threw my shirt back on and pulled her out of the bar, throwing her into the first taxi that pulled up to the curb.
The only words spoken were when she gave the cab driver her address and then we were all over each other.
The ride to her place took way too long and was over way too soon at the same time, but I threw who knows how much money at the driver before chasing her inside the building. I’d made the trek to her apartment enough times that it no longer winded me, but literally running up the stairs was enough to make me slow down.
By the time I reached Sookie’s door, she already had the key in the lock, but instead of throwing the door open, she threw herself at me and kissed me for all she was worth.
So I didn’t understand what in the hell was going on when she pulled away and shoved me into the opposite wall, darting into her apartment and just as the door closed, I could hear her say, “Thanks for the date! I had a great time, goodnight!”
In the time it took for me to form that fragmented thought, the door whipped back open and she stared back at me with a wild-eyed look on her face, asking in panted breaths, “Wanna hang out?”
Growling out loud, I stalked through her door, answering, “You bet your ass I do.”
Kicking it shut behind me, I plowed right into her and didn’t waste any time by picking her up and carrying her straight into her bedroom.
Her deft hands somehow managed to pull my shirt over the top of my head at the same time I dropped her onto her bed. Since she’d lost a shoe somewhere along the way, I pulled the other one from her foot and tossed it aside, before crawling on top of her.
Now that I’d finally kissed her, I didn’t think I could ever get enough and went right back to doing just that. At the same time, our hands kept running into each other’s, traffic jamming the other’s attempts at doing the exact same thing.
Getting the other one naked.
“Boots,” she mumbled into my mouth.
Was she calling out for a cat I didn’t know she had?
Warning me about a cat I didn’t know she had?
Hinting to me about a cat she didn’t have but wanted for her birthday?
I’d gotten her a present. Something small and silly, but it wasn’t a cat.
Or even a kitten.
“Boots,” she growled, alerting me to what she actually meant by using her bare feet to push against the boots still on mine.
Toeing them off, her hands had already managed to get my jeans open but she then used her feet to get them down my legs.
Her hands were too busy trying to make me embarrass myself.
Prematurely, if you will.
Sitting up on my knees to pull myself out of her grasp, I couldn’t go very far when my 50 Cent bling got tangled up with her hard won plastic medal. It felt like I probably lost a patch of hair from the way I ripped the chains over my head and let them fall to the wayside, not caring at the moment it left Sookie looking like a Mr. Robinson’s Neighborhood decorated Christmas tree.
I only cared about ridding her of the dress she was still wearing.
The one she must have had sewn onto her fucking body…
“How in the fuck does this thing come off?” I growled, not finding a zipper, a button, or a hook to give me a clue.
“Oh my god,” she laughed. “Maybe I gave you more grief than you deserved by declaring you undateable.”
Then sitting up herself, she grabbed the hem of her dress and simply pulled it over her head.
“Elastic,” I’m pretty sure I heard her explain, but I couldn’t look up to be sure.
My pinballs were locked onto two NASA-grade super magnets.
But I was sure she only got out one chorus of, “Hello? Anyone there? Bueller?” before I gave her a reason to say other things.
Things like, “Oh,” “Yes,” and, “Right there.”
I wanted to take my time.
To learn every inch of her body and all of the things I could make it do, but…later.
I swore to myself I’d do it later.
I looked forward to it even.
For now though, I needed her like I needed air. My dry spell had begun the day I’d first appeared on her website, marked as undateable.
By my rough calculations, that was approximately…a thousand years ago.
At least it felt like it.
So after I made sure she came at least once around my fingers, I went to move off of her to find my jeans to retrieve the condoms I just so happened to have in my pocket.
Condoms I just so happened to carry with me every time I knew I’d be seeing Sookie.
Wishful thinking, I supposed.
But before I could get very far, she pulled me back towards her and whined, “Where in the hell do you think you’re going? We’re not done yet!”
I couldn’t help chuckling at the look of horror on her face, so I kissed her – sweetly that time – and said, “I’m going as far as my pants pocket to get the condoms I brought with me.”
“I’m on birth control,” she admitted, suddenly looking shy. “I mean, if you want to use them, then go ahead. But I’m clean and we’re protected.”
I couldn’t help it.
Hearing she was on birth control, my first thought should have been something along the lines of, ‘Woo hoo!’
A fist pump soon followed by me, pumping myself in and out of her.
Something – anything – other than where my mind strayed to.
Why was she on birth control when we hadn’t even come close to having sex until now?
And reminding me of her sometimes telepathy, she trailed her fingers down the side of my face until my eyes met hers to say, “I went and got a Depo-Provera shot after we got back from Louisiana.”
Then the corners of her lips quirked up as she admitted, “What else could I do? I already knew I was done for.”
Feeling a ridiculous amount of relief from her explanation, I settled my body back on top of hers and kissed her silly before pulling back enough to say, “I was done for long before then.”
It was the god’s honest truth.
It wasn’t love at first sight.
Hell, it wasn’t much more than a cautious awareness of her after that first fateful date, but over time it grew to be more.
So much more…
But not wanting her to think my next words were spoken out of a sex-fueled haze, I held onto the sides of her face and stared into her eyes, admitting, “I love you Sookie.”
“So done for,” she whispered, smiling through teary eyes, and then pulling my lips down to hers, she said, “I love you too.”
That kiss put the others to shame, but it also managed to reignite the fire that had been idly burning in the background.
Or – more like – poured gasoline onto it.
My hands moved all over her body, not wanting to leave any spot they touched and yet not wanting to leave any spot of her untouched. But all it took was a subtle shift of her hips for me to slide into a spot that was – as yet – untouched by that part of me.
Hooking her legs around my hips, she lifted her body and at the same time pleaded, “Please, don’t make me wait any longer.”
Making her wait?
If I hadn’t already begun to push into her, I was sure I would’ve argued the point, but the heat of that moment was lost.
Somewhere in the depths of a blond she-devil, who somehow managed to become my whole entire world.
More time was lost somewhere between her bed, her shower, and a particularly inspired and perfectly situated kitchen countertop.
It was the perfect height.
So I was thrown off by the sight of the pre-dawn light coming through her windows and huffed, “Shit.”
“There’s air freshener and magazines in there,” she yawned into her pillow. “Or if you’re up for it, a Sudoku puzzle book.”
“Not that,” I sighed, unable to keep my lips from smiling. “But it’s already morning.”
Turning to face me, her hair fell in absurdly sexy ways around her head, and she smiled with her question of, “Are you testing me and my what-comes-next pattern solving ways, now that you know for sure I’m a natural blond?”
“No,” I smiled back at her. But it turned into a frown when I admitted, “I forgot to say it earlier when it would count, but Happy Birthday, Sookie.”
“You said three other words that meant a whole lot more,” she smiled softly and then grinned evilly when she added, “But…I do still have to write about our date from last night, so hopefully I won’t have any hard feelings later on.”
“I’ll give you something hard to feel,” I grumbled, wrapping my body around hers.
And now that I had her trapped, I grinned just as evilly as she had and warned, “Besides, I doubt you’ll be the first one to post anything about our date from last night.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, sounding confused.
So I repeated her words of, “What do you mean, what do I mean?” And seeing the genuine bewilderment in her eyes, I asked, “Did you not notice the sea of smartphones aimed our way last night?”
It had looked like an army of iPhones had descended on the bar.
“No!” she shouted.
But the way she’d said it sounded more like a, ‘no way’ than a real ‘no’.
Flapping her arms like a chicken with aspirations of taking flight, I only realized she’d been patting the bed in search of a phone when mine appeared in her hand a moment later.
And the simple fact she knew the passcode to open the screen should have told her long ago that I loved her.
Her fingers were busy tapping away before she held out the phone, with her face scrunched up in that adorable way again, saying, “Ooohhh…nooooo…”
Moving so I could see the screen with her, it would seem I’d unintentionally given her the Eric Northman Experience after all.
The real one.
Not the one she’d imagined all of those months ago.
But rather than tell her that, I only kissed the top of her head and said, “Oh yes.”
So I know it’s probably NOT news to you all that Eric and I had our third date.
But if you missed out on the 24-hour news cycles, just go to YouTube and type into the search bar, “Eric and Sookie’s Epic Lip Sync Battle.”
At least I won, so the humiliation isn’t AS bad.
However the after party made it totally worth it. If only I could tell you about it…
But I made a promise to keep my trap shut and I intend to keep it.
So, for those of you still keeping score, Date Three gets a THOUSAND stars.
The after party was THAT great.
And it’s not even because of what your dirty little gutter minds are thinking right now, which only makes it better.
Now, to quote my date…
Things with Sookie were going great.
Better than great, actually.
It had been four months since her birthday. Four months where I spent a lot of that time learning every inch of her body and all of the things I could make it do.
But more than just the phenomenal sex, everything about her felt like home to me. She was my first thought when I woke up and my last before I fell asleep.
And while we still had two more ‘dates’ to go – only because Sookie had some insane OCD-like personality trait that made her batshit crazy at the thought of not finishing something – I no longer felt like our future hung in the balance because of them.
We were in love. Plain and simple.
But getting the email from my manager, reminding me of yet another commitment made months earlier – back when I still didn’t know who or what a Sookie was – I felt the internal flinch, seeing what it was.
Performing at the annual Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show.
And it had been no secret that I’d been with more than my fair share of the models.
But that had been ages ago, back when I was still J-fucking-Crew casual about who I spent my time with.
Now I spent all of my free time with Sookie. And when my job forced me away from her side, then we made do with phone calls, texting, and – finally – Skyping one another.
I didn’t think I’d given her any reason to do any ‘exhaustive Google searches’ on me in the time since we’d been together, which – really – had begun the moment I’d walked into her office on that fateful day. She never acted suspicious about my whereabouts. Never questioned what I was doing or who I was with, whenever I wasn’t at her side.
But still, I couldn’t help feeling like that would all blow up in my face if I followed through with performing at that particular show. She was already feeling melancholy because we were coming up on the holiday season.
Her first one without her Gran.
The last thing I wanted to do was add onto her pile of misery, but I didn’t know what the right thing to do here was.
Invite her to go with me, thereby having her see – and possibly be confronted by – a few of the women I’d been with in my past.
Or not invite her to go along and thereby possibly having her wonder if my non-invitation was from ulterior – and nefarious – motives because there would be numerous women there from my past.
Making this decision felt like it had our relationship hanging in the balance.
So I took the chicken-shit route by asking her to be my ‘date’ for the show.
Date-me being at her side would surely let her know that I had no intention of doing anything that could possibly incur her wrath.
At least, I hoped so.
“Are you nervous?” she asked with a smile, bouncing on the balls of her feet backstage.
She’d happily accepted my invitation to be my date to the show and had yet to show any signs that the nearly naked lingerie models wandering around us were getting to her.
Believe me. I was on guard for it to happen.
But that was where my nervousness stemmed from and knowing she meant about my performance, I smiled back at her and answered honestly, “No. I don’t get nervous anymore. It’s more like a buildup of anticipation.”
“Oh,” she grinned with a nod. “I get that same thing when you start stripping.”
“You don’t say,” I let out in a low voice, slowly stalking towards her.
“I do say,” she smiled, with her eyes glazing over with that ‘fuck-me’ look.
I loved that look on her.
But before either one of us could follow through on that thought, one of the models brushed passed me and the accented, “Excuse me,” told me exactly who it was, without needing to look.
My eyes closed of their own volition, knowing a can of worms opening when I heard one.
That was me.
And not in a good way.
So once I’d made a mental trip to the Land of Oz and got a truckload of courage, I opened my eyes to see Sookie’s head turned towards the direction where Yvetta was headed.
That didn’t help to ease my nerves in the least, so I was shocked when she turned back to me and whispered, “Hey, didn’t you used to fuck her?”
But instead of sounding accusatory, she’d said it in a gossipy sort of way and at my didn’t-want-to-but-it-had-to-be-done single nod of affirmation, she shook her head and snickered out, “I’m surprised you didn’t break her in half.”
With what was surely my what-the-fuck look – as in, what-the-fuck, why aren’t you yelling at me for having fucked someone else before I even met you – and not what-the-fuck do you mean – she leaned in and answered the latter by whispering, “You are a beast in the sack. I can’t believe she even has the stamina to remain upright.”
And God only knows what expression I wore next when she went on to giggle out, “No wonder you didn’t know girls poop. They have to eat something to make that happen. I’m all for fucking like rabbits, but I sure as hell wouldn’t want to eat like one.”
Watching her laugh, like she didn’t have a care in the world, surrounded by beautiful models – some of whom I’d bedded – while looking back at me without a single ounce of mistrust in her eyes, I suddenly knew what I wanted to do on our fifth and final date.
But it would take some planning.
And I sure as hell wouldn’t be able to spring it on her.
Before I give you the details of my fifth and final date with Eric Northman, I have a few business matters to get out of the way.
This will be my final post. I’m handing over the reins of running the website into the capable – although, Undateable – hands of my right-hand-gal, Amelia Broadway. She’s been with me from practically the beginning.
In fact, we met because it was Amelia herself who happily outed herself as being Undateable. And the rest, as they say, is history.
I have no doubt she will do this blog justice and continue to regale you with snappy warnings of who to be on the lookout for, while out in the dating scene.
Now, with that out of the way, I can tell you about my last date with Eric Northman.
What can I say?
It was absolutely perfect.
There was a walk on a beach at sunset.
There was soft music playing in the background and we wore fancy clothes.
We even shared a kiss and a dance.
In fact, there aren’t enough stars in the sky to give him proper credit for how well our last date went.
But despite all of that – well, more like BECAUSE of that – I have no choice but to firmly – resolutely – declare Eric Northman is Undateable forever more.
And I couldn’t be happier about it.
I’ll see you on the flipside,