The Matchmaker's Replacement by Rachel Van Dyken
Gabi: Last night I had a dream you choked on a girl’s tongue and asphyxiated.
Asshole Lex: Not the worst way to die.
Gabi: The girl ended up being a dude.
Asshole Lex: Tits are tits.
Gabi: I’ll put that on your gravestone.
He didn’t text back. With a growl of frustration, I shoved my phone back into my pocket and tore into the first bag of Pirate’s Booty, nearly biting my tongue in excitement as the cheese puffs filled my mouth.
Just when I was on my second, maybe third, handful of pirate goodness, my phone buzzed. Mouth full of Booty, I crunched down, nearly biting my tongue, then licked my fingers and pulled out the phone.
BFF Ian: So Lex is into dudes now?
I rolled my eyes.
Gabi: On a scale of one to ten, ten being so irritating I want to reach inside his chest cavity and squeeze his heart with my cheese covered hands, he’s an eleven. And is it really all that shocking? That he can play both sides and still score?
BFF Ian: No. Not surprising. I’d be more surprised if he struck out.
The cheese was starting to leave a metallic dry taste in my mouth. I swallowed and fired back another text as my stomach settled with fullness.
Gabi: Thanks for the food.
BFF Ian: ???
I frowned.
Gabi: The food basket? With a card that said it was from Spider-Man? But hotter?
BFF Ian: Spider-Man’s a child. Superman’s a man, ergo, man in his name. May as well be Spiderboy, piece of shit!
Gabi: Are we seriously having this conversation right now?
BFF Ian: The comics are better, I’ll give Spidey that.
Gabi: So it wasn’t you?
BFF Ian: I would never demean myself by pretending to be an inferior superhero whose only claim to fame is being bit by a harmless radioactive spider. Superman was born on another freaking planet . . . I rest my case.
Gabi: It’s too early for this.
BFF Ian: Spider-Man’s a little bitch.
Gabi: Alright then! Talk to you later, keep your cape on, the world isn’t out to get you. Ever think you take the whole Superman nickname a bit too . . . seriously?
BFF Ian: >>>>>
In Ian speak that basically meant we were on a time-out until he deemed me worthy of his forgiveness. I sighed and glanced back down at the basket. Maybe some chocolate wouldn’t hurt. I felt like I was hungry all the time, which was stupid. It wasn’t like I was homeless.
Just soon-to-be homeless.
My phone rang.
Seriously! Was the entire world up early?
“Lex, I swear I’m going to castrate you if you say one more thing about tits!”
The phone was silent, and then, “Mija?”
“Dad!” I choked. “Sorry, Lex has just been—”
“No need to explain.” He chuckled. “I’ve met him.”
My dad was the best. He knew me inside and out, which meant the last time Lex came to my house for Cinco de Mayo and I accidently confused him with the piñata, my dad was the one to hand me back the wooden bat and then twist me back toward him. He was a prankster like that.
Lex claims it didn’t hurt.
But I used to play softball, so . . .
“What’s up, Dad?”
He was quiet, and then, “Mija, we know it was you.”
I blinked back tears as my throat swelled with emotion, injustice, and—if I was being completely honest—a lot of anger. “And I tried to be so nonchalant about it.”
He laughed. “Yes, well, I recognized your handwriting. What did I tell you about giving us extra money?”
“You said I couldn’t drop out of school. You never once said I couldn’t help out,” I argued.
“Mija, you need to be able to live . . . We are just fine, I told you this.”
But I knew they weren’t fine, because last time I was home I saw the bills, and the envelopes that went with them, the ones with “Overdue” in angry red letters. Ever since my dad had been laid off a few months before, things had been tight. My mom tried to pick up extra shifts at the hospital, but it wasn’t enough. They lived near Seattle, for crying out loud; Bellevue wasn’t the cheapest place once the tech boom started, and it made me sick to think that at their age they might have to downsize and move.
My dad was looking for jobs, but it was hard. He was either too qualified or too old, though the hiring managers never actually came right out and said that.
He had his MBA but his company had gone under, and now he had all this education he couldn’t really use, not when he was competing with college graduates who would do the same job for less pay and with a more energetic approach.
With a heavy sigh, I focused on keeping in my tears. He’d sense my sadness, and that was the last thing he needed. “Dad, I got another job, so . . . what I’m giving you is my extra. I swear I’m okay!”
“There was food,” he said in a quiet voice. “You dropped off money and food, mija.”
I smiled through my tears. “Dropping off the makings for your favorite chili is hardly food.”
“It was delicious.” His voice was warm. It killed me that his pride was hurt because he felt he couldn’t provide.
“Mom made it, of course it was.”
“Thank you,” he whispered. “Come visit soon, bring Ian?”
“Yeah.” I licked my dry lips and glanced down at the basket. “Dad, how do you feel about chocolate?”
“Is this a trick question?”
I laughed. “No. I’ll drop some by later.”
“Love you, mi corazon.”
“You too, Papa.”
When the phone went dead, I wanted to crumple into a heap on the floor and cry. But I had a test to ace, a career to figure out, and a new job to say yes to.
With shaking hands I dialed the number with dread, and the man who picked up said a gruff hello.
“Yeah, this is Gabrielle Sava. I’m calling about the opening at the club?”
Chapter Nine
Lex
You’re late.” I didn’t glance up as Gabs plopped hurriedly onto the plush leather seat across from me, her sweet perfume floating into the air. Normally, perfume had a negative effect on all my senses, making me feel like I was about to get smothered by someone’s crazy aunt or grandma and then get my cheeks pinched until I bled. But everything was always different with Gabs. Always. The Matador had a dark, cave-like feel. Candles were suspended above each table and outlined most of the ceiling, giving the restaurant a very eerie but sensual atmosphere. It was the absolute last place I should take a girl like Gabi, because it made my mind think of things, and thinking of things just got me uncomfortable. And pissed.
“So?” she asked, sliding her hands across the table.
“You painted your nails.” They were bright pink, matching the natural pink of her lips that I refused to look at, not that I needed to. Her top lip was fuller than her bottom, and a large, pronounced bow that I’m sure most women would pay thousands for framed the top of her mouth, giving her the perfect pinup pout without her doing a damn thing. I’d had several vivid fantasies about that mouth, though they all ended with my death, mainly because Gabs reminded me of a black widow—mate, then kill. Ergo, me dying by her hand.
“So?” Gabi’s voice was strained. It was usually deep, with a soothing effect. “Where is he?”
Finally, I looked up from my drink, careful to keep my emotions indifferent as I took in her cherry-red lips, dark eyeliner, and flat-ironed hair, which was in her face. I hated when her hair was in her
“You wore makeup,” I said dumbly. Too much. I liked her natural, vulnerable. Today she wore a mask, one I didn’t approve of. My hand twitched for the napkin, ready to smear it off so I could see her—really see her. But doing that would just piss her off. Then again . . .
“Don’t.” Her eyes narrowed as she gripped my hand with hers. “Don’t you dare dip your napkin into the water and try to wipe anything off my face.”
“That transparent?” My hand tingled with awareness.
“Yes.”
“Well, damn.”
“Losing your touch, Lex Luthor?”
“In the comics he rarely loses his touch, simply alters his plans. Evil geniuses are like that. Thought you knew. Where one strategy fails . . .” I leaned forward and with my free hand brushed a bit of lipstick from her mouth with my thumb. Her lips parted as she drew a tiny breath.
It wasn’t an invitation, but damn, I wanted it to be.
What the hell were we doing?
I needed to put walls up again—fast. And not because I was afraid she’d see through my bullshit and save me from a lonely existence where I indulged in meaningless sex with too many women. Hell, put her in a firefighter’s costume and ring the siren. I just respected Ian too much, and, honestly, I respected her just as much, if not more.
A guy like me didn’t typically have a conscience or scruples, and friends were even more of a rarity—especially with the way I grew up. The last thing I could afford to lose was them.
A vision of my childhood came bulldozing into my consciousness. Fighting. My parents were always fighting. Over finances, over the house being messy, over having more kids. Thank God I was an only child, because I wasn’t sure I would have survived without punching my dad in the face for the way he probably would have treated a younger sibling.
In hindsight, both parents were equally responsible for my unruly behavior. I’d been so desperate for one of them to put down the research or step away from the computer and at least have a normal conversation with me that I was willing to do anything for attention—even the bad kind.
I lost my virginity at thirteen.
Who the hell does that?
A guy who really has no other options for human companionship. My parents were cold individuals who never should have had kids, considering they loved work more than family, and based on everything I’d seen on TV, that wasn’t how families worked. TV raised me; my parents simply lived with me.
A guy who girls were naturally drawn to because of his good looks and ability to smooth-talk anyone or anything. At the time, it had been this huge confidence boost. Girls wanted me, I wanted them. Period. I gained acceptance, and it felt good—until it stopped feeling good and just started feeling empty.
Until my parents, after finding me in bed with a girl that same year—in my bedroom, of all places, under their roof—simply ignored me more.
My dad gave me a condom the next day.
Some parents.
My behavior became increasingly self-destructive.
Until Ian.
Even after my family moved across town, Ian never stayed out of touch.
It was Ian who convinced me I should go to science camp that next year. Ian who made me think that there was more to the world than sleeping around.
At least now when I slept with women, I didn’t do it because I needed love—I did it because I enjoyed it. And because, for the most part, I knew that it made them feel good, and I knew that look, that empty feeling that sometimes disappeared when you were in someone’s arms, even if for just a few minutes.
“Le-e-exxxx . . .” Gabs drew out my name, jerking away from my touch and grabbing my half-empty drink and chugging the rest of it down.
I pried the cup from her hands and set it back on the table. “Relax, he’s a computer science major. The most important woman in his life is probably still his mom, okay?” My voice was shaking. Damn it! This was why I didn’t reflect on the past; it did nothing for me.
Gabs blinked dumbly. “Lex, you do realize that’s your major, right?”
“So?”
Her eyes widened. “Is this you fishing for compliments?”
“When have I ever had to fish for anything? Compliments? Women? Fish?”
“Right, I get it.” She stared longingly at my cup, and with a smirk I waved down the waiter and ordered drinks for both of us.
“Moscow Mules change lives.” I nodded seriously. “Now you know my secret.”
She snorted. “I highly doubt knowing something that impersonal about you is going to gain me entry into your Batcave, where you share your plans of world domination over a pillow fight.”
Our drinks arrived.
“First”—I slid her drink away—“never confuse a villain with a hero, it’s insulting.” She reached for the drink, but I held it back. “Second, I refuse to acknowledge Batman as a superhero. So what? He’s scared of bats, tough shit! Villains are scared of nothing.”
“Joker’s scared of Batman.”
“The Joker has a permanent smile on his face, he laughs in the face of bats. Batman cowers and then cries and then tries to conquer his fear. Mad props for going after what you’re afraid of, but put him up against Magneto, Dark Phoenix, Dr. Doom!” I slammed my hand against the table, while Gabs gave me a blank stare. “What?”
“Sometimes I forget how nerdy you are.”
“Physical perfection has a way of doing that.” I winked.
“Can I have my drink now?”
“Am I still Batman?”
“No.” She slinked her hand around mine and gave her cup a little tug. “You’re back to being the creepy, bald Lex Luthor.”
“Hair or no hair, I’d still get laid. Also, now that we’ve reached a shaky peace agreement of sorts, I’m totally down for penciling in that pillow fight.”
She pinched my forearm.
“Ouch!” I released her drink.
“Can I stuff my pillow with razors?”
“Girl wants me to bleed before sex?” I nodded. “Only if I’m allowed to keep my world domination plans to myself, you understand, just in case you injure me, drug me, steal the nuke codes, then sell them to Superman.”
“Ian wouldn’t know the first thing to do with those codes, and you know it.” She lifted her drink into the air and winked.
I burst out laughing and clinked my drink against hers. “That’s my girl.”
Her smile fell.
Shit.
“So.” Back to being nervous and shut down, Gabs tucked her hair behind her ears. “Where’s the nerd?”
“Open your eyes.” I cleared my throat. “He’s been sitting at the bar for the past twenty minutes, staring into his chocolate milk, filling it with his tears . . .”
Gabs rolled her eyes.
“Fine.” I reached into my briefcase and pulled out his folder. “As you know, each client takes my infamous matchmaker test to see if they’re compatible with their object of desire. We match them based on personality, background, majors, likes, dislikes—you get the picture. It’s like a really intense Myers-Briggs personality test—on crack. Once a client fills it out, I um”—I coughed—“research the other candidate, and then determine if a match is to be made. We like to see compatibility numbers over sixty percent.” I turned the page. “The next section discusses his background, hobbies, interests, where he spends his time.”
“And this?” Gabs pointed to the section labeled Sex.
“Sexual experience.”
“Oh.” She frowned. “It’s blank?
“Yes.” I nodded at the sad individual sitting at the bar. “Steve’s sexual experience was so vast, so detailed, that my printer broke.”
She looked at the guy again and scrunched up her nose. “He seems nice. Maybe he’s a freak in bed, you never know.”
“And by freak you mean he wants to talk about his feelings and goes ‘what are you thinking’ every five seconds?”
“Hey!” Gabs looked offended. “Nothing wrong with asking direct questions.”
“When someone asks ‘What are you thinking?’ what they’re really asking is ‘Are you thinking about me?’ Narcissism at its worst.”
Gabi’s face fell as if I’d just told her Santa and the Easter bunny got together and ate Nemo and the dog from Up.
I changed the subject. “Introduce yourself. Always keep Wingmen Inc. cards on you.” I gave her a stack of Wingmen Inc. cards with Ian’s Superman-style insignia on the front and our e-mail information on back. “Remember, this is the first meeting, so he can still say no. Be persuasive, make him feel good about you, this process, how you can help him, your knowledge, and you’ll be fine.”
“But—” Gabs paled. “I don’t know—”
“Off you go.” I smirked, ready for the train wreck to happen. She’d be completely lost without the playbook. She wasn’t cocky like Ian and me. She lacked the arrogance to make someone feel small one moment, only to make them feel like the most important person in the room the very next.
She’d see she needed me.
And I’d happily come to her rescue.
Because that’s what . . . Ian did.
What the hell? Not what I did.
I didn’t even want her working for us, damn it! What the hell was happening to me?
I was supposed to be training her.
That’s it.
So what happened when the training was over and she was by herself? With all the nerds? What happened when I didn’t have any more excuses to drive her insane?