Playboy For Hire

3. Ryder

3

RYDER

B ar Onze, on Eleventh Street in Logan Circle, was cute. A maroon awning, with scalloped edges worked in gold, spread out over spindly cafe tables and chairs on the sidewalk. Big glass windows on either side of the door were filled with gold filigree lettering in a Parisian-looking script announcing baked goods, coffee, and cocktails. Afternoon sunlight poured into the interior, washing it in an amber warmth.

The walls were wood worked in wainscotted panels up to waist-height, with gleaming white subway tiles above. A row of taps sat next to a polished espresso machine on the reclaimed wood bar. A shelf of wine bottles and liquor lined the wall behind the bar, and a glass case displayed sandwiches and little tarts. The miniature apple galette looked delicious, but I was watching my macros, so I opted for black coffee instead.

I brought the little porcelain cup and saucer over to a table in the corner, underneath a giant print of Duke Ellington, and sank into a delicate-looking Thonet chair. Then I pulled out my phone.

Quinn had picked Bar Onze. That was protocol. The client decided the location. That way they felt secure, and could control how likely they were to run into someone they knew. I could see why she’d chosen this place. It wasn’t crowded, but it wasn’t deserted at three p.m. either. No one would be close enough to hear our conversation, but the woman behind the bar and the smattering of other patrons kept it feeling safe.

I still didn’t know much about Quinn. Once I’d told Mason I could take the job, he’d passed on her phone number and the basics of her request: Grandparents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary this Friday, needed someone to pose as a boyfriend, would take whoever was available.

I tried not to be disappointed by that. Of course, I liked it when clients requested me specifically. I prided myself on looking good. It was my main asset in life, to be honest. But still, just because I’d been randomly assigned didn’t mean Quinn wouldn’t find me attractive once we met.

Not that I wanted her too interested. I didn’t need another Ashley situation.

I pulled out my phone and shot Quinn a quick text.

RYDER: Got here a little early. I’m the one in the navy suit in the corner.

I’d dressed with care for this meeting, like I did for everything. I wanted to look nice and professional. Didn’t want her thinking I was an amateur. Besides, I was the youngest person on Heartbreakers Anonymous’s payroll, and it never hurt to appear a little older when you first met someone.

I wondered what this Friday would involve. A fancy party with senators? An intimate event of just family members? How many other significant others would be there, and how detailed would our story have to be?

I actually enjoyed coming up with backstories and then selling them when I went out in public with a client. I liked sinking into characters. I also liked making people feel good, showing off the women who’d hired me to their best advantage. There were even a few clients who’d turned into friends over time.

While I was looking at my phone, an email came in from the business school job hunters group. It was a weekly email, with a long list of companies that were hiring, opportunities for networking, and tips on getting jobs. My heart sank, but I forced myself to open it anyway.

You’re a big boy, Ryder. Surely you can manage the very difficult task of opening an email and reading it.

It wasn’t like climbing Everest, but by the time I was halfway through the list of positions available, my heart was beating fast and my hands were clammy. I made myself keep scrolling, but my eyes skimmed over the words, not taking anything in. A fat drop of sweat fell from my forehead onto the screen at the end, and I threw my phone down on the table, sucking in huge gulps of air like I’d just run a marathon.

“Hey, are you Ryder?”

I looked up to see a guy standing a couple of feet away from me. Close enough that I should have noticed his approach. But I’d been so caught up in my email, I wouldn’t have noticed if a disco ball had dropped from the ceiling and the bartender had started roller skating to September by Earth, Wind & Fire.

The man was a little older than I was, and an inch taller, which was impressive, because I was six feet. He had close- cropped black hair, light-brown skin, a large birthmark on his right cheek, and round, tortoiseshell glasses that did nothing to obscure his piercing, dark gaze.

He was skinny, wearing a pale blue button-up shirt that I thought was probably from Banana Republic, and slim-legged khaki chinos. Together, we were a stock photo of ‘ businessmen in coffee shop .’ All we needed was for one of us to pull out an iPad so we could stare at it in mock surprise.

It dawned on me suddenly that the guy had said my name, and was staring at me, waiting for a response.

“Oh. Hey.” I started to wave, then let my hand fall, feeling stupid. “Yeah, that’s me.” I looked around the cafe, but no one else was coming to join us. “Did she send you here first to make sure I didn’t look like a murderer?”

The man blinked. “She?”

“Yeah.” I smiled, trying to put him at ease. He looked a little suspicious about me. “It’s totally cool. Happens all the time. I’d probably want to make sure I wasn’t a murderer either.”

Now he looked really confused. “Murderer?”

“Though I guess murderers probably don’t look all that different from non-murderers,” I continued. “The successful ones, anyway. But I still get wanting to do a vibe check.”

He just stared at me, as if I were speaking Mandarin.

“If she wants you to stick around for the meeting, that’s cool, too.”

Why was he looking at me like I’d confessed to being the second shooter in the JFK assassination? This wasn’t a good sign. If the guy thought I was weird, he’d probably tell Quinn, and she’d cancel the date. Which I didn’t care about emotionally, obviously, but I’d been looking forward to the additional cash.

“I’m sorry. You are Ryder, right?” The man’s brow furrowed.

“Yeah.” I cocked my head to the side. “Is Quinn not coming, or…”

“Oh, God.” The words came out in a whisper. The guy pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, then crossed his arms over his chest. “Oh, God, this is embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing?” I guess it was my turn to start repeating words.

He closed his eyes, his lips moving soundlessly, almost as if he were muttering a prayer. When he opened them, he said, “ I’m Quinn.”

I gaped. I didn’t understand what he was saying. I mean, I understood the words, but unless this guy was actually the butchest woman I’d ever seen, I didn’t know how to make sense of what he’d just said.

Quinn was a girl. I was sure she’d said so.

I held a finger up. “One second.”

I grabbed my phone, opened my texts, and scrolled through the short conversation Quinn and I had before I came here today. But nowhere had she—or, I supposed, he —mentioned his gender, and I’d never asked. I’d just assumed.

I looked back at Quinn, feeling like a complete idiot. I felt even worse when he spoke.

“Wow, okay. This is way more humiliating than showing up to the party on my own,” he said. “Which I didn’t actually think was possible, so, hey, that’s a fun surprise.”

“I’m so sorry—” I began, but Quinn kept talking.

“Well, this has been informative, but I think I’m going to go home and bury myself under a rock for the next ten thousand years, so, yeah. See you, uh, never, I guess.”

He turned to go, and before I knew what I was doing, I’d reached out and grabbed his hand.

“Wait!”

Quinn looked down at my hand on his. His skin was softer than I’d expected, his fingers long and thin. It felt no different from holding a woman’s hand. Nice, almost.

I shook my head. What the hell was I thinking? I needed to fix the current situation, not daydream about holding some hypothetical woman’s hand.

“Just—stay for a minute, please. I didn’t mean to react so weirdly.”

I prided myself on my ability to get along in any social situation. There was no reason for me to be this flabbergasted. And I hated making people feel bad.

I dropped his hand and motioned to the chair across from me, but he folded his arms again—protectively, I thought—and shook his head.

“No, it’s fine. I appreciate the offer, but there’s really no point if you can’t help me this Friday. I should have been more clear that I was gay in my inquiry, I guess.”

So he was gay. That was interesting. I supposed I should have assumed that, once he showed up. But still, it was interesting for him to confirm it.

Not that it mattered.

“I just didn’t think—well, anyway, that’s on me,” Quinn said. “So I’m going to go.”

“Who says I can’t help you this Friday?” I asked, before he could turn away again.

His eyes narrowed. “Well, you. From your reaction to me being a guy. You know, your website really ought to say that you guys don’t work with gay people. It would save a lot of time.”

“But we do,” I protested. “It’s just usually Amir or Raf who handles those clients, not me.”

I happened to live with both of them. But Raf was out of town right now on vacation, and Amir never worked Fridays unless it was a VIP client. Quinn frowned, and I hurried on.

“That doesn’t mean I couldn’t do it, though. In theory. Or in practice. This Friday. Or some other time, even. Sorry. I’m rambling. Please sit down? Let me buy you coffee at least, as an apology for the mix-up.”

Quinn gave me an assessing look, then nodded. “Okay. But I don’t have a lot of time.”

“That’s fine. Just tell me what you want, and I can get it for you.” I gave him my best lopsided, I’m-just-a-big-goofball smile. “That’s kind of my job anyway, right?”

As I waited for the bartender to make his order—an iced oat milk mocha with a shot of almond—I berated myself for being so awkward. If I wanted to salvage this meeting, I needed to be chill. Normal. Act like it was no big deal.

And it was no big deal, right? So Quinn was a guy. And gay. That was normal. And I could go on a date with a gay guy. It’s not like it mattered that I wasn’t gay and wasn’t interested. I wasn’t interested in my female clients either. I could totally do this.

I risked a glance over my shoulder. Quinn had pulled out his phone and was leaning over it, his shoulders hunched. It made him look even thinner. He was that ‘ I run twelve marathons a year for fun ’ kind of slender. I wondered if he really was a runner.

“Order up.” The bartender slid Quinn’s iced mocha across the bar with a smile. I thanked her, left another big tip, and walked back to the table, cool, calm, and totally collected.

“Here you go.” I set the drink next to Quinn’s elbow, then sat back down. When he looked up, I nodded at his phone. “Work stuff?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “I told them I was taking an hour off this afternoon, but you know how it is—that just means ten urgent emails will come in the moment you leave your desk.”

I did not, in fact, know how that was. My only other job experience was helping my dad out on the farm. Soccer had kept me busy each summer except the last one, and the internship I’d had then… Well, best not to think about that.

“Right.” I gave him my broad, easy-going, I-agree-with-whatever-you’re-saying-but-not-in-a-creepy-way smile. “Well, as long as you’re here, we might as well talk about Friday.”

“Oh, you really don’t have to do that,” Quinn said quickly. “I wouldn’t expect you to keep the appointment, under the circumstances.”

“No, it’s okay.” I had the strangest urge to put my hand on his in a reassuring gesture, but realized halfway there that was a terrible idea. I patted the tabletop awkwardly instead. “I might be straight, but I don’t mind.”

I didn’t. I was sure of that. It might take a minute to wrap my head around my client being a guy, but at the end of the day, it was still the same job.

“I won’t leave you a bad review or anything,” he said. “I get that it was just a mix-up. No hard feelings.”

“It’s not about the review,” I said, and I meant it.

First of all, Heartbreakers Anonymous didn’t have anywhere to leave a review, and even if we had, Dana and Mason were clear that we had the right to turn down any client for any reason. Sure, they wanted to maintain a reputation for professionalism, but that wasn’t what was driving me.

Quinn just looked so, well, helpless. Maybe it was the set of his shoulders, or something in his voice, but it was like he believed he had a permanent ‘ kick me ’ sign taped to his back. Like his world was a series of unending banana peels appearing in his path.

I barely knew the guy, but I didn’t want to be one more person who let him down.

“Honestly, I’d welcome the opportunity to broaden my horizons,” I said. “I’ve only worked with female clients up ‘til now, but having experience with more types of clients would actually be a help to me.”

Quinn’s nose wrinkled. “I’m sure you mean well, but I need a fake boyfriend, not just a random date. I need someone who can look comfortable around me. Not so freaked out that I’m a guy that he can’t even look at me without flinching.”

“Did I flinch?” I asked, not thrilled with how high my voice had just gone.

“Well, not literally, but—”

“If I did, I didn’t mean to,” I said, rushing on before he could finish. “It’s just, you startled me, is all. But I swear, I’m not bothered by the idea. I have gay friends. I’m not weird about it, I promise.”

Quinn frowned.

“I’ll give you a discount,” I said, sliding my hand even closer to his on the table. “Seven-fifty, instead of a thousand.

His frown deepened. “Are you serious?”

“Twenty-five percent off, you can’t ask for better than that.”

Even my math-challenged brain could figure out that percentage on the fly. I wasn’t actually sure I had the power to offer a discount, officially, but even if I had to give Quinn two hundred fifty bucks from my own pocket on Friday night, I didn’t mind.

“Come on, what do you say?”

“I say that sounds crazy. And that I’m still not sure this is a good idea. But I’ll also admit that I’m desperate, so… yeah, what the hell. It’s still probably better than showing up by myself.”

I laughed. “What a glowing recommendation.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“No, no, it’s fine. I’m just kidding. Honestly, I’ve heard worse.” Maybe not from potential dates, but from other people in my life? Way worse. “Anyway, now that you’ve agreed, let’s talk details. Tell me about your family, and what Friday night will be like.”

As Quinn talked, I took notes on my phone about each of his relatives, their names and descriptions, personalities and family history. I was especially interested in his parents, wondering if they were the ones putting pressure on him to bring a date. But weirdly, he seemed more uptight talking about his aunts, uncles, and cousins than he did about his nuclear family.

“And then there’s my great aunt, Althea,” he said. “Auntie Thea. She lives here in DC—one of my few relatives who still does—at a senior living facility. She’s almost eighty-four, and she uses a wheelchair, but she can move like an Olympic gymnast when she wants to, and she’s sharper than a—” he paused, searching for a word “—well, sharper than something very sharp, anyway.”

“A knife?” I suggested. “A rusty nail? The prow of an old shipwreck, preserved in the icy waters of the North Atlantic?”

“I think I was looking for tack . Are shipwrecks really that sharp?”

“They are if they’re jagged and broken from where they smashed up on the rocks surrounding Newfoundland, with only the souls of the dead and shoals of cod to keep them company.”

Quinn laughed, a bright bubble of sound that was warmer than I expected. “I guess I’ll have to take your word for it.”

My heart thumped in my chest, and I shook my head, trying to calm it down. I must still have been worked up over the email I’d been reading when Quinn arrived. But I could think about that email, and my future, and all my other problems later. Right now, I needed to focus on the man in front of me.

“Okay, so I should watch out for Auntie Thea, because if anyone can figure out I’m not your real boyfriend, it’ll be her.”

“What? Oh, no, no. That’s not it at all.” Quinn waved his hand. “Auntie Thea is the one who recommended you. Kind of. Her friend is the one who actually knew about your company, through some family connection. No, Thea’s the only one who will actually know the truth.”

“Ah, okay. So we don’t have to worry about her.” I gave him another agreeable smile.

“Well, I wouldn’t put it past her to try to trip you up, just for the sheer pleasure of causing chaos, but hopefully, no.”

We spent another half hour hammering out the details of our cover story. It turned out I was five years younger than Quinn, but we decided to age me up a couple of years from twenty-two to twenty-four. We’d met this past fall in a bocce league and started talking when I kicked his ass in one particularly brutal game.

“Do you actually know how to play bocce?” I asked.

“Well, no. But I don’t think any of my other family members do either. More importantly, there’s a gay bocce league that none of my family has a connection to, so we won’t have to explain why we don’t know their friend of a friend of a friend.”

“Fair enough. We could say that you kicked my ass, if you want.”

He laughed again, and the warmth of it was like wrapping up in a flannel blanket on a chilly day.

“We need this story to be believable,” he said, “and no one in my family is going to believe I beat anyone in a sporting event.”

“What do you do for work?” I asked. “We could just say that I had a summer internship with your firm or something.”

That would have been better than what had actually happened last summer. Then again, anything would have been. It was hard to imagine a bigger fuckup than last summer if I’d tried. And it was all my fault.

But Quinn shook his head. “Not unless you’ve secretly gone to law school. There are six other lawyers in the family, four of whom are going to be at the party. Unless you think you can answer detailed questions about the law—”

I held up my hands in surrender. “No, you’re right. I definitely can’t do that.” I thought for a moment. “You have any consultants in your family?”

“A few,” he said. “But no one really understands what they do, so we don’t tend to talk about it much.”

“That’s because it’s not a real job,” I told him. “But it pays extremely well. We can go with that. I know enough to fake being an entry-level drone at Deloitte or McKinsey.”

Faking it was probably all I’d ever do, considering the way my job search had been going this spring. But I wasn’t supposed to be thinking about that now.

“Alright,” I said, “I think that covers most of what I need to know. There’s only one other thing we haven’t talked about yet. How much PDA will your family expect?”

Quinn frowned. “PDA?”

Had he never heard that acronym before?

“You know, public displays of affection. Hugging, kissing, grabbing your ass in full view of your grandparents and calling you sweet pea.”

“Oh god, please don’t do that,” he said, a flush creeping into his cheeks.

“I was just joking. Well, about the ass-grabbing. But it is a genuine question. What will your family expect from us for our relationship to be believable?”

“You don’t have to worry about any of that.” He waved away the question. “I promise.”

“I’m not worried, just curious.” Was I making him uncomfortable with this topic? Or did he assume I would be uncomfortable talking about it? “For reference, I usually find a little bit of physical affection helps to sell the story. A short kiss or two, maybe some hand-holding. Whatever would be reasonable for the context, and your personality.”

No doubt about it, he was full-on blushing now. “I, uh, don’t have much of a track record for them to compare it to. So I don’t think you’ll have to do anything, and it’ll be fine.”

He looked down at the table as he spoke, and again, I had the urge to touch his hand and tell him it was okay. But I got the distinct impression he didn’t want his space invaded.

“Alright,” I said, pulling my hands back to myself. “Whatever you think is best. Which I guess means we’re all set. So I’ll meet you at the Dupont Circle metro at six on Friday. Sound good?”

“Yeah, sounds good.” Quinn lifted his eyes briefly to meet mine before sliding them away.

I hoped he would be a little more relaxed on Friday. If he wasn’t, he would be more likely to give away that our relationship wasn’t real than I would. Usually, you weren’t afraid to look your boyfriend in the eye. I assumed that was true of both gay and straight relationships.

I watched Quinn as we walked our empty cups back to the bar. From what he’d said, he hadn’t been in many gay relationships. And, to be honest, if he hadn’t told me he was gay, I would never have known it from looking at him.

“I’m sorry, did you just say I don’t look gay?”

Quinn turned and shot me an outraged look, which was when I realized I’d spoken out loud.

Oh, fuck. So much for making him comfortable with me.

I winced. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it as a bad thing. Or a good thing. Or really any kind of thing. I was just—I don’t even know what I was thinking. I know there’s no way to ‘ look gay ,’ like what would that even mean? It’s probably the same as looking like a murderer.”

Quinn’s eyebrows drew down. “So being gay is the same thing as being a murderer?”

“What? No, no, that’s not what I meant at all.”

I waved my hands frantically, then realized I looked like a buffoon and stopped. Only now my hands felt awkward and heavy as they hung at my sides, and I’d never realized before just how weird it was that we have these appendages that just flop down from our bodies like pi?atas full of meat and bones. But that thought just got me thinking about other meaty appendages that hung from the human body and oh, God, I was only making this worse.

“I didn’t mean to say that,” I said quickly. “I swear. I just meant—God, I don’t even know what I meant. Just forget I said anything. I was just stream-of-consciousness talking. Usually I’m much smoother than this. I promise I’ll be normal on Friday. I must just feel comfortable around you.”

“Does being comfortable around people usually lead you to be homophobic?”

“Oh, God, I hope not. Can you imagine if it did? What an awful curse that would be. I mean, I can think of worse curses, in the great scheme of things, like causing war or pestilence, but—”

“Are you trying to make things better or worse right now?” Quinn asked.

I looked at him helplessly, and after a minute, his serious face broke into laughter. It wasn’t quite as warm as his earlier laughs had been, but at least he didn’t look like he was considering telling me to go fuck myself anymore.

“I don’t even know.” I held my floppy meat hands out in surrender. “I think maybe I should be disbarred from talking for the rest of the day, or possibly my life.”

He snorted. “Well, I’ve been there before. Maybe not your whole life. Maybe just a couple of decades.”

“Thank you for your leniency, your honor.”

“Okay, I’m going to go before you can say anything else ridiculous.”

“That’s probably for the best.” I gave him an earnest, hopeful smile, and was surprised to realize I meant it. “I’ll see you Friday?”

He laughed again, and it was warmer this time. “See you Friday. For better or for worse.”