Then there was Marcus. Our moms became best gal pals during their pregnancies, bonding over pickle cravings and stretch mark artwork. Marcus and I became attached at the hip while still in utero. We share quite a long and somewhat twisted history that started with shared naps in either my crib or his while our moms played cards and drank iced tea. It continued though playground fights and puberty and the four years of teenage drama known as High School. Marcus and I played doctor as kids and he gave me my first French kiss when we were pre-teens. We tried the boyfriend-girlfriend thing once at the beginning of high school. A gorgeous guy even at the awkward age of fourteen, he had dark dreamy eyes and a Beverly Hills 90210 hair cut. I reveled in being the envy of a majority of the female freshman population but everything changed when he tried to round second base with me. I envisioned my brother groping my 32AA’s and it grossed me out. We called it quits but our friendship continued and I knew I could count on him for anything, anytime.
Marcus, Brenda, Rachel and I were often found working out together, doing lunch or having all-night margarita gab fests. They were great inspiration for my books, many of which stemmed from topics discussed during our drunken nights together. I always traveled with a notebook so I could jot down anything remotely interesting. The tough part was deciphering the intoxicated scribbles the next morning.
The girls finally arrived and completed our happy little foursome. We immediately flagged down the waitress and started our Friday celebration.
“So Brenda,” I said after we received our drinks. Brenda and I had ordered the specialty of the house, a bright pink cosmopolitan. Marcus held a glass of merlot by the stem and breathed in its aroma while the ever conservative Rachel sipped a glass of diet cola through a straw. “I found a guy for you!”
“Lex, don’t even think about setting me up!”
“Why? This one is perfect! He even has green hair!”
“Ewww!” Rachel squealed. “Green hair?”
“Wait, you’re fine with Brenda having pink hair,” Marcus chimed in, motioning toward Brenda’s head. “But a guy with green hair is disgusting?”
“I never said I was fine with it!” Rachel giggled, pushing her own shimmering blond tresses from her face.
“So anyway, back to Slade!” I continued.
“Slade? That’s the guy’s name?” Brenda asked.
“Yes. I like it. It’s unique. Who wants a Bob or a Dan? Snore! You need someone with a strong, sexy name. Slade is a tattoo artist, photographer and newly published author. His book is being released in a few weeks. It’s called Tat- A Gallery of American Tattoo Art. You’ll love it. I met him at my publisher’s office and I think you two would be perfect for each other. As soon as I saw him, I just knew. I got his number and we should call him and invite him for drinks.”
“No, thanks.”
“Why? You haven’t gone out with anyone in months!”
Rachel began hacking and grabbed for a napkin, covering her mouth. She cleared her throat as we all stared at her.
“Um, went down the wrong tube.”
I shook off her inability to drink like a normal person and looked back at Brenda.
“So, I’m gonna call and invite Slade for Happy Hour next Friday.”
“I’m not looking right now,” she said and suddenly became engrossed with her cocktail napkin, folding it into some kind of origami creature. Brenda’s nails, which were always done in some funky color with airbrushed designs, were a simple black with silver glittered tips. She’d recently began learning nail design and practiced on herself constantly.
“Come on! You have to meet him. At the very least, you’d get a couple good fucks out of him!”
“Lex, for the last time, no.”
“Okay, fine. Keep having fun with your vibrator. Wear out a million batteries for all I care!”
* * * *
Val had set up an interview for me with one of the hottest radio morning show tag teams: Wild Will and Tina of WBLV’s Rock Your Way to Work Show. She’d been trying to get me on-air with one of the Top 40 stations for some time, hoping to boost sales in a few new markets. I yawned as I walked into the station, still half asleep. Mornings were so not my thing.
The broadcast took place in a small room, much smaller than I had imagined in my glamorous Radio Day Dream. I’d envisioned walls plastered with autographed posters of the hottest singers of the day with gleaming microphones and the occasional star walking through the door to say a quick “whud up” to their disc jockey homies. What I walked into reminded me of the hall closet in my apartment—tiny and jammed with miscellaneous books, papers and a desk chair with ripped and faded upholstery.
They sat me down and gave me a pair of ancient looking headphones to wear that pinched at my ear and smooshed down my curls. I watched Wild Will make an announcement on air, his smooth voice rolling off his tongue. He winked at me and smiled as he told his listeners he and Tina would be talking with me after the break. The station went to commercial and a balding man in headphones gave me some last minute instructions.
“Good morning, rockers,” Wild Will crooned after the commercial. “If you’re just tuning in, we’re here with multi-published author Lexi Marshall. She’s written several chick lit books that are selling like boxes of condoms before prom night. So, Lexi,” he said and turned to me with a sexy grin. “What exactly is chick lit?”
“Well, I define chick lit as a story about a woman, facing many of the obstacles the everyday woman faces. Career problems, family problems and of course problems with love. The women in my stories are confident and smart and embody female empowerment. Sometimes they are knocked down, but it’s only temporary. They pick themselves up, dust off and rise above their problems, coming out new women in the end. They’re inspiring stories, giving women the courage to stand up to the wrong doings in their lives.”
“And of course, look fabulous while doing it!” Tina chimed in.
I laughed. “Yes, that too! Many of my characters are trendy and hip, wearing designer clothing and shoes.”
“Yep, just like those cute Jimmy Choos I saw on your feet as you strolled in,” Tina added.
“Hey, you can’t write it if you don’t live it!” I said, spouting off my life motto.
“Now Lexi, what do you think of these critics who call chick lit ‘fluff’? They say it’s not serious writing,” Will commented.
“My answer to that is not appropriate for the airwaves!”
“O…kay!” Will then continued with the interview, taking a few calls.
* * * *
“Are you seriously making me go to dinner tonight with your friends?” Zak whined. “I can’t stand being around Marcus. And those women are just plain annoying.”
I watched him flip through a rack of button-down shirts, then flop onto the bed in only his boxer briefs. Zak’s body rivaled even the buffest Greek god. His pecs were chiseled like a statue’s and he had an eight pack. A freakin’ eight pack! The two hours he spent at the gym each morning were certainly worth it.
He let out an irritated moan.
“Oh, stop! Marcus is my best friend. And what do you have against Brenda and Rachel?”
“Uh, let’s see. One wears black lipstick, black nail polish and has black hair with red stripes.”
“That