Absentmindedly, because it’s in my hand and I’m suddenly tense, I stuff the bagel in my face, biting off a hunk, and chew.
Gag.
Jesus Christ, this thing tastes terrible!
“Trash can,” I wheeze through choking sounds, the congealed cream cheese festering on my taste buds and making me want to fucking vomit. “Trash can, now!”
Paul stands abruptly, thrusting the bin into my chest. “Oh my gawd, do not puke on my clean marble floors.”
He gags a little, sympathy reflex triggered.
I gag.
Paul gags.
I vomit into the garbage, then dry-heave like a pussy, trying to breathe through my nose and failing miserably, the wretched aroma of expired dairy filling the metal bin and my lungs. I toss the bagel in along with the curdled, half-chewed chunk.
Sputter, wanting to scrape my tongue off.
Beside me, Paul continues gagging.
I gag some more.
Raising my eyes, I find the last person in the world I wanted to see watching me. Perfect, judgmental brows raised, lips curled. Dark brown hair framing her shrewd, snickering gaze.
I set the garbage can down on the ground next to Paul’s desk and rise to my full height, wiping my mouth and puffing out my chest.
“Don’t. Say. It.”
Her lips part. Close. Part once more to emit a soft, “I told you it would make you throw up.”
My nostrils flare, partly because I can’t smell anything besides rancid cheese and barf, partly because she insists on vexing me.
“I just asked you not to say anything.”
“No, you asked me not to say ‘it’, presumably ‘I told you so.’ Which I didn’t—not technically.”
Why is she still standing here? She needs to walk away.
This is humiliating enough without her as an audience. Paul is going to hate me after this.
I stiffen my spine, mortified, turning my back and starting toward the technical side of the office floor, the side where we get our hands dirty and make decisions about concrete and wiring and building codes. Not the fluffy side where they design logos and brochures and signage.
Her side.
Good—I could use the separation. If I had to bump into her all day, I’d do the unmanliest thing I could think of and curl up and die.
“Aren’t you going to wash your hands?” her voice says to my back, taunting me some more. “It’s pretty gross.”
She will not let this rest.
But she’s right—I should totally wash my hands.
“You’re gross,” Paul repeats, as if I wasn’t well aware.
I feel gross, my mouth feels gross, my stomach is in a curdled knot.
“Thanks, man.” I check the watch encircling my wrist before making the bathroom my next targeted destination. Eight forty in the morning and my day has already gone to shit.
“Um, hellooo,” Paul calls to my retreating form. “You can’t just leave your puke in my garbage can!”
I need a drink, and there is one way to make this shitty day better: the Bastard Bachelor Society.
2
Phillip
Bastard Bachelor Society.
What is it exactly?
It’s a gentlemen’s club of sorts, like the dignified men of the past used to have—except we’re not gentlemen, and we’re not dignified. Three ineligible dudes who are bored, jaded, and not looking for relationships. Quite the opposite, actually…
We’re so committed to being single, we’ve created a high-stakes bet to see who can remain single the longest. Rules are involved.
Rule 1: No member of the society shall date the same person exclusively while an active member of the society.
Rule 2: No seeing the same woman more than three nights a week. Mix it up.
Rule 3: No giving gifts.
That’s an easy one for me—I’m a cheap son of a bitch who never buys anyone anything, let alone a woman, unless it’s my mother. In fact, when I was younger—think college—I broke up with my girlfriends before every Christmas, Valentine’s Day, and birthday just to avoid spending money on gifts.
Rule 4: No marriage or babies.
Duh.
Rule 5: We don’t speak of the BBS.
Rule 6: Never let a girl wear your BBS smoking jacket.
That’s right. We have blue velvet smoking jackets. Don’t ask, don’t judge. Look away when you see us gathered in our finery and we won’t judge you for going to the bar in jeans and a button-down shirt.
Rule 7: If you want out of the BBS, it has to go to a vote. Same goes for adding new members.
The whole club was meant as a lark, started by my best friend Brooks Bennett when he was coming off a bad day at the office. Also, his girlfriend had recently broken up with him; it was a breakup he couldn’t quite shake. (I know, I know—Brooks is a completely douchey name, but then again, Brooks is a complete and utter douchebag, so it suits him the way red lipstick suits a stripper.)
I’ve been celibate as a monk for the past few months, so I figured what’s the harm in engaging in a little fun? Besides, we each got a sweet club jacket as a reward, compliments of my sister. Brooks had to surrender his the day he confessed to having a girlfriend.
No, that’s not what he did—he didn’t confess to having a girlfriend, he confessed that he’d fallen in love. He hadn’t even told her about it before he told us, because the weasel was trying to keep his club membership. Wanted us to bend the rules.
As if. Not when there was a bet to win and prizes on the table.
What do we win if we’re the last man standing?
Season tickets to the Jags, our local minor league baseball team. A timeshare for a vacation rental. One all-terrain vehicle, which was my contribution. Granted, we all live in the city and I don’t know why I own one to begin with, but I intend to keep the dumb thing, along with the rest of the swag.
Those season tickets will be mine.
So who is left? Who are the two Bastards still in the game?
Me and Blaine.
Is it childish that we’re doing this? Yes.
Does it go against everything our parents taught us about love and relationships? Also yes.
Do we care? No.
Did we take pity on our friend Brooks when he fell in love and came crawling to us on his hands and knees, begging us to let him keep his beloved season tickets? The tickets his grandfather left him when he passed away?
Also a big, fat no.
I dial Brooks first; he answers in a hushed tone, greeting me by asking, “Sup.”
I add Blaine to the call, and a few seconds later, he dings in, too.
“Hey.”
Sup. Hey. Bunch of cunning linguists we are.
I grunt, not wasting time with idle chitchat since there’s no telling when someone will have to hang up, considering we’re all at work.
“I blew chunks in the waste paper basket at work.”
There’s a silence. A long, exaggerated pause before Blaine asks, “What’s a waste paper basket?”
“Jesus H,” Brooks mutters. “It’s a damn garbage can.” I hear him take a bite of something then spit the remnants into the trash, most likely a pistachio shell because those are his favorite. He chews thoughtfully. “Why’d you barf?”
“I ate expired cream cheese.”