Excerpt

One

A clinical study found that an effective way to sexually arouse a man is to waft the smell of pumpkin pie under his nose. I guess that means Thanksgiving should be declared National Erection Day. Call me old fashioned, but I’d sooner splash on Miss Dior than smear pie filling over my navel. Gwendolyn Applebee, my close friend since childhood, always said the olfactory sense was our most powerful medium, especially when it came to sex or danger.

I discovered she was right. The hard way.

It took me six weeks after her suicide to suspect she’d been murdered. Here’s the fun part: Gwen left me holding the bag. No surprise. I’d been going to bat for Gwen since our teens in a suburb north of the Bronx. She’d been the class geek with buckteeth and thick glasses; the only girl who got ridiculed more than I did. And since I’m about as physically threatening as a foot massage, I learned early how to use my big mouth to outsmart the bullies who picked on her.

The kids tagged me “the munchkin.” Totally hilarious and highly original. Of course, it didn’t help matters that I was the shortest one in the school. Or that my name was Saylor Oz.

At age fifteen, my Russian ancestors’ Ozyutikoffsky DNA kicked in, blessing me with a classic jaw line and a bottom shaped like an inverted heart. I figured I could say goodbye to that crapola nickname and maybe even land a boyfriend. But the guys in White Plains Senior High merely revised their greeting to, “Hey, munchkin, I’ve got a lollipop for you.”

At thirty-two, high school is light-years behind me, but as I ride the subway to Brooklyn I’ve still got charming men with ninety proof breath offering me their lollipops. No wonder they call it the F train. However, the art of seduction intrigues me, no matter how primitive. It’s one reason I became a sex therapist. Not to be confused with an expert on love. If only it were that simple. The painful truth? I’d always wished I’d rated as beautiful. I hated the way they called me and Gwen the munchkin and the scarecrow. Hurts to admit it, but I’ve never gotten over that.

And neither had Gwen.

My doubts about her suicide began the night I’d gone with my best pal Benita Morales to a loft on Gold and Plymouth Streets for a poetry reading called, “Eating Pizza On Mars.” We zoned out somewhere between the lesbian astronauts and anti-gravitational foreplay, but we liked the free pizza and there was plenty of Merlot. At two a.m. we chugged down the stairs, slamming the clunky fire door behind us. It was a Monday night, and the streets were empty, with the exception of three men on the corner. They looked like a photo op for the cover of Lumberjack Quarterly, in their sleeveless plaids, denim vests and trucker caps. Way too country for my taste. Not that I was into picking up guys on Brooklyn’s waterfront in the wee hours.

Benita, nicknamed Binnie, with cafe au lait skin and pixie short hair, resembled a Nuyorican Halle Berry; an eye-popping beauty who’d broken her share of hearts. Me? I hadn’t even broken the five-foot mark. We hoofed it along a desolate stretch of Plymouth. The street was a patchwork of cracked pavement over cobblestone etched with old railway tracks that once carted goods between the East River docks and the warehouses that were now being reborn as condos, offices and artists’ studios. The effects of three glasses of wine and the sultry July night carried me away in a romantic film noire swoon. Add to that the shadowy atmosphere created by the Manhattan Bridge -- the giant blue dragon that loomed overhead and gave our neighborhood its name. DUMBO: Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass. Every few minutes the Q train thundered along the bridge’s underbelly. The only other sounds were our feet on the sidewalk.

Correction. I could swear I heard rapid and deliberate footsteps hammering along behind us. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw those three strapping country boys who were hanging out on the street when we left the party. We increased our pace. So did they.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. “I don’t like this.”

“Let’s cut it,” Benita said.

I ripped off my white stiletto slingbacks and broke into a run. (No, I am not one of those women who spend gazillions on shoes while children around the world go hungry. But any height-challenged female with a generous bottom knows the wondrous transformation a few inches of heel can make.) Tonight I’d pulled my strawberry blonde curls into a ponytail and dressed in a ruffled gypsy skirt and spaghetti tank. Benita trotted past me in her favorite uniform -- running pants, Yankees tee and Nike sneakers. She’d wear that in her office if she could get away with it.

The trio matched our speed. Sprinting at full tilt, I had no time to fish inside my bag for my cell. I went primitive. “Police! Fire! Everything! Helllllp!”

Two men emerged from a lone car up the street. To lend a hand? Nope. They just snickered and stood there blocking our path.

“This way,” Benita said. She ducked into the shadows of a construction site that had become an abandoned lot between two windowless brick warehouses. I followed, tip-toeing barefoot at full speed, trying not to think about the squooshy lumpy things under my feet. Like doggy doo and trash bags that smelled of week-old Chinese take-out. Adrenaline pumping, I stumbled past a mattress and a bathroom sink. And, oh, yes. Tires everywhere. An endless supply. Landscaping by the Michelin Man.

At the far end of the lot we ran head-on into a cyclone fence that was topped with a spiky furl of barbed wire. Climbing over it was not an option. Benita clenched her fists. I could tell what she was thinking. A financial analyst by day, she’d also been a professional female boxer for six years. It gave her the confidence to hold her own against a man, but one at a time, and provided they weren’t armed.

“Don’t even go there,” I said, tugging her elbow.

We sprang for the darkest corner of the lot. Crouched in the blackness, the two of us huddled between a disemboweled sofa and a pile of worn-out radials. The tires smelled like stale condoms. Mosquitoes whined in my ears. I held my breath at the sound of footsteps crunching on rubble. They were still about ten yards away. Could I phone emergency without revealing our hiding place? My fingers probed through my bag and came up with my Fleur de Sephora orchid spritz. Pfft.Pfft. I was definitely a perfume aficionado. Fragrance was a luxury you didn’t have to be rich or sexy to have, yet it could make any woman feel both.

“What are you doing?” Benita hissed.

“The smell of garbage makes me nauseous.” That’s when my cell found me. A muffled ring-tone played “Dance Of The Sugar Plum Fairy.”

Benita grabbed my arm. “Shut that thing up. Those guys’ll hear it.”

I prayed they didn’t, throwing in a request for some divine intervention. Like maybe they’d all get a sudden case of dysentery. The caller ID was familiar. “It’s Candice Stoutz,” I whispered. “I have to take this.”

“Now? Are you loca?”

“She might be in crisis.”

“What do you think this is?”

I flicked open my cell. “Dr. Oz.”

“All he wants is blowjobs,” Candice sobbed.

Hushing and racing my words, I said, “Remind Harry of his contract from our last session. No more oral sex without attempting intercourse. But it won’t work if you’re still criticizing him. Resentment is the big spoiler.”

“Dr. Oz? I can hardly hear you.”

I whispered a little louder. “Actually, Candice, I’m kind of in a jam. Binnie and I are trapped in a lot on Plymouth Street near Bridge. I need you to call an ambulance for me. Right away. Plymouth near Bridge. Please hurry. Thanks.” I closed the cell, my hands shaking.

“Ambulance?” Benita sounded irate.

“I meant police, okay?”

“How could you be so dumb?”

“We all make mistakes when we’re nervous.”

“So, will you please call 9-1-1 and get it right?”

“Hold on.” I leaned into the torn-up sofa next to me and snaked my arm through the stuffing and springs.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Don’t get mad, but I dropped my cell. It’s in here somewhere.”

“Ay, bendito. I knew I should’ve brought mine.”

“Shhhh. They’re getting closer.”

We pressed ourselves flat to the ground. The sound of a dreaded metallic click could only mean one thing. The cocking of a pistol. I froze, trying not to wet my pants.

A man’s voice. “I got first dibs on the little one. You get sloppy seconds.”

Another man. “Bitch’s gonna give up more than that.”

Delete and cancel, please. My heart pounded. Was it Krav Maga time? Would I have to resort to gouging eyeballs? Urgh. I needed something to use for a weapon. Quietly reaching into my shoulder bag, I located a Jack Rabbit vibrator. Being a part-time distributor for Do-Me-Good sex products did have its benefits. I took hold of the red plastic shaft. Funny how even a fake penis brought out the animal in me.

The next few minutes seemed liked hours. My face and body were drenched in sweat. The wine in my stomach turned to vinegar. Suddenly in the distance I heard the wail of a siren. Please, please come this way. It grew louder and louder. Next came the pitter-patter of our little muggers’ feet and the slamming of car doors.

Benita took a quick peek. “They’re going.”

Moments later, I saw flashing lights bouncing off the walls of the warehouse buildings around us. Okay, so it was an ambulance. As we say in therapy, whatever works.

A hot looking EMT helped me find my phone and shoes. We rode in the ambulance to the police station where we filed a report. Our lack of information wasn’t much help. I doubted Logan would be on the case anytime soon. A sweet young uniform brought us coffee and even drove us home.

What’s with all these sexy civil servants? It’s enough to give a woman a daily outbreak of Damsel In Distress Syndrome.

The police car turned onto Main Street in DUMBO. From the backseat I stared out across the East River at the Manhattan skyline and thought of the years Benita, Gwen and I ran around the city together, dancing at CBGB’s, puking up our first martinis and panicking over missed periods. The three of us had shared an NYU dorm room in the early days and an apartment during grad school. Now Benita and I were roommates again, thanks to her recently divorced status. We weren’t exactly a perfect match, but over the years we’d grown closer, while Gwen had drifted away from us.

Gwendolyn Applebee had always been kind of a loner, a brilliant egghead who fit perfectly in her chosen field of archaeobotany. She could be maddeningly anti-social at times. Like the way she refused to buy a cell. Said it was too invasive. And she never answered the phone when she was engrossed in her work. But the last time I assumed she lost track of which century we were in, Gwen’s body was discovered a few feet off the Beard Street Pier, floating face down in South Brooklyn’s Erie Basin.

How close had Benita and I come to joining her tonight? It didn’t take five guys to steal a purse. Would they have done the ultimate nasty on us and left our bodies in the lot with the garbage? I pictured a crowd gathered around my corpse, as it lay draped over a pile of tires. Good thing I was dressed to party and not on my way to the Laundromat. Which reminds me of a detail about Gwen’s so-called suicide that just didn’t add. The fanny pack. When they found Gwen’s body, she was wearing one of those silly-looking hernia belts meant for carrying a week’s supply of trail mix. But I doubt she even owned a fanny pack. She’d always despised them. I’d been so upset over her death, it had gone right by me. And there’d been no reason to be suspicious. Until now.

Maybe I’ve been lucky, but after fourteen years of living in New York City I’d never been robbed or assaulted. Tonight was the second time I’d been the target of a crime since Gwen died. Was I seeing a pattern? Sure, being a therapist, I was pattern obsessed. But as we stepped out of the patrol car in front of our door, I factored in the reason we moved to DUMBO a month ago.

Benita and I had been living in a two bedroom in Brooklyn’s Williamsburg section. When someone broke in and turned that apartment upside down, the police saw it as just another robbery. Yes, we had an alcoholic super and neighbors who happily buzzed in anybody who sounded remotely related to the primate order. Still, those little red lights inside me were flashing. I couldn’t help asking if those thieves had been the same men who chased us tonight.

The seek-and-destroy job done to our ex-apartment didn’t make a lot of sense. It wasn’t just the degrading woman-hating gynecological references scrawled across my bathroom mirror with lipstick. It wasn’t that they snatched my laptop, twenty-three dollars off the dresser, some costume jewelry, bric-a-brac and three beers from the refrigerator. What I wanted to know was, what made them riffle through every single drawer, cabinet, book shelf and closet, tearing open pillows, gutting the sofa and doing a filet job on my mattress? All this for spare change?

The worst part? If my hunch was right, if tonight’s bad hombres were the same guys, how did they know Benita and I had moved to DUMBO?

* * *

Sometimes I wondered if Gleason’s Gym was the reason Benita agreed to move to DUMBO with me. Especially since the loft we rented belonged to my aunt, who comes in from Long Island for periodic overnighters. Benita wasn’t crazy over that idea. However, the loft also happened to be a stone’s throw from this world-famous boxing gym on Front Street.

Benita and I went there determined to clear our heads of last night’s harrowing episode. It was seven o’clock Tuesday evening and the summer heat hadn’t let up. My kiwi print tank top and black Lycra capris were soaked through. Because of the large number of hunks at Gleason’s Gym, I’d left my shoulder-length curls hanging loose. Thanks to the heat frizzies I probably looked like Goldilocks from hell. “It must be a hundred degrees in here. They never heard of air-conditioning?”

“Cut the whining. That’s what gives this place flavor,” Benita said. “It’s the real deal.”

I’d gone two rounds practicing my newly learned jab-cross combination. “How did a totally nonviolent person like me ever agree to join this gladiator factory with blood red walls? Eggshell white would have been more tasteful.”

“Focus, will ya.” Benita stood there with her arm wrapped around the heavy bag to steady it for me. Her enviably flat abs showed beneath a gray crop tee. “Bend those knees. You’re starting to look like the damn Statue of Liberty.”

“I am bending them.” I went into a deep crouch.

“Now you look like a friggin crab.”

“My arms are ready to fall off, and you’re expecting Raging Bull.” So, I wasn’t exactly Olympic material. My petite hourglass figure wasn’t all that bad, despite my eternal hope that I’d still grow a few inches. “I’m getting dizzy. I need a donut.”

“Are you here to eat or workout?”

“The gym’s snack bar has Danish. Then there’s a Blazing Donutz on Jay Street.”

“You said you wanted to lose some pounds.”

My concentration just wouldn’t kick into gear. You’d think I’d be fantasizing a skinny-dip in a cool stream with Oscar De La Hoya, but after last night my mind kept recycling the same questions about Gwen. I just couldn’t believe her death was a suicide, even though the medical examiner reported no signs of struggle, and the police found two empty vodka bottles on her desk, plus a goodbye note in her handwriting. Yeah, she sometimes drank too much and, granted, she needed anti-depressants when Rob left her. The thing is, I knew her like a book. I would have seen it coming. And rule out the accident theory. Gwen wasn’t into getting bombed and roaming the docks. She was murdered. I could just feel it. But why? She didn’t hang out with lowlife criminal types.

Benita’s keen eye picked up on my thoughts. “I know what’s going on in your head. Give it up.”

“But what if the police were wrong?” I said, punctuated with my best one-two of the day.

“Come on, Saylor. They checked for foul play. There wasn’t any. And Gwen’s body had enough booze in it to drop an elephant. What more do you want?”

“I want to know the reason she was wearing a fanny pack.”

“Same as anyone else. To carry her money and cards. Now, put more on that jab.”

“Would you carry an ID if you were going to kill yourself?”

“Of course. How else would they know me once the fish started eating my face?”

I dropped my hands. “That wasn’t funny, Binnie.”

She rested her forehead against the brown leather bag. “Look, I can’t keep going over this territory with you. We need to start letting go, all right?”

“I’m sorry.” Six weeks had passed since Gwen’s death had hit us like a wrecking ball. I sometimes forgot that Benita, my rough-on-the surface buddy, was a vulnerable tenderheart underneath. But I came from Russian Jewish stock; digging into human suffering was in my blood. I wasn’t about to let go until I found out the truth. In fact, I’d already emailed Gwen’s twin brother, Darryl.

I shifted my thoughts by using the only subject as powerful as death and danger. Sex. I focused on the men around me. Their naked torsos were shiny with perspiration. Their fabulous breathing came in bursts, hissing in and out through the nose, interspersed with short grunting sounds. So carnal. I was in testosterone heaven. “I love the smell of men when they sweat. Studies prove that women experience mood elevations when exposed to the scent of male underarm secretions.”

“Not your sweaty armpit theory again.”

“Well? Doesn’t it make sense?”

“Maybe if you’re a female deer,” she said. “Now zip that hole in your face and show me some work.”

I caught a glimpse of a guy shadowboxing in one of the four rings. He was as sculpted as Michelangelo’s David. Say hello to instant orgasm. My next punch missed the bag completely.

Benita rolled her eyes. “Unreal. Whose buns are you watching this time?”

A dull beep signaled break time, and the percussive symphony filling the gym subsided to a murmur. I stepped close to my friend’s ear. “In the second ring. No shirt. Black and red trunks. Shaggy brown hair.”

She followed my gaze and turned back to me. “That’s Eldridge Mace. Retired pro. Half Mohawk, half Irish.”

Made sense. That mix of copper skin with pale blue eyes. “Please tell me he’s not married with six kids.”

“Thirty-five and single. But, trust me, you don’t want to mess with that. He’s going nowhere these days. You can do better.”

“Don’t worry. He wouldn’t be interested in me, anyway.”

Jaleel Thomas, Benita’s friend and trainer for the past eight years, ambled our way. “I heard you two ladies were playing hide and seek down on Plymouth Street last night.” He was a bear-sized, baby-faced man with shoulder-length dreads hanging beneath his black do-rag. Jaleel no longer embodied the aspiring middleweight he’d once been. Five years back he married a female attorney who also happened to make the best cheesecake in Brooklyn, and he shot up to his current two hundred fifty pounds. He extended a cordial fist to Benita, who then gave it a light pound with her own. Respect.

“Today we got worse problems.” Benita pointed her thumb at me. “Saylor’s gone hot for Mace.”

Jaleel laughed. “Uh-oh. Good boxer, but watch out, Saylor. I hear a woman never come back the same after a night with the Mace-man.”

Sign me up. “He seems mysterious.”

Jaleel rocked the bag with a short left hook. “Crazy more like it.”

“I’m a therapist; I like crazy people.” In fact, I was a magnet for dysfunctional men. I’d helped Peter get over a painful divorce, Simon overcome his panic attacks and Mickey face his alcohol problem. True to form, they all dumped their surrogate mother figure as soon as they got back on their feet.

When the beep sounded for the next round, Jaleel tapped Benita on the shoulder and left. “I’m going for a jog on the treadmill,” I said, slipping off my gloves. I picked up my bottle of Poland Spring and strolled away. It wasn’t as if I was the only person wandering around. People often showed up at Gleason’s just to watch the fighters train. It was one of the few gyms where kids from the projects, movie stars, Wall Streeters and even a klutz like me could train alongside world-class champions. On my way I paused for a closer glimpse of Eldridge Mace. Just to study his form, of course.

I suddenly realized who he reminded me of. Eddie Rivera. My first. A sleek sprinter with a sweet sexy mouth that every girl in my high school had been dying to kiss. On a balmy July night in the parking lot behind Lazkov’s Deli he’d actually kissed me, the munchkin. One ecstatic month later we did it in his father’s car. By September he not only stopped calling me, but the buzz in study hall was that I’d been a yock he’d practiced on while his real girlfriend was away for the summer. The fact that Eldridge Mace provoked a spontaneous regression to my unhappy youth should have made me instantly turn and leave. Instead I found myself inching forward in a slightly mesmerized state, until I stood smack against the edge of the ring’s elevated floor.

Eldridge zigzagged his way around the ring, shadowboxing his imaginary opponent. His hands were wrapped in bright orange tape and moved in a blur of speed. Beware of men with fast hands. He pivoted and glanced right at me. Caught unsuspected, I felt a shudder of discomfort. His eyes definitely had a scary, distant, I-could-hurt-you-and-not-care look. Trying to appear unruffled, I casually sipped on my water bottle and took my time screwing the cap on tightly. Eldridge spun ninety degrees and back pedaled in my direction. Just as I began to hope he might be purposely moving closer to me, my bottle of spring water slipped from my hand and bounced into the ring.

“Heads up!” I shouted. “No, I mean down!” Too late. His right foot rolled over the bottle, and the most graceful man I’d seen since Baryshnikov slid onto his butt.

Eldridge got to his feet in a flash, snatched up the bottle and stepped toward me. “This yours?” he asked with a slight Brooklyn accent.

I nodded. Guilt City.

“Figures.”

I stood there feeling clumsy and squat with my thighs bulging against my tight capris. Running shoes were not exactly the footwear of choice for a woman my height. “I’m really sorry. I’ll gladly pay for any doctor bills.”

“I’m good,” he said, bending and flexing his right ankle. In one fluid movement he slipped through the ropes, jumped down and handed me the bottle. “What’s somebody like you doing here anyway?”

His attitude caught me off guard. And pissed me off. “What’s that suppose to mean? I’m hardly the only female in this club who’s learning to box.”

“You? A boxer?” He coughed out a short laugh.

Just because he had a point didn’t mean he had to be rude enough to share it. “I happen to be a natural athlete. I played semi-pro soccer for two years and pitched in a women’s softball league.” I sounded positively pathological, but as long as I was lying I might as well chuck in a biggie. “And in college I led our gymnastic team to the nationals.”

“Then how come you couldn’t hold onto that plastic water bottle?”

Oooh. “I should have thrown it at you instead. Then you would’ve really needed a doctor.” I already half hated him just for resembling Eddie Rivera.

He crossed his arms, visibly amused. “Hot blooded.”

“That’s right. I’m a Mars in Aries.” I tossed him a nasty, sexy grin. “So, next time I’m around, you better watch your step.”

“Or what? You gonna trip me again?”

“That was an accident. Maybe you should be more careful where you put your feet. I mean, isn’t that part of boxing? Don’t blame me if you’re not attentive.”

“I can be very attentive.” Those chilling eyes of his were on me once again. In fact they were studying me from head to toe. I felt my face go hot. And a few other parts. The I’d-like-to-screw-your-brains-out energy between us was as thick as a gob of K-Y jelly. Typical me, I sabotaged the delicious moment by wondering if it was my anger that excited him or if maybe he got off on pint-sized portable models he could easily maneuver into position.

A voice near the front desk called out, “Dr. Saylor Oz!”

Could it be? I looked past Eldridge to see Tara Buckley. As if I hadn’t been through enough trauma in the last twenty-four hours. Tara breezed her way across the floor in her tiny shorts. Miss D-Cup Hollywood Blonde With The Legs. Turning heads as usual. Including the Mace-man’s.

“Hi.” I put my face on auto-smile.

“I know I’m early,” Tara said, giving Eldridge a quick squeeze and a peck on the mouth.

I couldn’t believe it. Of all the single women in New York City, he would have to pick Tara Buckley. Or, knowing Tara, she most likely picked him. The Mace-man’s body language was super casual, not possessive. Were they an item or just fuck buddies?

She turned to me with her own well-practiced look of canned sincerity and compassion. The kind only a twenty-five year old life coach who’d become a multi-million dollar self-help guru could give. Perfect for winning over blank-faced audiences on book tours. For the past year she and I had been on the same speakers and seminar circuit. Except that Tara was usually the featured guest, while I was relegated to a filler spot. Her book, How To Be The Woman Every Man Dreams Of, was going into its second year on the bestseller lists. She spoke in one of those melodious breathy voices that women find repulsive, but apparently stimulate the male species. She grasped Eldridge’s hand with two of hers while leaning her cheek against his shoulder. “Saylor is one of my older colleagues. What a surprise that you know Ridge.”

Ridge? “Actually, I’m new here,” I said. “He was just offering me some tips on my hand-eye skills.”

The corners of his mouth turned up in a boyish half-smile that made my knees weak.

“Wait’ll you hear how Ridge and I met,” Tara gushed. “I saw this incredibly sexy Spider-Man dangling thirty-one stories above Third Avenue, right outside my office window. The only thing between him and the sidewalk below was this itty-bitty seat under his cute little hiny. I wrote a note on a piece of paper, pressed it against the glass, and Ridge had a coffee break in my office he’ll never forget.”

Like I really needed this. My only consolation was the uncomfortable look on Eldridge’s face. “You’re a high-rise window-washer?” I asked.

Eldridge nodded. “A drop-man. Not to be confused with a person who drops things.” He watched for my reaction.

I kept a straight face. “I assume it also doesn’t mean you drop off the side of a building.”

“Actually it does,” he said. “We don’t use scaffolding. Just ropes and a harness. Then we drop straight down from floor to floor. More fun that way.”

Fun? Jaleel was right. He is nuts. Heights scared the hell out of me. Climbing on a footstool to reach my closet shelf gave me vertigo.

Eldridge looked at me and said, “Now it’s your turn.”

“My turn for what? To do you in my office?”

He looked tickled. “I was asking about your work.”

“Let’s just say orgasms are my business.”

His eyebrows shot up. That got his attention.

Tara moved in quickly to dampen the effect. “Saylor’s a sex therapist whose specialty is teaching women how to give themselves orgasms. Necessity is the mother of invention, right? Of course, I’m a woman who never has to fly solo.” She winked at Eldridge.

I forced a smile. The kind you flash people before running them over in your truck.

“Well, gotta hurry. My weekly Clitoral Culture Group meets at eight in SoHo.” Perfect exit line.

Not so fast. Tara was on a roll. “Saylor also gives workshops for couples who need help with their sex life.” A breathy laugh. “Guess you could say, ‘Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach’.”

Please Universe, may a pigeon with a rare disease leave its droppings in her hair.

As Tara rambled on, Eldridge remained poker-faced. Couldn’t figure if he was concealing a case of advanced nausea, as I was, or if he was just another sexy looking asshole.

Why was I wasting my time here, anyway? There could be a response from Gwen’s brother sitting in my email right now.