Authors: Kate Perry

Project Date (2 page)

BOOK: Project Date

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I harrumphed. “How’d you know what I was doing?”

“I know you.”

True. Matthew Turner and I had been best friends since junior high. We’d had computer lab together. He’d been patronizing, implying that I didn’t know half what he knew about computers. To show him, I cracked into the school system and changed his D in P.E. to a B. We’d been friends ever since.

And he’s called me Doc from that day on. I’d thought he had a Bugs Bunny fetish but it turned out he was just shortening my name, Philomena Donovan (no, I have no idea what my parents were thinking), to PhD. Ergo, Doc. Yeah, he’s odd.

“So what happened?” he asked me.

I gave him all the details, including the slimy tongue down the throat just to giggle at his reaction. When I was done, he simply said, “You got what you wanted.”

I knew that. Still.

“You did what you thought you had to do. Get over it, Doc.”

“Jeez. Thanks for the compassion.”

“Any time.” He chuckled. “You want to come over?”

“Tempting. But I think I’m going to stay in. It’s late and I have to be at work early tomorrow.”

“When? At ten?”

Wise ass. “So I don’t like to wake up at dawn.”

“Nothing wrong with that.” He sighed. “But I was hoping you’d bring takeout with you.”

Notice how he didn’t ask me to cook for him. Boiling water taxes my culinary abilities. “Sorry. You’re on your own.”

“Damn. I’m hungry.”

As he was always hungry, I didn’t feel any real sympathy for him. “Order a pizza. You know you’ll be happier not sharing with me. I’ll see you tomorrow, right? At class?”

“Class?”

I sighed. Sometimes I was tempted to pin notes to his clothes. “Yeah. Remember? Kung Fu?”

“That’s tomorrow night?”

“I’m surprised you remember to put on clothes before you leave the apartment.”

“I can’t help it. I have important things on my mind.”

I could concede that point. He designed software for an aeronautics firm. Sometimes in the middle of a conversation he’d drift off and you knew he was working on whatever bit of code was giving him trouble at the moment.

“And I didn’t forget about class. I just didn’t realize tomorrow was Wednesday.”

“Uh-huh.” Likely story. But before I could rag on him some more, my call waiting went off. I moved my cell phone away from my ear and looked at the screen. Wince. My mom. “I gotta go, Matt. My mom’s on the other line.”

“See you tomorrow, Doc.”

Taking a deep breath, I switched to my mom’s call. “Hey, Mom.”

“How are you, Philomena?”

“Fine.” She was the only person who called me by my whole name. “How was Belize? You’re back, right?”

“I had a good time. I did some work at an orphanage while your father was hunting for his beetle.” She sighed. “He didn’t find it.”

Uh-oh. “He didn’t cause any kind of national incident, did he?”

My parents often headed out to weird locations so my dad could hunt down an elusive bug. The whole bug collecting business had always struck me as odd. My parents were the ultra-earth conscious, grow-your-own-organic-veggies, make-a-difference types. They lived outside of Portland in the Willamette Valley and had a practically self-sustained farm. Collecting rare insects seemed like an oxymoron to me, but when I’d point this out to my dad, he’d reply that he was actually protecting them from the environmentally callous.

On top of it all, Dad didn’t take failure well. The last time they went on a bug hunting expedition, he was foiled from capturing his specimen because his guide—a hapless boy barely out of puberty—handed him a net that had a hole from a mishap the previous day. Fortunately, the boy was a great runner and managed to escape. I don’t think it comes as a surprise that Dad isn’t allowed entrance into that African province any more.

Mom sighed again. “I managed to convince him a Central American jail wasn’t a place he wanted to spend any amount of time. But that’s not why I called. Have you talked to Daphne?”

Daphne is my nemesis. And my sister, but that’s secondary.

“Not in a few days,” I said guardedly, even though it was more like a few weeks.

“I’ve been trying to reach her all day but she’s not answering. I’m worried about her.”

Of course this was about Daphne. It was always about Daphne. I should have known my mom didn’t call to talk about me. I wanted to say maybe their precious angel didn’t answer because she was getting laid, but that sounded implausible even to me. Daphne didn’t have casual liaisons. Actually, Daphne didn’t have any liaisons—she was too busy saving the world. So I just muttered “Hmm.”

“When did you say you’d last spoken with her?”

I didn’t. “I’m sure she’s fine, Mom. She’s probably all wrapped up in work. You know how she gets.”

My mom harrumphed. “Sometimes I wish she were less driven about her work. Like you, Philomena.”

Backhanded compliments were a fact of life with my parents where I was concerned. And it generally led to a list of all the areas where I lacked in comparison to Daphne. I walked into the living room and flopped onto the couch. At least I could be comfortable while she ragged on me.

But instead of launching into a tirade about my job (she hates that I’m a sys admin instead of doing something worthwhile, like researching childhood diabetes), she said, “Her thirtieth birthday is coming up. I was thinking of throwing her a big party. What do you think?”

Hours listening to my parents’ friends rave about how great Daphne is? Terrible idea. “Is she coming home?”

“She’ll come home,” Mom said confidently.

I couldn’t help but remember six months ago when Daphne came back to Portland for Christmas. Pure hell. All I heard was Daphne this and Daphne that. I knew my sister was perfect—I didn’t need it crammed down my throat.

I’d been ecstatic when she went off to California for college and stayed there. I’d thought, finally I wouldn’t be crowded by her enormous shadow anymore.

What happened, though, was kind of like when a rock star dies at the height of his fame—instant immortality. I had to live with the specter of Daphne hanging over my shoulder, at home, and at school. Thank God we hadn’t attended the same university—I think that saved my sanity. It was bad enough that I wasn’t out to save the world like Daphne; at least I didn’t have teachers comparing my mediocre intelligence to her brilliance.

I won’t even touch the fact that I dropped out of college after the first year and the furor
that
caused.

“Philomena? Are you there?”

I shook my head and relaxed my too-tight grip on my cell phone. “Yeah.”

“What do you think?”

“Uh—” I had the distinct impression I’d missed something. “Sounds great.”

“You weren’t listening to what I was saying, were you?”

“No, actually.” I winced, but I didn’t bother to deny it. Lenora Donovan had Spidey sense where her daughters were concerned.

“I was saying that, while it’s great that Daphne is so dedicated to her work, she needs balance in her life. How long has it been since she’s had a boyfriend?”

Was this a rhetorical question? “Not sure.”

“That’s what I mean. Daphne should take a page out of your book and find herself a nice man like Barry.”

I didn’t want a nice man. And I certainly didn’t want Barry. My mind flashed on Rio’s capable, MacGyver hands, and I shook my head. “Mom, Barry and I—”

My mouth snapped shut as her words registered. Holding the phone out, I rubbed a finger in my ear. Did my mom just say Daphne needed to be more like me?

“I have to tell you, Philomena, I think Barry is absolutely wonderful. He’s respectful and does good work for the environment. Even your father approves, despite the fact that Barry drives a BMW.”

When I brought the phone back to my ear, she was still talking, oblivious to my stunned silence. “I can’t tell you how happy I am that you’ve found such a great man. If only Daphne would too. She should be more like you, Philomena.”

Be more like me? Twilight Zone alert.

Mom went on like the world wasn’t spinning off its axis. “I haven’t always understood your choices, Philomena, but I can’t approve of Barry more. You’ve done really well this time. He’s the son your father and I always wanted.”

I felt a familiar sharp pang in my chest. I was a very successful sys admin, owned a house, and was a third degree black belt in Kung Fu, but to my mom my best accomplishment was the guy I was dating. Who I wasn’t dating as of twenty minutes ago. “Mom, listen. About Barry—”

“I have to admit that having Daphne come here for a party is only secondary to having her here so I can show her how well you’ve done for yourself with Barry. Maybe you’ll rub off on her.”

My mouth clamped shut. I couldn’t believe it. Me, a role model for perfect Daphne. For the first time EVER.

“Maybe you and Barry can come to dinner later this week.”

I needed to tell Mom I’d broken up with Barry, but the words
role model
and
rub off on Daphne
swirled in my mind.

But it was now or never. She’d given me the perfect opening. So I took a deep breath and said, “Sure, Mom.”

Wince. Not exactly the right words.

“Okay, honey. I’ll call you to arrange dinner. And to let you know the date for the party.”

“Right.” I hung up and stared at the ceiling.

I really should have told Mom I’d broken up with Barry, but I could just hear the tirade—how I always messed up things in my life. Like college. My career choice. And now the perfect man (gag).

But, to tell the truth, the most intoxicating part was that Mom (and Dad, by default) finally acknowledged that Daphne wasn’t so great and I was. Sure, it wasn’t for the most optimal reasons, but beggars couldn’t be picky. I’d been waiting for this moment for twenty-eight years. No way was I going to let it pass by.

That I’d broken up with Barry the night before? Minor technicality. I could fix anything. MacGyver wasn’t my idol for nothing.

Chapter Two

“Another day, a whole new set of possibilities.”

—MacGyver, “Slow Death” Episode #19

Rrrep. Rrrep. Rrrep.

I slammed my fist down on the shrieking alarm clock four times before it shut up.

Damn alarm. Who in their right mind woke up to one, much less got up predawn? Because eight-thirty was predawn in my book. I covered my head with my comforter and tried to find that warm spot to snooze for a few more minutes.

Oh yeah, right there. I snuggled down and closed my eyes...

Rrrep. Rrrep.

I shoved the covers off me, picked up the devil’s appliance, and threw it across the room. When it hit the wall, I heard the faint snap of plastic breaking.

“Shit. Now I’ll have to fix that,” I muttered as I stumbled out of bed. First things first. I needed caffeine, and I needed it fast. I pulled my robe on, flipped the hood up, and headed to the kitchen.

I felt human after two cups of coffee. However, I probably still shouldn’t have answered my cell phone when it rang. Especially since the screen read
Daphne
.

But I did. “What?”

“Mom’s left a dozen messages for me in the last twenty-four hours.” Her low, calm voice set me on edge. “Are they back?”

I refrained from saying that, as their favorite daughter, she really should have a better grip on their schedule. Yeah, I’ve been working on my self-control. “They came back yesterday.”

“Hmm.”

I pictured her lower lip sticking out and her long, graceful finger tapping it like she always did when she was thinking. It should have made her look dorky, but on Daphne everything looked good.

It just killed me.

Daphne was the Road Runner to my Wile E. Coyote. My greatest efforts never paid off, and she could do no wrong. While she didn’t intentionally try to foil my every move, it still worked out that way.

I’d concluded she was genetically superior years ago. She was taller, curvier, and smarter. Everything about her was shinier. For example, we’d inherited the same blond hair from our mom—technically. But Daphne’s was shiny honey blond and somehow mine just looked dirty.

As if that wasn’t enough, she was also a do-gooder—she worked on finding cures for bizarre childhood diseases at Stanford—so resenting her took extra work. But younger sisters were supposed to resent their older sisters, right?

Blame it on the caffeine kicking in, but I decided to make an effort to reach out. “So, how’s it going?”

“Okay.”

I frowned. Something in her voice said that was far from the truth. “Are you sure?”

Instead of answering, she neatly diverted the conversation. “How are you doing?”

I try to be a caring sister and she doesn’t respond. Typical. “Pretty good. I got a raise at work.”

“You’re saving your money, aren’t you? Do you have some kind of retirement plan at work?”

I wasn’t even twenty-nine and she wanted me to worry about retiring? At least
I
owned a house; Daphne only rented a condo. (My parents were quick to point out houses cost a fortune in Palo Alto. Excuses, excuses.) “I’m doing okay.”

“Because you can’t depend on other people,” she said bitterly.

I frowned. Daphne, cynical? Not natural. One of her most unattractive traits is her never-ending optimism. She makes Mary Poppins look dour. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Even she realized she didn’t sound convincing, so she repeated it more forcefully. “Nothing. Really.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.” She sounded like she was forcing a smile. Then she sighed again. “I have to get back to work—I’ll let you go. Talk to you later, Mena.”

“Right,” I murmured, totally confused, listening to the dial tone. This probably wasn’t one of those pre-suicidal calls. But if it was, I hoped she left me the denim jacket she got in Paris. Daphne had godawful taste in clothes, but that jacket was awesome.

Nah. I shook my head, flipped the phone closed, and tossed it aside. Daphne would never hurt herself. She was too conscious of other people’s feelings. Her empathy made her the ideal research scientist. Our parents always bragged about how brilliant and altruistic she was.

Like being a systems administrator wasn’t noble. I’ll have them know that without me, a whole lot of people would be without Internet access. And imagine where humanity would be then.

I figured out what I was going to do about Barry and my parents that afternoon at work. I was deeply engaged in an illicit game of Grand Theft Auto (the latest version kicked ass) against one of the guys in Sales when the answer came to me.

Mom wanted someone charming, handsome, and successful as bait for Daphne. Barry was just a convenient body, someone at hand who fit the bill. But I could get any other guy with those qualifications. What did it matter whether or not it was actually Barry? A rose by any other name and all that. There had to be any number of men who would pass muster.

I ran my idea by Matt as we were sparring in Kung Fu that evening.

“What?” He stopped with my arm leveraged behind my back, a fist wrapped in my hair, arching my neck uncomfortably.

“My mom only wants me to bring some guy whom she deems as perfect to push Daphne into a relationship.” I tried to wiggle my arm out of the figure-four lock but he held strong. “It doesn’t matter who it is.”

“You’re missing one key element to this equation, Doc.”

I looked at him. My head was torqued so I didn’t have to do more than move my eyeballs. “What element?”

“Your mom wants Daphne to see a well-matched couple and the benefits of settling down. She’s not going to be happy if you bring Bill Gates to dinner if you don’t care about him.” He kicked my feet out from under me so I landed on my back, breaking my shoulder and arm and causing head trauma. In theory. In reality, he let go of me so I could break my fall.

I frowned up at him from the mat. “I still don’t see how that’s going to be a problem.”

Matt held out his hand to help me up. “So you’re going to find a guy you’re genuinely interested in to the point of love in the next week-and-a-half.”

“Why a week-and-a-half?” I took his hand, hopped up, and promptly used it to leverage him down to his knees.

“Because Daphne’s birthday is in three weeks and you need to introduce this paragon of manhood to your parents well enough beforehand so they actually believe you care about him. Jesus, Doc, ease up on my wrist. I’m a software engineer. I need it to type.”

“Oh. Sorry.” I let go of his hand, and then because our instructor, Dwight, was giving us dirty looks (we weren’t supposed to chat while we worked out), I finished Matt off with an outside crescent kick to his head that sent him flying. Well, I grazed by his face and smacked his open palm, which he’d held up as a target for me. But otherwise he would have gone flying.

“Why are you doing this?” Matt asked as he got to his feet.

I blinked demurely, trying to stifle a grin. “I’m being a good role model for my older sister.”

“In other words, you want to rub it in Daphne’s face.”

I frowned. Was that wrong? “You’d do the same in my shoes.”

He snorted as he pulled out the rag from his belt and mopped his face. “No, I wouldn’t. And she’s only thirteen months older than you. You’re practically the same age.”

Fortunately Dwight signaled the end of class so I didn’t have to reply. Grabbing my water bottle, I took a long drink while Dwight went over what he wanted us to study this week. He loved giving homework, from stuff like practicing nonjudgment to breathing. And I liked doing it. I was all for personal growth.

This month, we were supposed to be aware of opportunities, no matter what guise they presented themselves in. Piece of cake. I was always open.

I headed to the changing room to get my bag before the guys started disrobing. Usually, they let the women have the room first (there was only one changing area) but tonight I was the only woman who showed up for class so I had to fend for myself. I didn’t really mind changing with them—I was all for naked male flesh—but Matt would be in there and that was just too weird. I mean, I’d seen his bare chest plenty of times. But seeing him in his skivvies? Totally disgusting.

In his defense, Matt
did
have a nice body. He looked kind of scrawny in clothes, gangly and all gawky arms and legs, but he was nicely sculpted. Thin with long muscles. Surprising, really—you wouldn’t expect it by just looking at him.

But then, Matt was full of surprises. I mean, he was a superb coder of software, a third degree black belt, and played violin in a way that could make the most cynical person weep.

There was a space of about twelve minutes in high school when I thought Matt was perfect and that we might be more than friends, but then we kissed. To me, kissing him was like kissing a brother: just plain wrong. I still thought he was perfect, but for someone else.

As if my thoughts had conjured him, I ran into him on my way out of the changing room. “Hey, Doc, want to grab a Guinness?” he said.

“Kells?” I asked rhetorically. Kells was my favorite Irish pub in Portland. The atmosphere was relaxed, the food was good, and the Guinness was sweet and creamy. “Meet you outside?”

“Wait for me by the door. My car’s down the street.”

I rolled my eyes and headed to the bathroom to change. I was a third degree black belt too, but his vein of chivalry ran so deep he still insisted on walking me around when it was dark.

Matt finished dressing first and was waiting for me, leaning against the front door. “Ready?” he asked, bending down to pick up his Kung Fu bag.

“Let’s go.”

Because it was a weeknight, we found parking practically right in front of the bar. I waited in the rain while Matt secured his Mercedes Jeep with The Club and then we walked inside.

I headed toward two empty seats at the far end of the bar, running my hand along the gleaming dark wood of the bar top. Kells was classier than the typical Irish pub but, like I said before, the Guinness was really the shining star here.

Matt ordered for us as he took a seat.

I hopped up next to him. “Guess who I saw this morning.”

“Who?” he asked absently as he pulled out his wallet.

“Are you paying?”

“First round. Second round is yours.”

He always said that, but we never ordered a second round. Oh, well—I’d get it next time.

“So who’d you see?”

“Magda.” Magda was my tenant and an enigma I was always trying to decipher. I didn’t understand why a woman like Magda wanted to live in the dark basement space I rented out. She was strikingly beautiful and expensive looking—the type of woman who belonged in a penthouse in New York instead of a musty cave.

He stopped riffling through his wallet and looked up. “No way.”

“For real.”

“Where’s she been? It’s been a long time since there was a Magda sighting.” He nodded to the bartender, who set our drinks in front of us, and handed over a bill.

“I didn’t ask her where she’s been. Not that she’d tell me. That woman has secrets.” This was one of our favorite games: speculating about Magda’s life. She was so private. And mysterious. In the Employer section of her renter’s paperwork she’d printed: self-employed. “I can tell you she had a black case with her. And when she saw me, she tried to hide it.”

“A black case? What do you think she had in there?”

“Sex toys,” I said confidently.

Matt choked on his beer. I leaned close, waiting to see if it would shoot out his nostrils, but he pushed me back. “You aren’t still waiting for me to gush liquid out of my nose, are you?”

“Hell, yeah.” The one time it happened back in high school had been incredibly entertaining.

Smart man, he changed the subject. “Why do you think Magda has sex toys in her bag?”

I shrugged. “I know we thought she was a spy—”

“Or a hitman.”

“Right. But I think we were wrong.”

Matt glanced at me curiously. “What does she do then?”

“She’s a high-priced call girl.”

“Have sex, will travel?”

I nodded. “Exactly.”

He scrunched his face in that way he does when he’s considering a complex algorithm. “You might have something with that theory,” he said finally.

“I know. The way she comes and goes at all hours of the day. The way she’s gone for days—” I snapped my fingers. “I bet she gets hired by rich men to pleasure them for weeks at a time.”

“She does like to wear leather,” Matt said slowly, getting into the game.

“Maybe she’s a part-time dominatrix.”

“What kind of sex toys do you think she has in her case?”

BOOK: Project Date

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