The Sexiest Man Alive (9 page)

“Oh, hello.” He grasped her hand as though it was a life preserver. “I was beginning to think no one would rescue me. I’m Ted. Nice to meet you, Mazie—only you’re really cute, so you probably aren’t interested in someone like me.”

“Of course I’m interested.” She let go of Ted’s hand, which was sweaty, surreptitiously wiping her own hand on her skirt.

“Because if you don’t want to go out with me, I’ll understand,” he said hastily. “I don’t get a lot of yeses from women.”

“Oh, come on—a handsome man like you?” The guy brought out Mazie’s protective instincts.

“It’s because I’m short. You’re short, too, but even short women don’t want short guys.”

“Napoleon was short,” Mazie said.

“Yeah, but so was Hitler.”

Mazie hoped Ted wasn’t in sales because he would absolutely stink at it. “There’s Tom Cruise,” she offered.

Ted’s face brightened. “Oh, hey, thank you. I get told that all the time. That I look like Tom Cruise, I mean.”

“You do, kind of,” Mazie said.
If you had black hair, a square jaw, and flashing white teeth. Other than that, sure
.

“And I’m a Scientologist.”

“Oh.”
Uh-oh
.

“Tom Cruise is, too, you know. That doesn’t put you off, does it?” Ted asked anxiously.

“No, not at all.”

“Because Scientology is a religion, not a cult. Would you like to hear our core principles?”

“Gee, I’d love to, but I see my girlfriend over there, waving at me and I’d better go see what she wants. She gets these—these asthma attacks—”

“I’ve got an asthma inhaler.” Ted patted his breast pocket. “I didn’t put my lips to it—I
just carry it around in case someone has an attack. Your friend can borrow it if she wants.”

“That’s really nice of you. But I think she also has menstrual cramps.” If Ted carried a pack of Tampons around in a fanny pack, she was going to be seriously creeped out. “Gotta go—catch you later.”

“Okay. I better go return your T-shirt to the table. See you, Mazie.”

Not if I see you first
. She disappeared into the crowd, snagged a glass of wine and a plate of appetizers, and tried to find Juju. When she didn’t see her—which shouldn’t be any harder than spotting a signal flare in the night sky—Mazie figured she’d gone off with someone to a more secluded spot. Starving, Mazie scarfed down a shrimp on a cracker and a cocktail wiener while studying the video screen, where sniffers and sniffees were meeting for the first time. If somebody didn’t turn this into a TV reality show, Hollywood had lost its sense of tawdriness. She realized she was still holding number 33’s T-shirt bag. She ought to go track him down or set it back on the table.

A man spoke behind me. “Excuse me—number seventy-six?”

That voice! Mazie whipped around. Ben Labeck stood there, holding up her T-shirt bag and looking mock-serious.

“I guess this proves the pheromone stuff works,” he said.

“You cheated,” Mazie accused. “You saw me with whatshisname—”

Ben grinned. “No, I didn’t. I picked yours before the short guy did.”

She scowled at him. “Did you follow me here?”

“Yup.”

Scanning his outfit—he hadn’t changed out of his fishy-smelling clothes, except that now he was missing his undershirt—she raised an eyebrow. “And they let you in?”

“I turned on the old Sexiest Man Alive charm.”

“Try Smelliest.”

“My bag is number one-oh-one, in case you’re interested.”

“I’ve already gotten a whiff of you.”

“And I got yours. Seriously, I liked the way your shirt smelled—like when my mom makes pies.”

“I cheated,” Mazie confessed. “I sprinkled in pumpkin pie spice. Vanilla, too. It was Magenta’s idea.”

They locked eyes for a moment and Mazie nearly smiled back before she recollected that she was furious with him. This was the man who’d simply disappeared for a week without a word, who’d shown up on her doorstep an hour ago with no apology, assuming they could just take up where they’d left off. This was the man who’d allowed her to get trampled in the Sirocco restaurant, who’d called her
stupid
in the middle of Wisconsin Avenue, and whose idea of a romantic gift was a chest full of fish. He didn’t respect her, he didn’t appreciate her, and he obviously didn’t care about her.

Still, she knew herself well enough to realize how little it would take for him to topple her shaky new defenses and reel her in like one of his stupid bass. Standing close to him, even with his two days’ growth of beard, chapped lips, and ragbag clothes, he gave her a head-to-toe rush so intense, it made her carefully straightened hair curl. She gazed at his hands, large and beat-up-looking from whatever he’d been doing the last few days. The memory of how those hands had felt on her body made her breath catch in her throat.

“Mazie,” Ben said, dropping the bantering tone. “Could we—”

“Let me ask you something.” Mazie narrowed her eyes at him. “I’ve got tickets for
Ragtime
at the Rep tomorrow night. Would you like to go with me?”

“
Ragtime
—the play, you mean?” She could practically see the guy-gears churning in Ben’s head as he floundered around for an excuse. “Well, sure, I’d
like
to, but I think … yeah, I’m pretty sure I’m scheduled to work, since—”

“Forget it.” She’d sprung question two of Magenta’s “Is He or Isn’t He a Jerk” quiz on him and the skunk had flunked, big time. Mazie spun on her heel and started to walk away, but at that moment a man suddenly appeared in front of her, blocking her escape. Cargo shorts and ripped rock-band T-shirt. A little too old for the look, Mazie thought; he was fortyish, with a receding hairline. “Hi,” he said, grinning, pointing at the T-shirt bag Mazie held. “I see you’ve got number thirty-three. That’s me.”

Another man elbowed him aside. “Nah, forget it—that’s definitely mine, babe.” This guy, in pleated pants, silk shirt open to his sternum, and gold chains, looked like he was heading for an ’80s costume party. His cologne was so strong, it made Mazie’s eyes water. “You wanna blow this joint, honey? Maybe go for some drinky-poos?”

“Bug off,” snarled the cargo shorts guy. “I saw her first.”

The two men faced each other, looking ready to square off and start trading punches, but
a third guy—young, Hispanic-looking—shoved his way forward. “What’re you crudballs talkin’ about—that’s
my
shirt. See? It’s got a St. Theresa scapular tucked inside, for luck, and there’s my name on the flip side of the tag—”

“Eddie?”
Mazie couldn’t believe it.

“Hey, Maze.” He grinned at her, looking extraordinarily pleased with himself.

Cargo Shorts and the ’80s guy threw him dirty looks, but Eddie Arguello, even in a tuxedo, looked enough like the tough, South Side street kid he actually was to scare them off. They slunk away and melted into the crowd, looking for more available prey.

“How did you get in here?” Mazie asked. “Didn’t anyone check your ID?”

“Nope.” Eddie rocked back and forth on his heels, beaming. “I just filled out the registration, sent it in, collected my ticket at the door, and started huffing pink bags. And then I turned around and saw you with
my
T-shirt. I always had this big crush on you and now, this pheromone stuff, like, proves that we’re right for each other—we’re phero-mates!”

Mazie shoved him away. “We. Are. Not. Phero-mates. You are sixteen years old! You ought to be home doing your summer school homework.”

She wasn’t sure whether Eddie Arguello had ever done any homework in his life. He had more important ways to occupy himself. After-school job, paintball, riding around in his 1987 Cadillac, and now, apparently, crashing adults-only events where the liquor flowed freely. Eddie was medium height and built along the lines of a defensive lineman—wide, solid torso, sturdy legs, and bull-like shoulders. He had black hair parted in the center and swept back in crow’s wings, dark eyes that looked as though they’d been expertly eye-lined but were natural, and a buccaneer’s grin. He was cocky, macho to the core, and fearless to the point of lunacy, the kind of guy who would eat a live centipede on the theory that he’d never tried centipede before. Mazie suspected that it had been Eddie who’d originated the YOLO acronym every teenager in the country now used:
You Only Live Once
.

He did look dazzling, though, in his dark dinner jacket, white shirt, and black bow tie, a getup that made him look older than he was and which explained why nobody had twigged that he was five years short of legal drinking age. But if he thought that allowed him to date women twice his age, she was going to set him straight.

Mazie seized Eddie’s tie and jerked him down to her eye level. “How many women’s phone numbers did you collect tonight?” she growled.

“Oww—stop it, Mazie, you’re choking me. Not that many. Five or six.”

“You can’t go out with them, you know.”

“The hell I can’t! Mazie, these babes are, like, rarin’ to go, I’m tellin’ ya.”

“Eddie, if one of those women so much as lays a finger on you—”

He sniggered. “Jealous, Maze?”

“Not funny—those women could be charged with corruption of a minor.”

She’d met Eddie Arguello when she was a fugitive, trying to track down one of Eddie’s relatives who was connected to her husband’s murder. Eddie and his cousin Rico had helped Mazie set up the sting that had led to Kip’s murderer being exposed. Since then she, Eddie, and Rico had remained friends, if that was what you called teenagers who stopped by uninvited to horse around, make crude jokes, and clean out her refrigerator. Mazie had to ride herd on Eddie, who was one giant, pulsating hormone and didn’t see why a fourteen-year age difference should be a barrier to their romance.

“You have to go tell those women how old you are,” she told Eddie sternly.

“No way.” Eddie turned and noticed Ben standing there. “Hey, Benny—Sexiest Man Alive! Way to go, man—it must be awesome!”

“Totally,” Ben said, his voice flat.

“Having girls wanting to drop their panties for you—”

“Eddie,” Ben said, “I’m going to walk you to the men’s room and dunk your head in a toilet for a couple of hours until you stop hyperventilating.”

“Dudes, hey!” Rico Del Toro barged into the group, grinning ear to ear.

Mazie groaned. “Not you, too.”

Rico beamed, patting the pocket of his dinner jacket. “I got eight women.” He’d opted for a white dinner jacket and looked like the punk version of a wedding cake groom. Tall and knobbly, Rico wore his curly hair slicked back with gel, a kind of Antonio Banderas–as–gigolo look set off by chin studs and multiple earrings.

“Eight women—get outta here,” Eddie said.

“No shit,” Rico insisted. “All of ’em gave me their numbers.”

“Mazie says we have to go back and tell all those chicks we ain’t old enough for ’em,” Eddie said.

Both boys roared with laughter.

“Those ladies like young guys that can give them hot, strong loving, guys what don’t get all wilted after one time,” Eddie boasted.

“Yeah. Forget Labeck—he’s over the hill,” Rico said. “You want to see the Sexiest Man Alive, check this out.” He pointed to his own scrawny chest. His Adam’s apple stuck out like a tennis ball in an ostrich’s windpipe, a strand of artichoke was caught between his teeth, and his scraggly beginner’s mustache resembled pubic hair.

Rico looked around. “I got one more chick I need to find,” he said. “Anybody know who number seventy-six is?”

Keeping a couple of car lengths behind, Ben had trailed Juju and Mazie downtown and watched as they drove into the Hilton Hotel parking ramp. He’d waited two minutes, then had followed, finding a parking spot on the fourth floor.

A few minutes later he was in the hotel lobby. No sign of his quarry. Checking the display on the hotel’s marquee board, Ben discovered that only one event was scheduled for tonight: Phero-mates. He made his way to the conference room, peered inside, and immediately spotted Juju wearing a dress so bright, it seared his corneas. Mazie was next to her, the red dress sedate by contrast.

He tried to figure out what this event was supposed to be. Men and women were wandering around the room, sipping wine and shyly eying one another. Plastic bags like the one he’d seen in Mazie’s purse were laid out on tables around the room. It was a dating event, Ben realized—some kind of group sniff-a-rama. Mazie had spurned his fish to put herself up on the auction block at this mating meat market?

Okay, fine. Two can play this game, lady.

He waited until Juju and Mazie moved away and disappeared into the crowd before approaching the registration table. “Is it too late to get in on this?” he’d asked the woman at the table, whose name tag identified her as Tammi.

“Oh, I’m sorry—we’re sold out, already over maximum capacity.”

“Oh. That’s too bad.” Ben looked Tammi in the eyes and smiled.

She stared back. Blinked. Swallowed. “You look sort of familiar. I’ve seen you somewhere—Oh! You’re that Sexiest Man in the World guy!”

“Sometimes,” Ben murmured, maintaining the eye contact, lowering his voice a notch. “Depends who I’m with.”

She was wavering; she just needed to be tipped over the edge. Her eyes widened as Ben slowly unbuttoned his shirt, took it off, then pulled off his undershirt and stood there bare-chested.
Your own personal striptease, honey
.

Tammi sucked in her breath. Lust? Or armpit fumes? Her gaze scorched from his
collarbones to his navel. Eyes glued to Ben’s chest, she groped for a plastic bag and shoved it across the table with trembling hands.

“Thanks,” Ben said, stuffing his T-shirt into the bag. Now that he got a whiff, the thing
was
pretty stomach churning—it smelled like fish guts, campfire smoke, and sweat. He sealed the bag and handed it back to Tammi, who wrote “101” on it in black marker.

Ben paid the registration fee and shrugged back into his flannel shirt. He wasn’t the best-dressed guy here, but he wasn’t actually the sloppiest, either. Men ought to make more of an effort to dress up for events, Ben thought, not at all ashamed of his own hypocrisy. He found a tray of appetizers and devoured most of them, washing them down with wine that should have been advertised as:
nine out of ten winos prefer our brand!
Standing by the refreshment table, he scanned the crowd, trying to spot Juju and Mazie while remaining unobserved himself. When you were six foot three, blending in was tough.