The Boyfriend Designer - Christopher Harlan Page 0,16
room. So let’s see it, Greg.”
Greg looks like he’s just about to shit his pants, but I put him on the spot to see how he reacts. So far it’s working—deer in headlights.
“Excuse me?”
“Let’s see that walk, Greg. You’ve obviously read my books, right?”
“All but the most recent. But I ordered it online before I came here. It should be waiting on my doorstop when I get home.”
Thanks for that royalty, Greg.
“Won’t that be the best way to go back home? To one of my Swag Series waiting to make you an even better dude than you clearly are.” Greg smiles He thinks I let him off the hook. “But this isn’t a philosophy class, man. My methods are exercises, not theories. Get up here and show me the walk of a confident man! Come on, let’s support our brother, Greg!”
The crowd predictably erupts, and that gives Greg the momentary burst of either inspiration or fear—I suspect fear—that he needs to walk the runway like its goddamned fashion week in Milan.
As he struts his way up and down the isle, doing his best to fake it until he makes it, I scan the room to see the enthusiasm on everyone’s face. They’re really into it—supporting some guy they’ve never met before and cheering him on like he just scored the winning touchdown at the Super Bowl. I take it all in and feel really proud.
Look at all these smiles. Look at all these happy faces. Look at all. . . wait.
There’s one face in the back that isn’t so happy. It’s not even a guy.
Is that the hot chick who yelled at me yesterday, sitting in the back row?
Shoshana
“You have a real talent for being completely full of shit.”
He definitely just saw me. I guess I’m not the CIA operative I thought I was.
But then again, it’s not like I’m going incognito. I’m sitting here, all blonde and obvious, probably with a huge grin on my face that I didn’t even know was there.
I can’t believe the level of bullshit that I just witnessed. I mean, on one hand, I’m almost impressed that he was able to sell all that how-to-be-a-man BS to a room full of this many guys. The other part of me fears for all men everywhere if millions of them tune in weekly to watch Captain Green Eyes spew his bullshit.
I watch the rest of his presentation. These guys really worship Conor. They flock around him like ants on a piece of candy.
When the smoke clears, and all the losers go back to their mom’s basements, I sit and wait as Conor approaches me. I want to hate him, but I can’t deny how much faster my heart races with each step he takes towards me.
“Like what you saw?” he asks in his baritone. “Just can’t get enough of me I guess.”
“Can I ask you a serious question?”
“Look, if you really want my number that bad I’m not going to say no, even though you were rude to me earlier.”
“I’m going to need you to hold your inner pig at bay for the next few minutes and just be serious.”
“Ask away.”
“Do you actually believe all that stuff you were saying? The walk? The haircut? ‘Cause while you were talking I could literally smell the bullshit, like I’d just stepped in it.”
“That is an amazing question—and a good one, too. How about I answer it over dinner?”
Here we go. “Oh please. I must look as gullible to you as that room full of mouth breathers who just left to go to the Star Trek convention next door.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” he says smugly.
“See, there you go again—you have a real talent for being totally and completely full of shit. You should rename your channel.”
“I’m not working you right now. I really want to take you to dinner.”
“Well, duh, of course you do, but not until you answer me honestly.”
“And when have I been dishonest with you?”
Here’s the chance I was looking for. I want to call him out right then and there—to tell him who I am and what he did. This is the second chance I was looking for after I let the opportunity pass me by when I ran into him for the first time yesterday. I feel like I’m about to give him my crazy eyes and get my rant on, but then I hear Tori’s stupid words echoing in my ear. I don’t want to make a scene, have it recorded