CON MAN Page 4

  For chrissakes, Taggart, you’ve got a job to do.

  I snapped back into professional mode and wrapped up our meeting by presenting Ainsley with the customary questionnaire booklet—an intensive, twenty-two page personality assessment that I could use as a reference guide throughout the program. “Take it back to your room and look through it. I expect it to be filled out in full by our next appointment tomorrow morning. In the meantime, you’ll be working on your first field assignment.”

  “Field assignment?”

  “Yes. While I’ll be right with you during most of your tasks, I can’t be with you every minute of the day. A lot of your work will be done on your own.”

  She seemed apprehensive, but she was willing to hear me out. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath before asking, “Okay, shoot.”

  “I want you to start thinking positively. No getting down on yourself. Focus only on your good qualities.” When she opened her mouth to protest, I spoke before she could argue that she didn’t have any. “If you’re not sure, the questionnaire should help you discover what they are.”

  Ainsley turned it over in her hands, asking, “Anything else, sir?”

  I ignored her taunt and answered, “Yes.” I pulled a small journal from my briefcase and handed it over. It was a non-descript 5x7 notebook with a blue cover that matched her eyes. “I want you to jot down any thoughts you have over the next eight weeks. Spend a few minutes every night to assess the day’s events and your feelings about them. This notebook isn’t for me. It’s for you. I promise you I’ll never so much as crack the cover. Your thoughts and feelings will remain your own. Guard it with your life. I suggest you store it in the room safe.”

  “Aye aye, captain.”

  I had to smile at that one. We stood up to part ways, but not before I could summarize our meeting. “So. Focus on the positive. No negativity. Get cracking on that journal. Complete the questionnaire. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  And then I got the hell out of there.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Two more, Jared.”

  Jared and I were winding down his workout but I wanted him to finish with a bang. I’d just upped the weight on the benchpress machine and he was definitely struggling with the difference. His arms were shaking and sweat was pouring from his brow as he groaned in protest. “Seriously, dude? You said ‘two more’ ten reps ago.”

  “Just these last two, I promise. C’mon. You can do it.”

  Jared grumbled as he readied himself for another lift.

  That’s right. I have male clients. Surprised? Shame on you if you were. I told you this wasn’t just some elaborate scheme to pick up women. My male clients aren’t as numerous as my women, but they are just as desperate to change.

  Jared cursed through the last two reps until finally, he lowered the bar and collapsed against the bench. “I can’t do this!”

  “What are you talking about? You just did it. Great job.”

  He sat up and wrapped a towel around his neck. “No, I can’t do this anymore. Why should I even bother? Nothing’s going to change. It’s not going to make any difference.”

  Ah. The Week Two Doldrums. It wasn’t so out of the ordinary for a client’s frustration to peak at this point. When they first meet me, they’re skeptical, but optimistic. Even after the contracts are signed, they start off wary. But soon enough, the promise of a new life gives them a burst of adrenaline which carries them through the early stages of my program. After a few days of buying into the hope, however, their pre-programmed insecurities take over and bring us back to Square One.

  I looked down at my exhausted client, feeling his pain. “I have a special surprise for whenever this moment hits. Want to see it?”

  Jared wiped his face down with the towel and offered a resigned, “Yeah, sure. What?”

  I pulled my wallet from my nearby gym bag and rifled through the stack of business cards until I found what I was looking for, then handed over a timeworn photograph.

  Jared eyed the picture of a teenaged me, all one-hundred-and-ten pounds of scrawny body, metal mouth, and stupid hair. “Is this you?” he asked incredulously.

  “Yep. The thing I remember most about this picture is that it was taken about thirty seconds before Jimmy McKinley shoved me into a dumpster.”

  “No fucking way.”

  I snickered while reclaiming the photo. “Yes way. The thing is, I wanted to show you that I understand. I get why you’re feeling so down right now. I was you once. Worse, actually.”

  That made him smile.

  “My point is,” I went on, holding the picture next to my head, “if I can turn this skinny dork into the man you see standing before you today, think of what I can do with you.”

  I may have exaggerated when I said I was born with good genes. I guess I was, but man, did they take their sweet old time manifesting on my body. That may be the case now, but growing up, I was your typical scrawny geek. I’m not just saying that to be modest, like those gorgeous supermodels who try to convince us they had buck teeth and bad skin before emerging into the classic beauties they are today. I truly was a full-on nerd. Reformed now, thankfully, but back in the day, I was pretty hopeless.

  During my teen years, I was as awkward as they come. Braces, army-issue crewcut, emaciated body. I didn’t even have some stellar personality to make up for it, so I tended to shy away from people. Finding a group of guys to hang with seemed unlikely and getting a girlfriend was completely out of the question. I spent my hours at school with my nose in a book, and my free time in front of the TV. Not exactly the most popularity-inducing traits for a socially inept teen.

  But now? Well, hell. Now I’m Batman.

  I’m a downright, modern-day, vigilante hero… and my superpower is de-geekifying.

  “Okay, let’s wrap it up; you’ve worked hard enough for one afternoon. I want you to stretch for the next ten minutes and then we can call it a day.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I’d dropped off Mia Cruz’s shoes at the cobbler a few days before, so they were ready when I swung by this evening. I’d sent her a text to meet me at the diner of our demise, but she said she wouldn’t be available until after eight o’clock. Then she said she’d much rather meet at The Blue Bar, because she’d “had a damn day and needed a damn drink.”

  So now I was walking around New York City with her shoes in a shopping bag, really regretting my lack of planning. But why would I have thought she’d be busy doing anything else? It’s not like guys were banging down her door or anything. What else would a girl like that be doing with her free time?

  In any case, it looked like my plans were going to have to change. I called Ainsley to see if she wouldn’t mind bumping our appointment back to nine, then walked the length of 44th to cross into the Theater District.

  I used my walk to think about the schedule I’d be presenting her with tonight. I had grappled all day over the best course of action to take, and was confident that I had come up with a personalized agenda that would guarantee her success. Every client was different, and I always made sure that my program was custom-tailored to suit their individual needs.

  For some of them, it was best to just rip off the Band-Aid. I’d have them on stage singing karaoke during Week One.

  For Ainsley, confidence-building would require a more delicate touch.

  I made my way through the lobby of The Algonquin Hotel and headed for The Blue Bar. The place was practically a historic institution in this city. Back in the day, it was the most popular hangout for Broadway actors and acclaimed writers to come and throw back a few. Dorothy Parker and her entourage used to hold court right there in the lobby. Hirschfeld’s art could be seen hanging on practically every wall. Hell, James Dean used to live at The Iroquois, located right next door.

  The building housed a couple of bars and restaurants, but they’ve all changed over from their original forms since the old days. My father had brought me to The Oak Room on my twenty-first birthday so
we could share a few drinks. He bought us a bottle of Macallan Rare Cask, and we put a good-sized dent in it before he checked us into a room where I could pass out. The Oak Room had since been redesigned as The Blue Bar, and I took a moment to appreciate the new look. It used to be a classy, wood-paneled, trip-back-in-time. Now, it was a modernized, neon, smooth-jazz venue. Still classy, though.

  There was a real winner stationed in the corner who was way too excited to be playing the piano. Most of the people in the room weren’t paying him any mind, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the guy. Dude was lost in his own baby-grand world. I chuckled to myself as I took a seat at the bar, watching his hands floating over the keys as if he thought he were a magician, not a musician. Talented, so I could see why The Blue Bar hired him, but Jesus. Take it easy, maestro.

  * * *

  At 8:05, Mia whirled through the door in a frenzied blur of monochromatic gray. I waved her over to the bar, and she let out with a relieved sigh, greeting me with a breathy, “Glenlivet. Neat. Lots of it.”

  I chuckled and put in her order as she removed her raincoat and settled herself down on the stool next to mine. She ran her fingers through a damp mass of black hair, fluffing the waves over her shoulders.

  “How long has it been raining?” I asked.

  She lowered her eyebrows and curled her lip. “How long have you been in here?”

  “About two hours.”

  “Hmmm.” She motioned a finger toward my glass. “Drunk yet?”

  I couldn’t help but smile. “Not yet. But I’m working on it.”

  The bartender placed Mia’s scotch in front of her, and she wasted no time clinking her glass to mine. “Well, I guess I’ve got some catching up to do. Salud.”

  With that, she tipped her head back and downed her drink in a single sip. “Mmmm,” she groaned in satisfaction before placing her glass on the bar. She caught the bartender’s eye and gestured for another round before turning to me and smiling. “Did you bring the goods?”

  I grabbed the bag at my feet and handed it over. Mia opened the box inside and pulled out her newly cleaned shoes for inspection before grinning ear to ear and hugging them to her chest. “Oh my babies! Welcome home!” She tossed them back in the box and deposited the bag at her feet. “Thanks so much for taking care of this. You really went above and beyond.”

  “Nah,” I said, waving her off. “It was the least I could do.”

  “No. The least you could do would be nothing. What you did was essentially hook me up with two brand new pairs of shoes! The least I could do is cover tonight’s bar tab.”

  I didn’t want to have to explain that I wasn’t going to be there for very long; I had that appointment with Ainsley in about an hour. But the TRU was right down the street... I figured I had enough time for a couple more drinks.

  “Look at this guy,” Mia said, nodding her head toward the piano player. “Does he think he’s the shit or what?”

  I snickered, but didn’t bother telling her I’d been thinking the same thing.

  “Huele bicho,” she added with a roll of her eyes.

  I didn’t speak a lick of Spanish, and asked, “Welly beacho?”

  “Dick sniffer.”

  I almost spit out my drink. Damn, she was funny. And likable. And I gotta say, it was a relief to just sit and talk with somebody.

  I didn’t have a lot of friends, and I didn’t have the social wherewithal to seek them out. With all my transformation from shy nerd to confident stud, I still hadn’t learned how to form lasting friendships. Not surprising when you consider my job basically entailed only bonding with people for pre-designated chunks of time. I didn’t meet new people very easily, so the best prospects for friendship were my clients. Most of them were women, however, and most of them didn’t live anywhere near here. But such was the transient nature of my business.

  My therapist liked to say that I’ve purposely set my life up this way to avoid any long-term relationships. That my mother’s abandonment is at the root of my controlling nature and fear of commitment. As if I were specifically keeping any potential friends at arms’ length, and the only women I allowed into my life were the ones who’d be contractually bound to split once our eight weeks were through. That I preferred to bang a hundred different broads rather than build anything of value with a single one of them. That I wanted women to use me and throw me away.

  For the record... she was wrong.

  Before Ainsley, it simply never occurred to me to try and convert any of my clients into girlfriends. I mean, how unprofessional would that be? There were a few that I liked over the years, but I always made a point to tone down the flirting. With Ainsley, the suppression was tenfold.

  I was feeling a bit suppressed all around.

  It had been a while since I’d struck up a conversation with a woman outside of my client base. Mia wasn’t somebody I wanted to have sex with, but she was here. It was probably a good idea to test out the old mojo every now and again. Make sure I could still deliver the goods.

  I was gearing up to throw out a suggestive line, but Mia beat me to the punch. “I have had quite the day.”

  “Oh you have, have you?”

  She snickered as she answered, “Oh, yes.” She cupped a hand to her mouth and leaned in conspiratorially to whisper, “I went through an entire case of condoms today!”

  Whoa. What? I wasn’t sure I heard her right, and my eyes tightened in confusion.

  Mia laughed and clapped her hands before explaining, “The Trojan account. They just gave it to me. I spent all day with my team, brainstorming the best way to sell them. Trojan wants to highlight their variety in the new set of ads. Who knew there were so many different types of sausage casings? You should see the box of debauchery sitting in my office right now.” She took a sip from her drink and added, “Very. Interesting. Day. To say the least.”

  I’d started coughing at her use of the words “sausage casings,” but Mia didn’t join in with my choked laughter until the last of her rant.

  I arched a brow in her direction. “I suppose it would have helped to know that you were in advertising.”

  “Oh yeah. Sorry. I’m a marketing analyst at Manhattan Media.”

  “Was that so hard?”

  The frustration in her voice was obvious as she answered, “It will be.”

  “How so?” I asked.

  She gave a shrug and attempted to deliver casually, “Well, come this January, I’ll be vying for Vice President.”

  “No shit?”

  “A lotta shit.”

  “Huh?”

  Mia sighed. “The current VP is looking to retire next year. He likes me, so he’s been grooming me to take over the position, but the board wants to install the owner’s pisant little nephew instead.”

  “Still. That’s pretty impressive.”

  “I’m glad you think so. Because I’m freaking the hell out.”

  “Why’s that?”

  I flinched as she dropped her head on the bar with a thunk, her voice muffled as she responded, “Because I have no idea how I’m going to do this.” She raised her head and looked at me to add, “I don’t stand a chance, right? I’ve never been a boss!”

  “Hey, you seem pretty bossy to me.”

  She gave me a durr hurr face and said, “I am completely lacking the confidence necessary to win this job.”

  The word confidence was like a lightbulb going off, and my brain immediately kicked into overdrive. Who better to help Mia gain confidence than a confidence expert?

  I couldn’t help the sly grin that spread across my face, prompting her to ask, “Why is this amusing you?”

  I sat back in my chair and crossed my hands over my stomach. “Because I haven’t told you yet what it is that I do.”

  WEEK TWO: OBSERVATION

  Evaluate strengths

  Watch confident people in action

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Ten things?”

  It was the second time Ainsley had repea
ted those words back to me, and I couldn’t help but chuckle at her dismay. “Yes, Ainsley. Ten things you like about yourself. C’mon. This shouldn’t be too hard. Don’t think too much about it. Just write down the first things to pop into your brain. That’s normally the best way to handle it.”

  She chewed on her bottom lip, her pencil frozen in place above the paper. “That thing was more extensive than the SATs,” she said, pointing an accusing finger at the questionnaire booklet I was perusing. Completing it was the first solo assignment I had given her for the week, and it shouldn’t have been so difficult to take care of during all that free time she had between our daily workouts.

  It had been five days since we first met. Five days since I was knocked out by her killer looks, four days since I started fantasizing about taking her to bed, three days since she showed up for our first workout session wearing a hot pink sports bra and booty shorts, and one day since I finally caved and jerked off because of it.

  Not my proudest moment.

  I was planning to use her cardio time today to assess her answers, but instead, I was forced to play exam moderator in order to keep her on task. The last page of the booklet had been suspiciously left blank, so I had ripped it out and handed it over for her to fill out. Instead of getting our workout underway, she was sitting at a table outside of the gym gnawing on a pencil as she stared at the lone sheet of paper in front of her, finishing what should have been taken care of days ago. I knew it wasn’t easy for her to flay herself open like this, which is why I was able to keep my patience about it.

  Ainsley, however, wasn’t feeling quite as serene. She jabbed her pencil toward me and asked, “I’ve already told you my life story in those pages and now you want me to tell you what I like about myself?” She shook her head at the table as I stood there trying not to laugh at the entire tableau playing out before me.