Page 11 of Meet Stan

“When you’re married, my friend, ladies' night doesn’t mean as much as it used to.” Jonathon patted me on the arm. “But I hope that you have fun, man.”

Prick.

“Have fun falling asleep in your soup, you domesticated fuck.”

He grinned and went back to his call. He didn’t even flip me off or anything. God damn it all.

I tried Mason, but he’d already left. Apparently he’d headed home early to have dinner with his wife’s bohemian friends. Some kind of party—and I hadn’t been invited.

Miffed, I hit up Chandler, but he was too busy trying to wrap up loose ends before his paternity leave began.

“So,” I said to my reflection in the mirror as I prepared to go out alone. “Once again, it’s Stan the Man with his target locked on women. I don’t need the guys. Let them languish at home pretending they’re happy. In reality, love never lasts.”

I snapped my fingers and did a pirouette that would have done The Backstreet Boys proud.

“Glory is forever, and while they sit at home with wifey, Stan the Man’s all-time grand cumulative total is going to keep rising higher, and higher.”

I dressed for success. The type of high-class trim I was after responded well to bling, so I made sure to wear a nice bracelet and gold chain around my neck. I donned my best Rolex, and went with a Gabbana blazer in a deep rust color. It paired well with my ivory dress shirt and charcoal trousers. Definitely peacocking, but with a more subtle class, at least in my opinion.

I splashed on a very light amount of cologne—no chick wants to Mack on you if her eyes are watering—and headed out the door. When I hit the door of the bar, I looked out at all of the sweet prey spread out before me—

And felt disappointment. None of them were Ivy. I stubbornly forged on ahead, but my heart wasn’t in it. I danced with gorgeous women, told them I would be right back, and then abandoned them to talk to another.

I collected phone numbers like trophies. I had so many new contacts I’d added descriptions to the names. Like ‘blonde, stacked’ Stacy, and ‘brunette, nice ass’ Lila.

And yet, I didn’t even feel a glimmer of ambition to call any of them.

I wound up at the bar counter, where I found a young dark-haired woman tending the bar. In between her serving drinks, I started working my charm on her.

“So, you’re wanting to go to school to be a what now?” I asked as she leaned low over the counter so I could check out her cleavage.

“A personal assistant to the stars. I mean, I would so love to work for a famous actress or musician. You know, making their appointments, making sure they kept them, that sort of thing”

“That is fascinating,” I lied. In truth, I was thinking, damn, why not have the ambition to BE a famous person instead of serving one? It seemed like aiming low to me for some reason, but then again I’m a habitual overachiever with issues. “Tell me more.”

“Well, I once read that Khloe Kardashian’s personal assistant pulls down a six-figure salary with full benefits, and two months of paid vacation per year.”

“Damn.” I pursed my lips into a frown. I’d been ripping on the idea a moment earlier, but those were some damn good carrots for employment.

“Yeah, it’s a big deal.” She smiled. “Tell you what. I’ve got a break coming up. How about if you buy me lunch?”

“You’ve got yourself a deal.”

I met her about fifteen minutes later outside the bar. She had covered her tight midriff-baring t-shirt with a stylish coat, and her lips pulled back in a smile.

Her name was Sylvia. Sylvia. At the moment it didn’t seem that important.

“Hey, how are you?”

“Starving.”

I escorted her to a cafe across the street, and paid for a philly cheesesteak combo which we wound up sharing because it was just huge. I could tell she was into me. I thought I was into her.

Sylvia sucked the sauce off her finger, eyes alight with a suggestive glow. I knew I was in there. She gave me a long, hard look, then spoke.

“I get off at two-thirty. Maybe you could pick me up then?”

I smiled ear to ear. Check and mate.

---