Rules Of Engagement

2

Things that go against your nature or your morals, but it’s not like you have a choice. You’re powerless. Especially when you’re a poor kid, because then you’re also invisible.

And being invisible is even worse than being poor.

You might as well be dead when you’re invisible.

“You don’t need a Bloody Mary,” d**k says with irritation. “What you need is a woman to look after you.”

I smirk, thinking of the busty blonde I called a cab for before we left. “Got plenty of those.”

“Don’t be a dipshit. You know what I mean. And let me do the talking when we get there!”

“Stop shouting. You’re making my headache worse.”

Dick ignores me and keeps right on shouting. “And would it have killed you to run a comb through your hair? You look like you slept in the woods!”

“Good point. Let’s stop at Supercuts.”

Dick heaves a big, dramatic sigh. “You have to start taking this seriously, Mace. Your entire future depends on you getting your s**t together.”

He’s right. I know he’s right, but it still pisses me off that he’s lecturing me.

Besides, it’s not like I’ve got a future, anyway. This football thing will be like everything else in my life: temporary.

Nothing good ever lasts for me for long.

I glare through the windows at the sunny spring morning. “Tell me again why I have to go to this meeting?”

“Because you’ve already been fired by two other outfits who do this matchmaking s**t, and we need to have you settled by the start of the season.” Settled equals married.

Shoot me.

“I don’t wanna get married.” “Boo frickin’ hoo.”

I grouse, “You know, this is very dehumanizing. I’m not some slab of beef with no feelings.” d**k hoots with laughter. The asshole. “I’m being serious!”

“Shut up, Mason. If you could be trusted to choose a good girl on your own, we wouldn’t be in this situation. But your taste in women runs from bad to worse, and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let some illiterate, money-grubbing broad with a face tattoo whose ex-husband is a blood relative sink her claws into you. We’re gonna get you a nice girl, from a nice family, who you can settle down with and have a nice life.”

Nice is the foulest four-letter word in the English language. It’s got f**k beat by a mile.

I mutter, “I don’t want a nice girl.” Don’t deserve one, either.

“No s**t, Sherlock! Hence the matchmaker! Look, we’re here. Just be quiet and I’ll take care of everything. Try to look earnest.”

“Earnest?”

“Sincere. Like you’re into it.”

“Yeah, I know what the word means. But have you seen my face?” I point to it. “The default setting is f**k You, volume ten!”

Dick pulls into a parking space in front of an office building that was converted from a Victorian house. It’s all cutesy, painted pale pink with yellow trim. Lots of dainty pink rosebushes line the white picket fence that surrounds it.

I wouldn’t be surprised if Bambi and Cinderella skipped out the front door. The place looks like Walt Disney threw up all over it.

The heart-shaped sign out front reads “Perfect Pairings. Because You Deserve Your Happily-

Ever-After!”

Sweet Jesus. I’ve wandered into hell.

Dick shuts off the engine and turns to me, his face serious. “Mason, I won’t allow you to selfdestruct. As long as I’m your agent, I won’t allow it. You hear me?”

“Let’s do the math. One: my ears aren’t broken. Plus two: you’re shouting twelve inches away from my face. Equals three: I hear you.”

“Good. Now if you will just let me do the talking when we get in there, everything will be fine.”

I examine his craggy face. He looks nervous, which is strange. d**k is usually about as nervous as a plank of wood. “What’s got you so riled up about this meeting? The owner a nightmare or something?”

“The opposite of a nightmare. She’s sweet, okay? One of those Southern belle types. A lady.”

I picture an old biddie in pearls with phosphorescent white dentures wearing a straw hat with plastic flowers on the brim and feel a pang of longing for the Irish pub we passed on the way here.

Dick says, “She won’t like it if you curse or”—he waves an aggravated hand at me—“act like your usual constipated self.”

“Excuse me, but my bowel movements are very regular.”

“You know what I’m saying! Behave!”

Because d**k is nervous, I start to get nervous, too. Empathy is one of the many things I hate about myself. If I could just block everyone else’s feelings out, life would be so much easier. But I’m like an emotional sponge. All that s**t sinks into me.

Which is one of the reasons I drink so much. Alcohol helps me stay numb.

A pair of big boobs in my hands doesn’t hurt, either.

Dick throws open the driver’s door and sends me one final glare of warning before getting out of the car. I watch him amble up the front steps of the portal to hell—cleverly disguised as a matchmaker’s office—until he turns and motions impatiently for me to join him.

With a heavy sigh, I step out of the Benz into the beautiful morning.

Atlanta in May is one of the prettiest places I can imagine. Birds are chirping. Flowers are blooming. The sky is a dazzling shade of brilliant blue.

And here I am, a twenty-eight-year-old man who’s so f****d up his agent thinks finding him the perfect wife will save him from himself.

I’m only going along with it because I don’t have the heart to tell him that ship’s already sailed.

That ship has f*****g sunk.