Mysterious Boyfriends

There is no underage sex anywhere in this story.

Also, thanks to all the readers who have reached out and become friends. For all those who have sent compliments, this story is for you!

Enjoy!

MJ

Chapter 1

Regarding Angela

Angela, Laura, and I were about to have our lives turned upside down. By men, of course. Faster than the streets flood in the French Quarter during a rain storm.

Angela, my best friend, was first. She called me on Sunday. I hadn't talked to her on Saturday, which was weird, because I talked to her every day. Or, I should say more accurately, mostly she talked to me. We don't call her The Mouth for nothing.

My name's Adrianna, my talents are that I'm really good at dieting to keep my body looking primo, hourglass voluptuous, and fit into my size 12, okay, oooocasionally sometimes size 14 clothes. I'm good at making the most of my hair, which is a gorgeous dark auburn and falls in thick waves three or four inches past my shoulders. And I'm good at singing. I kick ass at rock and roll, that's my real talent. That's good, because I'm pretty abysmal at just about everything else.

Don't ask me to change a tire or balance my checkbook or make a soufflé. Actually, don't ask me to make anything more complicated than a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I'm a sandwich kind of girl.

I'm a good friend. A really good friend. I'm not sure that's a talent though.

My life is pretty simple. I focus on my music and my friends, and I never, ever expected that internet dating would put into motion the tangle of sex and danger that was barreling toward us.

Like everything in my life, Angela was bound to be in the middle of it all, and somehow also a catalyst.

Angela has two jobs. Angela works on an all talk radio internet station where she makes the most out of her mouthy talent. I mean I'm a talker but Angela is ridiculous. She's also funny, amazingly interesting, vivacious, talented, and, as I said, my best friend, so I'm very content to let her monopolize 95% of most of our conversations.

Besides, while she talks I do all my domestic chores, which, I can tell you, I'm as bad at as I am at car repair, basketball, and making soufflés. If it weren't for Angela my house would look like Hiroshima blew up in a junkyard.

Her other job is that she works part-time as a dispatcher at our local police station. It's a little out of character for her (except that she gets to talk and give orders). She got the job mostly because I bet her that she wouldn't do it.

Today, I was playing with my brand new golden retriever, when Angela called. I could tell it was her because the ring was a snippet of the old song "You're So Vain," by Carly Simon. I let it ring for an extra second while focusing on tug-of-war with Matchbox.

My puppy was a fluff ball that Angela unceremoniously dumped him in my lap last Tuesday, saying I desperately needed a dog for company since it had been so long since I'd had a man. I had named him Matchbox because he had let out a sharp happy snort when I accidentally dropped a toy car out of a cereal box.

Conveniently, I was wearing my cell phone on a clip on the waistband of my jeans. I stood up as I answered it.

"You'll never guess what happened," Angela said.

"Aliens landed and made you a blonde," I said. She has light-strawberry red-head, with straight hair so fine that she has to keep it short.

"No, guess again."

"Ah..." I plugged in my Bluetooth, which gave me both hands free to fold my laundry. It made me harder for her to hear me though. (Why is it no matter what brand of Bluetooth I use I sound like I'm muddled underwater? Do I just have bad headset karma?) "One of your shows got picked up an additional somewhere?"

She sighed, a loud, huge sigh. "No." Her initial euphoric bubble for a second but resurrected in record time. "Guess again."

I clicked my tongue against my teeth, thinking about her tone while separating shirts from socks from underwear. "You got laid?"

"YES!"

"Nooooo."

"Yes."

Now, one of Angela's shows gives advice about men. As a matter of fact it's called Don't Be Dumb. I have to tell you, she can give advice better than Dr. Ruth but she is the ultimate in do as I say but not as I do. It makes great entertainment for me and the gang though.

"Angelaaaaaahhh..." Ah, crap. If I wasn't careful I was going to sound like her mother.

"I know, I know, but this is different."

I should sound excited right about now, I thought. But I couldn't muster it. "Okay Angie, tell me," I said.

"Well, I met him on the internet," Angela said.

"Hhmn," I muttered. "Where?"

"Match.com."

"Okay."

"His name is Burt," Angela said.

Oh, gag, I thought.

"I know what you're thinking, 'Oh, gag me', right?" Angela said.

Busted.

"Right? You did, right?" Angela said. "But that is the only thing that isn't amazing about him. He's gorgeous. I'm talking Hollywood leading man gorgeous. He emailed me on Friday and his emails were so sweet and poetic. Then I gave him my phone number and he texted me for an hour straight and those were so clever I had to meet him right away. He took me out to Le Chic downtown for dinner and we talked until it closed and then we went back to my place."

Ut-oh.

"Which you are probably thinking is a big ut-oh, but I knew it was okay because I promised you I wouldn't do anything on the first date. We talked until 6 am straight about everything and anything," Angela said.

"Um-hum," I said. I had sorted all my laundry into piles by category and now I began to fold and hang. I hate doing laundry. I only do laundry when I'm on the phone with Angela because it makes the task more bearable for me.

I just remembered one other thing I'm good at. I'm good at avoiding commitment. Reeeeally good at it. Like big time. That might be my biggest talent of all.

In my mind I could see Angela pacing her small efficiency apartment waving her hands around.

"And then from about 6am to 7:30am we just snuggled on the couch and held each other. Adriana, it was so magical. It was just the most magical thing you could possibly imagine."

"Mmn-hmn," I said.

Angela always talks very fast. It's probably the only thing about her that isn't Louisiana. As she gets animated she begins to talk faster and faster. If she started talking any faster I was going to have to ask her to slow down.

"So then we watched the sun come up through that tiny stained glass window above my kitchenette. We just, you know, breathed together and watched the light in total silence. Then I kicked his behind out the door just like you'd have wanted me to." She paused.

"Aaaah-hmmn," I said.

"Because we agreed, after the last two guys..."

"Five," I interrupted.

"...No sex on the first date."

"Right," I said.

"So I explained that, and he left, like the perfect gentleman he is," Angela said.

"Um-hum."

There was silence for a moment. Now all my folding was done except for the socks. All my hanging was done except for my jeans.

"So this was Saturday night?" I asked.

"Um-hum," she said.

"So do you want to tell me how you ended up doing the horizontal salsa mambo between now and then?"

"Well, about 15 minutes later, Burt knocked on my door. He said, 'That was the most incredible night I ever had. I was too excited and wound up to drive so I walked around the block a few times and now I'm hungry. And I just don't want to be without you. Do you want to have breakfast?' And I said, 'Sure.' Then we went to Denny's and he bought me breakfast. After we had been eating a while he said 'You know, this is the second meal that I've bought you and it's now Sunday, a separate day, so I'd have to say that this is a second date.'

I thought about it and I said, 'Well I guess it is.' Then he said, 'I should show you what my place is like and then we can talk some more. It's Sunday, what else do we have to do?' Then we went to his place and then once we were there we went at it like rabbits the whole day."

"In other words, he played you," I said.

"Yes! And it was glorious," Angela said.

"You are hopeless," I said.

"And in love."

"You are in lust. No one can be in love in less than twenty-four hours," I said.

"I'm looking at my watch now. I don't think it took me that long to fall in love."

"Cripses. This is going to be problematic. Tell me he's not as bad as Sven, or Quinton, or John."

"He's not," Angela said.

"Promise."

"I promise," she said.

Oh, God. Please don't let me have to stick a needle in my eye. "Okay Angela, I believe you."

Chapter 2

Regarding Laura

The next few days went by with only brief phone call check-ins from Angela telling me how she had met, ah-hem, quote, unquote "The One" and she was happier than she had ever been in her life. She sounded giddy and high and a few of our friends had called, worried about Angela's new enthusiasm.

Shayla called but I let it roll over to voice mail. It was freakily cold for New Orleans, even for mid-February. I was reading a book, snuggled in under two layers of covers, and I so did not want to answer a phone. I'd had it with the freakin' phone.

It was nine pm on a Friday night. I had the whole weekend off, a rarity that only happens when the stars align (or bar owners screw me over) and my plan was to not come out until Monday morning at the earliest. My cute little pink flip phone beeped to let me know she had left a message. Of course she had.

Two minutes later a higher tone signaled that she left a text. I reached over to take a look.

Didn't chck my vm did u?

No I did not.

A minute later another text came through.

U rding a book - R'nt u? I have som1 I wnt u to meet. Get ass out bd 2 ML stat. Be-iytch. ☺

I have someone I want you to meet. I considered ignoring this. I told myself what I always told myself when I was trying to motivate myself and I didn't want to go somewhere. 'You are not going to meet anyone new staying at home.'

Then I told myself what my devil side always told me. 'I don't need to meet anyone else new. Three or four good girlfriends are plenty. That's enough to keep me happy. If there are no good men in all of New Orleans one day I'll move to another city or I'll be single for the rest of my life and either way is fine.'

I went back to reading and a dull ache formed in my chest as it always does when I'm torn. Maybe I'll just ignore Shayla? I thought.

Another text came through.

Don't ignre me. Come. Don't make me come get u.

I grumbled but I got out of bed. This was a problem with being psychically connected with your friends. They knew when you when were thinking that their boyfriends were named after dumb Sesame street characters, when you were purposefully ignoring their phone calls, and when you were eating a second pint of triple threat Haagen Daas ice cream out of the container. (Which, hey is not so bad because did you know they made the containers smaller and are still charging the same price? So it's not like it's the same as eating two full pints. Okay, okay, it's a rationalization, I know.)

Anyway, I got out of bed, put on my best pair of jeans and a low cut shirt that showed off my Jessica Rabbit figure, hopped in my car, (a twenty year old Jaguar, yes a Jaguar, thank you) and went to ML, aka Mercury Lounge, the only bar in our neighborhood where the music is not too loud for my scarily sensitive hearing.

I found a parking spot a few doors down and across the street from the club and zipped into the tight spot showing off daredevil parallel parking skills that would make any valet envious. (And the car owner of the cars parked in front and back of me scared to all get out if they had been watching.)

It took my eyes a second to adjust once I walked in to ML. The place was packed. Michelle, the bartender with pink hair and Beauregard, who used to be part-owner of ML before he sold it to the sleaze ball who currently ran it, were behind the bar hustling to keep up with drink orders. In the back left corner of the club, near the stage, were Angela, Shayla, and Melanie sitting with a woman I didn't know.

Melanie has that beautiful chocolate-mocha skin that is always flawless and never seems to age. She's five eleven and three quarters and as a decently successful model she earns more than Shayla, Angela, and I combined. Today she was wearing all white. She usually did as it set off her skin to perfection but today it was a blinding white it was like looking into a supernova, so it took me a minute to take my eyes off her and look at the other lady.

I have to tell you I was immediately crestfallen. I know Shayla didn't precisely say it in her text but I was sure she meant she was going to introduce me to a man. It had been two and a half years since my last relationship.

I had gone on plenty of dates. Although I hadn't always (okay almost never until recently) made the most stellar choices I still got excited enough to put on great jeans and a good top at the thought of meeting a guy.

I walked slowly toward the table. I thought my first sentence would have been, 'Hey I would have worn an old T-shirt if I knew you were a chick,' but I couldn't be sure it would come out funny and not rude so I kept my mouth shut.

"Adrianna," Melanie said. "This is Laura, from Alabama. Laura, this is Adrianna."

We looked at each other. She looked like what I had always thought Alabama would look like although I never met anyone from there. She looked a little bit like Rhea Perlman from that old sitcom, Cheers, except her hair was bleached so blonde it was almost white and she had about an inch of dark brown roots showing. Three of her bottom teeth overlapped, as if there was not enough room in her mouth for them, and her blue eyes, which were gorgeous, were just the tiny bit cross-eyed.

I held out my hand to her. "Hi."

She stood up to greet me.

"Hey," she said back.

She was almost as short as Angela, which is to say really short.

She smiled at me and her smile transformed her face. It lit her up until she was absolutely beautiful. She shook my hand firmly. Her hand was warm and dry and she gave me one firm pump up and down and good solid squeeze and then let go.

In the moment we touched it was like we connected completely. I smiled at her, perhaps the most real smile I had ever given in my life up to that point.

We both sat down in unison and scooted our chairs in each movement precisely timed to the microsecond like synchronized swimmers.

Angela gave me a look like I was the devil.

Well crap.

Angela was jealous.

"Y'all are going to be fast friends," Melanie said. "You have a ton of things in common."

"Like what?" I said.

"We're both serial killers," Laura said.

"Sssh, no one knows," I said.

"It's okay to say, they always think you're joking," Laura said.

"The key is..." I said.

"To never take a trophy," we both said at once. I found this both delightful and creepy.

"You are both hereby un-friended from my Facebook," Shayla said. "And you," she said looking at Laura and leaning away from her, "may never know where I live."

Laura rubbed her hands together in front of her. "My work here is done."

"So what else do we have in common?" I asked.

"You're both rock stars," Melanie said ticking off the items and holding up her fingers.

"Hmph." This was from Laura. I never argue with this pronouncement.

"You've both recorded exactly three albums. You've have both briefly lived in Los Angeles and New York. You're both Southerners." I'm originally from Texas (the only real southern state) and Laura, apparently, is from Alabama.

"You're both fabulously funny," Melanie said.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," I said, "Get to the good part."

"And nice," Melanie said, "and smart." Then she paused. "And you are both are going to marry musicians."

"WHAT!!" I said.

"Well, there is that," Laura said.

"Wait," Angela said, "That's me."

"No," Melanie said firmly pointing squarely at my chest. "You."

I put my hand on my chest and concentrated on ice cream, expensive cowboy boots, and deep breathing. I was worried I was going to hyperventilate.

"You sprang that on me like that on purpose," I said.

"Yes, ma'am," Melanie said.

"Well, jeez," I said.

Melanie's mama, and grandmamma, and great-grandmamma are voodoo-priestesses. Famous ones. Rich, very good famous ones. Melanie's family has lived in New Orleans since before it was a state. Melanie's daddy is a well-off stock broker who came through one day for a torrid affair and Melanie was the result. She grew up partially in the French Quarter of New Orleans but mostly with her dad in New York. She struggled as a model there. Her mother called her back home one day out of the blue when she was twenty. Melanie told her to kiss off. But when her mother told her that her career would blossom like never before here, Melanie came back and we've been listening to the matriarchs read the signs ever since. But they'd never read them for me.

"Did you tell them about Burt yet?" I asked Angela looking to change the subject.

"No," she said. "I just got here about a minute before you did and we were just learning about Laura."

"The serial killer," Shayla added. "The one who is here for Peter."

"Peter who?" I asked.

"Peter." Melanie said and jerked a finger at the back stage door of Mercury Lounge which, as if on cue, opened and in walked Peter carrying a djembe drum under each arm.

"You have got to be kidding me," I said.

I looked at Laura with my stare of death which she shrugged off. "What can I say, I'm in love."

I felt a strange molten volcano strangling my intestines and bubbling up inside me. "Where did you meet him?"

"On the internet."

"Um-hum. Where?"

"Facebook."

"Um-humn."

"When? Hmn? Yesterday? The day before?" Tread carefully Adrianna, I told myself.

"No..." she sounded hurt. "Last week."

"Aaaaarrrrgghhh," I said.

"Judge not, lest ye be judged. Throw stones not, lest they land on your own foot," Laura said.

"From a bunt," said Shayla.

"Argh," I said. I was momentarily preoccupied watching Beau take a huge bag of trash out the back door. He was someone who knew everything that went on, good and bad, and he looked distracted and wary. Then I looked back at Laura. "Okay, I'm not sure I really want to hear this, but go ahead, hit me."

"So you see, it started like this..."

"No wait," I said. "First, someone tell me." I took a deep breath here. Deep in my heart of hearts I was afraid to ask but before the story started I had to know. I hadn't seen Peter in a long time. I hadn't heard a status update because he wasn't in my circle and I hadn't cared that much. I looked at Shayla. Peter was married to Shayla's first cousin Tracy. Two years ago I got daily reports that they were fighting. The reports stopped. I assumed it was because they decided to live with it because they decided it wasn't going to get better, or worse. "Shaaaayla. Alright my friend, tell me."

"Separated. Two weeks."

"Cripses. Ooooookaaay. Laura, you have the floor." Crazy lady. I'm glad you don't know where I live either.

"So. I know Facebook is basically a big waste of time, but I decided for my business I should start contacting more musicians. So, I friended James Ogles, and from there all his musician friends, including Jennifer Netes, and jacked all her friends, which included Shayla, and jacked all her friends, which included Peter. When I saw he played the djembe I wrote him because I want to learn the djembe..."

"Of course, he played you, with the 'djembe is a girl magnet card' thing," I said.

She ignored me.

"And then we texted all night."

How do guys who do not know how to hold a conversation learn how to do this? Do they have a Cyrano de Bergerac on the internet renting himself out to fool women?