Page 16 of All That Glitters

Chapter twelve

The Art of the Anti-Flirt

For Debbie, it was like being dropped into a foreign country without a map or translation book. She could already tell this wasn’t her scene, and the ‘costume’ Veronica had her wear wasn’t helping things.

She tugged at the hem of her short black dress — actually, Veronica’s short black dress — for the tenth time in as many minutes.

It was a dress designed to be looked at, not worn by someone whose particular talents consisted of knocking things over and tripping on flat surfaces.

The neckline plunged lower than her comfort level, the waistline hugged tightly, and the hemline stopped way higher than anything she’d worn before.

It was a ‘costume’ (the term Debbie insisted on using) meant to make a statement; and for Debbie, that statement was ‘look at me and my questionable decision-making skills.’

“Stop fidgeting,” Veronica scolded, her voice just loud enough to be heard over the thumping bass. “You look like you’re about to rob the place.”

“I feel like I’m about to fall out of this dress,” Debbie hissed back, acutely aware of the many eyes that had watched them cross the bar. She wasn’t used to being looked at; at least not like this.

“It’s a power move,” Veronica said, her eyes scanning the room like a general planning an attack.

She was in her element, elegant and confident in a red dress that managed to be both sophisticated and alluring without looking like it was trying too hard.

“And stop pulling down the hem. Guys are suckers for legs. It’s part of the plan. ”

“What plan? Operation Mortify Debbie?” She shifted uncomfortably on her borrowed heels, which were already causing her calves to cramp. “Because if that’s the goal, we’re succeeding spectacularly.”

“Operation: Make Tony See You as a Sexual Being,” Veronica corrected her. “If we’re gonna get him thinking about you romantically, the first thing we need to do is get him thinking about you as more than just a comfortable sweatshirt he’s known since second grade.”

Debbie recoiled slightly. “So I should do what? Show up at his door naked?”

Veronica actually paused to consider this. “Hmm... naw. Good idea in theory, but you’d probably be blushing so much you’d pass out. We need to ease you into this.”

“I was kidding,” Debbie said, not sure if Veronica caught the sarcasm in her naked question. “V, this isn’t me. I don’t do the ‘look-at-me’; I do the ‘are these clothes clean and comfy’.”

“That’s exactly the point,” Veronica said, signaling a passing waiter for drinks.

“You’ve been ‘you’ around Tony for fifteen years, and where has it gotten you?

Friend-zoned with a capital F. We need to shake things up with a ‘shock and awe’ campaign that shows Tony there’s more to Debbie Campbell than the girl next door who trips over her own shadow. ”

“But—”

“No buts,” Veronica cut her off firmly. “Trust the process. I’ve helped at least three friends get out of the friend zone, and one of them is married now. To the guy who used to call her ‘bro’.”

Debbie winced. Tony had called her ‘dude’ just last week. Maybe Veronica had a point.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do,” Veronica said, her plan now fully formed as the waiter set two pink cocktails in front of them. “I’ll pick out a guy, and you’ll go up and practice flirting with him. A dry run.”

Debbie picked up her drink and took a desperate swig, needing the liquid courage. It tasted like someone had melted a strawberry Starburst candy into grain alcohol. “Practice flirting,” she repeated flatly. “With a stranger.”

“Exactly. Test drive your feminine wiles.”

Debbie nearly choked. “I have feminine wiles?”

“All girls do. Yours are just a little more dormant than most. Kinda like a volcano that hasn’t erupted in a while, but still has all the lava beneath the surface.”

“You’re saying I could destroy a small Italian village.”

Veronica thought about it. “You’re right. Bad analogy. I forgot who I was talking to.”

“No. I think you probably had it right.” Debbie took another deep swig of her drink.

Veronica scanned the bar, her gaze sweeping past several tables of interchangeable finance bros before landing on a target of perfect opportunity.

He was a macho lounge lizard right out of the 80s, complete with a thick Tom Selleck mustache and pastel Miami Vice sports coat.

He sat alone at the bar, nursing a drink that glowed an unnatural blue under the mood lighting.

“And we’ve got our first victim,” Veronica said. “See the guy with the mustache over at the bar? Mr. Peacock?”

Debbie followed her gaze, nearly choking on her pink abomination of a cocktail. “Uhm, yeah...?”

“He’s your target.”

“No way,” Debbie balked, almost spitting up her drink. “He looks like a pimp.”

“He’s perfect,” Veronica countered. “Low stakes. Zero emotional investment. You’re not here to actually pick him up. You’re just here to test-drive your flirting. Think of him as a training wheel. You crash and burn with him, who cares? You’ll never see him again.”

“I don’t know,” Debbie said, tugging again at her hemline that seemed to creep up every time she wasn’t paying attention. “I’m really not good at this kind of thing. I’m more of a fumble awkwardly and make self-deprecating jokes until someone takes pity on me kind of flirter.”

“And where’s that gotten you?” Veronica said. “I’ll answer that — friend-zoned. And to get you out of that, we need this ‘shock and awe’ campaign. And stop hiding your legs.”

Debbie bit her bottom lip and let out a sigh. “Fine. We’ll try this.”

“Good.” Veronica reached into her purse and pulled out a carton of cigarettes. “Now here, take this.” She juggled one out and handed it to Debbie.

“I don’t smoke.”

“Neither do I,” Veronica said. “We’re just using it as a prop.

It’s mysterious, and guys love it. It’s like a phallic symbol or something.

Studies have shown that something like ninety-nine percent of guys’ brains are geared towards sex.

So to them, they see a cigarette, and it unconsciously reminds them of sex.

I mean, hell, you could probably sneeze and it would remind them of sex. ”

Debbie considered this. “Maybe I should just go over and sneeze on that guy. It feels more on-brand for me.”

“Debbie.” Veronica took her by the shoulders, forcing her to meet her gaze. “You can do this. It’s just practice. A warm-up. Like downing a shot before you sing karaoke. Just go over there, light up, make some eye contact, smile mysteriously, and let him do most of the talking.”

“And if he asks me something?”

“Give vague, intriguing answers. Be alluring. Be the woman of mystery.”

“I’m about as mysterious as a golden retriever,” Debbie muttered.

“It doesn’t matter. You look hot. Now go.” Veronica gave her a little shove that nearly sent Debbie careening into a nearby table. “Shock and awe, roomie. And stop tugging down your hem.”

“I hate you,” Debbie called back over her shoulder as she stumbled forward.

At the bar, Mark the Mustache finished his neon-blue drink and plopped the glass down, signaling the bartender for a refill. Debbie took a deep breath to calm her nerves, then walked up with the stiff-legged gait of someone walking a gangplank.

She slid awkwardly onto the stool next to him, immediately tugging down the hem of her dress. Mark glanced over, trying for a look of smooth, casual interest that came across as slightly predatory. His mustache, waxed to precise points, twitched with anticipation.

Debbie mustered her courage and dug the cigarette from her tiny purse.

It emerged not as a sleek white cylinder, but as a sad, broken L-shape.

Oh well. Commit to the bit. She stuck it between her lips anyway.

Backwards. The filter side pointed out. She felt a crumb of tobacco on her tongue, recoiled, and pulled the cigarette out to not-so-discreetly spit the speck onto the floor.

It landed on her shoe instead. She sighed and slipped the cigarette back in her mouth, the right way this time, then began digging through her purse for a lighter she didn’t own.

“Allow me,” Mark said, his voice a low purr that made her skin crawl. He produced a gold-plated Zippo from his pocket, flicking it open with the practiced ease of someone who’d done this for countless other women, and touched the flame to the tip of her cigarette.

“Uhm. Thanks,” she mumbled around the filter.

Mark waved down the bartender with the casualness of someone who’d done this a million times. “Todd! Why don’t you fix the lady a vodka. She looks like she could use it.”

The bartender nodded and reached for a bottle.

Debbie, feeling the performance pressure from both Mark and Veronica, who Debbie spotted watching her from across the bar, took what she hoped was a tentative, sophisticated drag.

But her lungs, apparently, hadn’t gotten the memo.

An eruption of coughs racked her entire body like a small earthquake.

Her elbow swung and nailed the glass of vodka the bartender had just placed in front of her, sending it splashing across the bar in a sticky stream.

“Oops,” Debbie wheezed between coughs.

“Can we get another vodka over here, Todd,” Mark said, patting Debbie on the back with a little too much familiarity. “New smoker, I take it?” he asked her.

“Very,” she wheezed, her eyes watering and throat on fire. “Very, very new.” She glanced over at Veronica, who mouthed either ‘Sexy!’ or ‘Sorry!’.

“Pro tip,” Mark said, leaning in. “It helps if you blow the smoke out instead of, you know, trying to digest it.”

She nodded, then broke into another fit of coughs that made her eyes water and her mascara run. So much for looking mysterious and alluring. She probably looked like a raccoon caught in a rainstorm.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you here before,” Mark said, laying on the charm despite the disastrous opening. “You come here often?”

She shook her head, still coughing. “First time.” She scooted the ashtray over and, without thinking, spat out another piece of tobacco that had somehow found its way onto her tongue.

Mark actually looked a bit embarrassed for her, his smug confidence wavering in the face of her spectacular ineptitude.

“My name’s Mark,” he said, trying desperately to salvage what was rapidly becoming the most disastrous pickup attempt in human history. “I don’t believe I caught your name.”

“Debbie,” she managed to get out between coughs.

Debbie decided to give it one more try at looking sultry and mysterious.

She took another drag, smaller this time, but her lungs were having none of it.

She broke into a huge, hacking cough, and the lit cigarette, its ember glowing red hot, shot from her mouth like a tiny missile.

It flew through the air and landed with a sizzle right in the middle of the puddle of spilled vodka.

A thin line of blue flame raced across the polished wood of the bar.

“Oh, crap,” Debbie gasped, watching the flames spread. “Crap, crap, crap.”

Debbie’s brain was running now on sheer panic and reflex.

FIRE! Her brain screamed at her. THROW LIQUID ON FIRE!

This would have been a great idea if the liquid in question had been water instead of what was essentially rocket fuel in a fancy glass.

She grabbed the first glass of liquid she saw, which happened to be Mark’s freshly refilled glass of vodka, and threw its entire contents onto the flames.

WHOOSH!

A fireball erupted, a mushroom cloud of orange flame that momentarily singed the tips of Mark’s prized mustache and sent him leaping backward off his stool with a startled yelp.

The entire bar fell silent, the thumping music and chatter replaced by a stunned quiet.

Every head in the room turned to stare at the small, accidental arsonist in the short black dress.

The bartender, moving with the speed of someone who had handled too many alcohol-related emergencies, grabbed a towel and began patting the fire.

Unfortunately for him, it was a towel he had already used several times that night to wipe up spilled drinks.

When the towel caught on fire, he tossed it onto the carpet, which then quickly caught on fire.

Meanwhile, the fire raced across the bar, igniting napkins, then menus, then coasters, then the decorative dried flowers, then the curtains that separated the bar from the VIP lounge.

The flames climbed hungrily, feeding on anything flammable they could reach.

An alarm sounded, and sprinklers kicked on, raining water down on the panicked patrons as they rushed for the exits. Debbie stood frozen in horror, watching the disaster unfold. Veronica appeared suddenly at her side, grabbing her arm.

“We need to go. Now,” she said, dragging Debbie toward the door. “Before they start asking for names and insurance information.”

“Next time, can I just sneeze on him?” Debbie asked as they raced out the door.