Read Online Let's Be Frank by Brea Brown - Free Book Online Page A

It’s all I can do not to snatch my hand away from hers and put it in a safer place. I’m not sure she doesn’t bite.
    Instead, I use soothing tones when I suggest, “Sounds like you’d be the perfect candidate for a pen name.”
    I look to Betty for affirmation. She merely nods, like this is all something she’s said before to her friend.
    “I’ll take it under advisement,” Frankie replies. “It’d be different if I could hide behind a different name and a different face…”
    Another full beer appears in front of me, and I dive into the milky, smooth dark ale.
    Betty and Frankie exchange a glance that definitely means something, but I can’t quite interpret it in my fuzzy-headed state. Holding Betty’s gaze, Frankie says, “Women love it when a guy writes chick lit.”
    “Heck, I love it,” I agree, trying to control the slur creeping into my words. “It usually sounds just like all the other books, but it’s the perception it’s different that makes it great. ‘A dude wrote this? He must be so in touch with his feminine side.’”
    “Grrrowl,” Frankie says with a giggle.
    I laugh. “Exactly! Makes me wonder, how many of those guys are the actual writers of the books? Maybe their wives or girlfriends… or ghostwriters… are doing all the writing while the men are posing for headshots and making appearances in front of screaming ladies.”
    Frankie squeezes my hand to the point of pain… if I could feel pain. But I don’t seem able right now. I feel too warm and… happy. Mmm… beer. I love beer.
    “That’s just it,” she says with a pout. “I need a face. A man’s face.” Her hand lands on the inside of my thigh. High.
    “I can be your face,” I toss out carelessly.
    “Yes!” she cries. “Yes, yes, yes!”
    My eyelids are so heavy that it takes a while for me to focus on her face and remember what I said that could be eliciting such orgasmic agreement. The concentric circles she’s tracing so close to my Happy Zone aren’t aiding concentration.
    I give her a goofy smile. “What she said.”
    “No, what you said!” The hypnotic thigh-rubbing ceases. She taps me on the tip of my nose. My blinks feel about ten seconds long as I try to follow her finger… and the conversation.
    “What did I say?”
    Betty snorts. “I think it’s time you took Nurse Lightengale home before we have to carry him.”
    Frankie shoots her friend a dirty look. “No. He’s fine. I want to explore this topic a little more.”
    “He’s getting sauced!”
    “No, I’m not,” I claim, not wanting either of them to think I can’t hold alcohol any better than a skinny sorority girl. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine in a minute. I just gotta use the bathroom.”
    I make my way to the bathroom, managing to walk in a straight line (I think) and not bump into anything or anyone in the now-crowded bar, nodding and smiling at the people I pass, who either ignore me or bestow on me looks that convey everything from pity to disgust to— Hey, that woman was totally checking me out. Glancing over my shoulder at her while I pass almost destroys my precarious equilibrium, so I whip my head back around and focus on getting to the door with the correct silhouette on it.
    Inside the bathroom, I take care of business at the urinal, glad I’m alone (I have a shy bladder). When I look at myself in the mirror while washing my hands and silently singing the alphabet to make sure I’m washing them long enough, I note with surprise that I don’t look as drunk as I feel. I pull two paper towels from the dispenser by the mirror, using one to dry my hands and one to protect them from the door handle as I pull on it. There. I must not be too far gone, since I’m still worried about touching the handle that some jackleg touched after handling himself—and whatever—and not washing his hands.
    When I get back to the table, a huge glass of water sits in place of my empty beer glass. I slide into the booth and chuckle.