Driving Me Wild Read online

  Barely suppressing a grin, I recalled how my journey toward the realization of a dream had materialized. It had been one of those unearned coincidences that those bearing unrequited crushes like to think will point the way to sudden happiness. It began with a simple tap on the shoulder three months earlier, as I navigated a crowded Niketown corridor on the Mag Mile. The last person I had expected to see waiting there was Aimee, whom I’d probably not seen in five years.

  Aimee Chase, the woman who broke more hearts among the Kenwood High population than any other. The woman who had accompanied me to the top of Kenwood’s academic heap, where we were both in our class’s top ten–if memory serves she was just two slots below salutatorian. We had every College Prep course you could name together, co-led the National Honor Society, and even had a few friends in common.

  But I always knew what Aimee was where I was concerned: a dream. I didn’t have the flavor of the superstar jocks, pretty boys, and roughnecks who competed for her attention. Seeing the talent of the field she had before her, I graciously excused myself from the fray and took my place as a benign, emasculated “friend.” But this was a new day and a new me, and Aimee Chase had taken the initiative to approach me.

  Tall for a woman, Aimee hadn’t lost her Coke bottle profile: long-legged, trim waistline, a noticeable but respectfully restrained bosom, plus a vaguely dusky complexion that had many guessing her absentee father was Italian. Her honey-brown hair, which seemed naturally blessed with the type of highlights most women paid for, lay over one shoulder in loose flowing waves. Her eyes, two pearls of shiny hazel, danced with ambitious intelligence and bold sensuality. Breathtaking! I was back in high school all over again, hooked.

  While my insides hummed with infatuation, externally I stood tall and kept my cool. Our conversation flowed easily and submerged my every insecurity. The more we talked, the more excited I grew. Aimee had apparently kept some level of tabs on me, primarily via social media. She was clearly aware of my career track the past several years and was full of questions. I immediately turned off my “Platonic Friend” mindset and switched over to “Man in Hot Pursuit.”

  I knew that Aimee had left ESPN a few years earlier to take a risky job working for Todd J. Terry, the loudmouth but admittedly funny sports reporter-turned-pundit. Terry’s online media channels were a major source of water-cooler talk at my office, so I knew that as his COO, Aimee was very good at her job. I had no reservations about giving her props while trying to make my gig in Investor Relations sound as sexy as possible. Something clicked, because she requested my cell number before I could make a play for hers, and called me the next day.

  The next weeks unfolded like a movie script, at least compared with some of my other dating experiences. Aimee said she wasn’t seeing anyone seriously, and I saw no evidence that wasn’t true. We wore out each other with phone calls, texts and tweets several times a week, clashing swords over Obamacare, immigration reform, gun control, marijuana legalization and the utility of reality TV. We worked out at each other’s fitness clubs a few times, admiring each other’s stamina on the Stairmaster, treadmill and stationary bikes.

  Aimee even tolerated my Greatest Boy Bands CD, which I still get an occasional urge to listen to despite being a grown man. I knew we were meant to be when she flawlessly sang along with me to The Backstreet Boys’ “I Want it That Way.” Back in the Stone Age of CDs, I had seen one date after another respond by ripping the disc from the player and trying to pitch it out the window.

  Each weekend, as we exposed each other to our favorite spots in Chicago, I dared to think that my father’s prediction was finally coming true. Even though I had picked up on Aimee’s being a little slower than most women to “invite me up for coffee,” I couldn’t shake the sense that things were trending my way. Years of chivalry, monogamy, and my share of lonely nights were about to pay off.

  Then Aimee threw wine in my face.

  When I returned home from Winthrop’s, I got a welcome dose of José’s growing maturity; not only had he not hosted any crazy parties or had any fast girls over, he had sent Victor home so he could get the full date run-down from me. While I wrestled with a sense of shame over it, I unspooled the sad truth to him. His reaction instinctively made my skin crawl. “See, that’s why the fellas say we should never love them hos.”

  I played it cool physically, leaning against a nearby wall and sizing the boy up. Hours earlier, I would have pushed back against his statement, insisted that we don’t refer to women or girls in such fashion, not in my house. Mind you, I was the responsible uncle who had recently waved José away from a sexual relationship with a girl that he admitted he didn’t even like. I had told him there was nothing wrong with safe sex when he had the right girl, but she should at least be someone he respected.

  The uncle who gave that advice, who would have disputed José’s words, was gone.

  José’s vibe darkened as I stared over at him. “You ain’t gonna correct me, Uncle Mike?”

  I shrugged. “I suppose I should.”

  He crossed his arms. “I don’t know if I can be like you, man. I don’t see myself being the guy that girls take home to Mama.”

  I grimaced as my nephew’s arrow hit its mark. Senior year at Kenwood High, I had been voted Most Likely to Make a Good Husband. Even then I knew it wasn’t much to be proud of.

  Given that I didn’t neatly fit into either club, I had always made do with being “the nice guy,” the type who primarily dated the girls who came to me. I had a couple of different girlfriends sophomore year at Kenwood, baseball and basketball groupies who just wanted to be on my arm for the exposure. Junior year, I lucked up and met Alicia Parker, a wild girl who suddenly introduced me to the temporary joys of sex. I pulled some reasonably attractive dates for dances, prom, and Homecomings, although they rarely returned my calls afterwards.

  My teens and early twenties were an occasionally thrilling, largely disappointing experience where dating was concerned. The more I thought about it, I had probably endured those years–high school and college–by clinging to a version of my father’s dubious prediction that the desirable women of America would awaken one day and see me as a desirable meal ticket.

  As José watched a movie in my family room, I stood in my bedroom, shirt off but pants on. If the occasional compliments of women were any indication, I didn’t lack much in the looks department. Sure, I had a bit of a beer belly, but I was barely ten pounds heavier than I was as a star shortstop at American. Almost weekly, I had women remark that I reminded them of the Wedding Crashers-era Bradley Cooper. Of course, unlike Bradley I didn’t possess a rare talent that fetched millions in the marketplace.

  I sat on the bed, phrases from Aimee tonight, and other women before her, cascading through my head. Sorry, Michael, you’re just not my type. Sorry, Michael, I already have a boyfriend. Sorry, Michael, I’m not ready for another relationship right now. At the rate I was going, I would still be a bachelor at forty. I wasn’t real crazy about that idea.

  Like my mother, who had raised her expectations of me when Warren knocked up his high school girlfriend and gave her a grandson far before she was ready for one, I had always viewed myself as the marrying kind. “Please do me a favor,” Mom had said while gripping my wrist as we sat in the hospital awaiting José’s birth. “Add a few years to your mother’s life? Get married before you become some whoremonger–like before 30–and give me some grandbabies who look like me?”

  If Aimee’s reaction to my pronouncement of love tonight was any indication, Mom was in for another round of disappointment. Every time I thought I was closing in on Ms. Right, I found myself banished to the infamous “friend zone.”

  I’d had enough, and while I didn’t really want José to know, it was time to start acting like it.

  As they say in advertising, the women of Chicago didn’t care for the dog food that Michael Blake was selling. If I was ever going to win over Aimee or someone comparable, it was time to stop complaini
ng and start working with a new recipe, the one that worked so well for the average Bad Boy, Playboy, Pick Up Artist, or Casanova. I figured it shouldn’t be rocket science–just follow the path of those who already projected the qualities sought by most women.

  Reinvention is a mainstay of American culture–Daniel Radcliffe transformed himself from Harry Potter into a ballsy heartthrob. And men regularly crossed back and forth along the bad boy-good guy continuum: Bill Clinton’s self-willed short- and long-term survival despite getting the world’s most infamous B.J. was only the first, most vivid example to cross my radar. It was time for me to take my own stab at transformation. I couldn’t beat the bad boys of the world, so for now at least, it was time to join them.

  Flicking off my bedroom light and sliding into bed, I grabbed my phone and began typing out a rough game plan. Flooded with a sudden sensation of peace, I determined to enjoy this night with the bed to myself. It would be one of the last I would spend alone.

  CHAPTER 5

  Aimee

  With thirty-six hours of sweet peace separating me from Friday’s confrontations with Michael and Todd, I waved with joy at my best friend Sydney as she arrived to meet me for Sunday brunch at Lily’s. With her quickly slimming figure, I sensed Sydney’s pride in the fit of her hollow lace crochet blouse, white capris and matching pumps.

  “Dr. Latham,” I said as I stood to give her a hug, “you keep up this weight loss and pretty soon I won’t recognize you.” Sydney, a gynecologist, was two years into running a prospering little practice on the South Loop.

  “Get over it,” was her loving reply as she suspiciously eyed what looked like a college kid looking us over. “A few more pounds, Chase, and your fat best friend will be a thing of the past. Get used to sharing the stage–like right now, I don’t know if that little perv is more interested in you or me.”

  I tried to soften the frown on my face, but gave it to her straight. “Sydney, we’ve talked about this.”

  “I know, I know,” she said, waving me off to avoid one of my sermons about how attractive she was at any weight. “I like the dress,” she said as a diversion. My admittedly cute checkered number with cap sleeves hit me at the thighs. “That’s perfect for a Sunday outing,” Sydney continued as we took our seats. “Clearly stylish, modestly sexy but doesn’t quite proclaim you to be ’open for business.’”

  “I’m glad you approve,” I said, returning my attention to the menu. “Where’s Tara? I thought she was coming with you.”

  “She just texted me that she got a late start but is almost here.” After pausing with me to lust after a passing waiter’s tray of plump pancakes, layered French Toast and giant omelets, oozing with cheese and sliced tomatoes, Sydney peeked from behind her menu. “I hope you don’t mind that I already briefed her on your little date from hell?”

  I waved her off. “Whatever saves me from having to regurgitate all this twice.” I was glad to have my two closest friends up to speed on the colorful crash-and-burn of my friendship with Michael. His closing accusations about me had left me a little rattled; I was hoping Sydney and Tara would shoot them down as ridiculous.

  By the time Sydney had a clue about what to order, Tara, a petite, brown-skinned beauty, arrived. Once we had placed our orders, the inevitable psychoanalysis began. It tended to be the price of baring my soul to these two, whom I trusted more than anyone in my life.

  Trying to be a good sport, I even humored Sydney by running her “analysis” past Tara. “The Doc here says it’s my fault that Michael had built up unrealistic expectations about where things were heading. She says I shouldn’t be so irresistible.”

  Tara playfully rolled her brown eyes. “I don’t know why you spend any time with this one,” she said, nodding toward Sydney. “She gets hung up on your looks because unlike me, she hasn’t accepted that next to you we’re both a 6 out of 10 at best.”

  “Now you’re in outer space,” I said. “Never mind that you’re both pretty girls, but Tara, you’ve always been ten pounds lighter than me. And Sydney, you have a sense of style that attracts attention from anyone within a hundred yards of you.”

  Tara shrugged as she shut her menu. “Hey, you have the looks, I have the common sense, and Doc is the smart one.”

  Sydney cracked a smile. “Smart one, huh? Tara, you work hard but you get to clock out daily at 5.” Tara had a good gig as an administrator with Chicago Public Schools. “Chase here gets to rub shoulders with sports and entertainment heavy hitters. Then there’s me, stuck spending the day with my face and hands in places they should only be as part of a date, not a day at the office.”

  In addition to being frequently inappropriate, Sydney had been an “out” lesbian–if only to Tara and me–since shortly after my return to Chicago. She continued to treat this fact like classified information: despite the fact we lived in a deep blue state, Sydney was very sensitive about the likely political views of her patient base. My average patient is forty-two years old, has a household income of four hundred thirty-seven thousand dollars, and votes Republican, she had reiterated last year. I don’t need them knowing a thing about whom I sleep with.

  Tara turned to me. “So, did you take a pass on Michael’s profession of love so you can wait for your ship–or should I say, your Commissioner–to come in?” Tara knew better than to speak Ian’s actual name in public.

  Sydney gave her a warning look. “Now you know I already went there.”

  Amidst a sip of her decaf, Tara’s eyes flipped heavenward. “I can’t believe you’re still seeing him.” She set her cup down and gave me a measured stare. “Aimee, you’re far too smart to think there’s any future there.”

  Sydney leaned forward, scooting her orange juice glass to the side. “Tara, dial it back.”

  For some reason, Sydney’s protective tone made my cheeks sting more than Tara’s words. “You guys act like he was always some married man with kids. He was with me before all that.”

  I felt my breath catch, realizing some of the anger rising within might be due to lack of sleep–despite being dozens of hours past my confrontations with Michael and Todd, I had failed to get more than a few hours of shut-eye at a time without being assaulted by a strange nightmare in which Robin Roberts was interviewing me on “Good Morning America.” I love Robin and everything she stands for, so this should have been a pleasant dream, but in this one I would look down to see that I was dressed in nothing but rumpled cotton pajamas and high heels.

  Something in the look on my face or in my eyes must have softened Tara, because she lightened up. “All right then, let me hear from the horse’s mouth about this blow-up with the ever-respectable Michael Blake.”

  Eager to release the building tension, I tittered like a teen. “Right, I barely brought Sydney up to speed on all that. Friday night with Michael was its own disaster. You will love this. Here I’ve been nice enough to spend some of almost every weekend with this guy for the last two months, right? You know, just hanging out.”

  Tara nodded. “It sounded like things were looking promising, whether you realized it or not. Frankly, I had fingers crossed that you would dump The Commish for good and make a go of it with Mikey.” While Sydney and I had bonded as undergraduates at Chicago, Tara and I went back to junior high. She had actually known Michael, who grew up two blocks south of her, for four years longer than she had known me.

  I didn’t even try to fight the chuckle Tara’s cheering for my future with Michael spurred. “No, there was never much danger of me making a go of it with him. Seriously, now, he may be cute but he’s still Michael Blake.”

  Sydney this time: “And?”

  I buried my head in my hands momentarily, realizing no empathy would come from these two. Sydney was working with a totally different dynamic in her pursuit of members of our gender, and Tara–who really had yet to recover from her fiancé Tyson’s decision to abandon her for a stripper–dated sparingly and poured most of her free time into community service.

 
I sat back in my seat, twirling a piece of my huevos. “So, for Aimee Chase there are two types of men: those who make you want to hop into bed, and those who don’t. Michael has never quite fit into Class Number One.” At the sight of their exasperated reactions, my eyes shot simultaneous daggers in each direction. “Don’t do it. You both know I try to be selective about my hook-ups, and that’s why when I give it up to a guy, it’s because my body is calling. Michael’s never really made my phone ring.”

  Sydney sighed. “Didn’t you nearly date him back in the day?” She looked between me and Tara. “One of you told me that.”

  I fended off her claims, but memory convicted me a bit. I recalled my first time meeting Michael, during our sophomore year at Kenwood. He was playing a pickup basketball game with a few other Kenwood kids. Michael’s brother Warren, a legendary wide receiver for the Kenwood team who had gone on to start at Illinois, was already a legend for his football exploits, and known for being quite handsome too, despite being a bit of a snob.

  I remember thinking Michael looked a lot like his brother. They shared the same height, broad shoulders, sandy brown hair, and wide blue eyes that demanded the attention of any admirer. That said, Michael lacked Warren’s picture-perfect looks. He was handsome, but imperfect: lips a bit too thick, ears almost nonexistent, nose a little too big for his face. Regardless, I was a little intrigued, enough to ask Tara about him as we sat by the court that day.

  I have a pretty clear memory of the moment I lost interest–Tara summed him up as a “nice guy,” which had never been my cup of tea. Add to that his being a fellow straight A student, and well, he didn’t have a chance.