My Darling Jane (The Darlings)
My Darling Jane: Chapter 4

As we approach the Wickham apartments, their grandeur hits me anew, with their fancy cornices and wrought iron balconies. The windows face either the street or Central Park, with no bad view from either side. Remembering my early, dirt-poor years before the Jannich family took me in sharpens my appreciation for how far I’ve come.

The girls chatter excitedly as we walk through the lobby, their eyes wide as always as they take in the marble floors and art deco lighting. The doorman, Herman, tips his hat to us as he opens the doors. “Evening, Mr. Jannich,” he says warmly. “Hello, girls.”

“Evening, Herman,” I reply, ushering Macy and Lacy toward the elevator. They’re still buzzing from their ice cream high as the elevator glides up. I’m not in the penthouse—that territory belongs to Tuck, a former player who’s traded the field for family life.

But my place? It’s expansive, the result of merging two apartments into one sprawling space a few years ago. It’s got more room than I know what to do with, a luxury not lost on me.

Once the twins are inside my apartment, the living room becomes their playground. After they’ve played several rounds on my gaming console, I decide it’s time to play the responsible uncle.

“All right, bedtime,” I say, and their protests start immediately.

“But can’t we just stay up—”

I point firmly toward their room. “If you want to stay up, do it there. And no more sneaking off. I don’t trust you two roaming around the city. This isn’t Utah. It’s a metropolitan area with millions of people.”

Macy grumbles, “Feels like prison.”

“And we want to make cookies,” Lacy adds, trying to push her luck, with Macy echoing her.

No. The last thing I need is another kitchen disaster. They made tacos for me last week, and while I appreciated the effort—I ate three—they tasted terrible. Come to replace out, Lacy had put sugar and cinnamon in with the taco seasoning. On purpose? Maybe. Regardless, they dirtied every dish in the kitchen. It took me two hours to get it straight. “Bed. Now.”

They huff in unison and skitter off down the hall, socks sliding on the hardwood.

I head to the bathroom but catch their glances in the mirror’s reflection. I know that look well. It’s the precursor to chaos.

Sure enough when I lift the toilet lid in my bathroom, there’s their handiwork: plastic wrap, stretched tight. Amateur hour. I chuckle, peeling it off and crumpling it into a ball. Rookie stuff.

Stepping back into the hallway, I replace them lurking, barely containing giggles. “Thanks for the gift, girls,” I say, feigning seriousness. Then, in a sudden move, I lob the crumpled ball at them. “It’s covered in pee!”

Their shrieks fill the apartment as they dodge the ball, scampering into their bedroom and slamming the door, laughter echoing behind them.

Shaking my head, I go to the fridge and grab a Guinness, my mind turning to Jane.

Her scowl. It’s the stuff of horror movies. But I kind of like it too.

I fish the card out of my wallet and read it over.

Cupid’s Arrow

A personalized approach to replaceing the love of your life

Jane Darling

www.CupidsArrow.com/register

It sounds entirely too glass-half-full for the girl who was just sitting at the bar with me.

I grab my phone and navigate to the website. Among photographs of some happy couple walking on the beach, feeding each other cake, giggling like they’re on crack, I replace the application.

It starts so easy: Name?

Hmm, I take a swig of beer. She didn’t want me to apply.

But I’ve always lived for the challenge.

I type in: JJ

She’ll never guess.

I fill in the vitals with a fake address and phone number, recalling that she does have my cell number. For the email address, I use the one that’s reserved for spam mail. Then it gets down to the nitty-gritty.

Please tell us about yourself.

Well, there’s not much to tell.

I live for football.

And sex, I add just to irk her.

She’ll like that. I’m sure of it. I chuckle.

What are you looking for in a mate?

I think for a second. Oh, I’ve got a great idea. Let’s really make her blow her top.

Find me a goddess, and I’ll be her devout worshiper. She’s gotta be tall cause I’m not into doing yoga moves just to kiss. Family-wise? Think Kennedys’ class mashed with Kardashians’ flair, but no kids of her own. Her attention needs to be on me.

She needs a brain that can jump from quantum physics to why Batman beats Superman, all before breakfast. Her laugh? A symphony of angels, none of that snort-laughing business.

Football is her religion. She should dream in touchdowns and speak in stats.

Culinary skills? Mandatory. I want a chocolate soufflé so good it brings tears to my eyes. Tidiness and massage skills? Big pluses. Waking up beautiful would save a lot of time. And at night, serenade me with sweet Disney songs, post-great sex, of course.

Hair color? True blonde. I’m talking genuine, roots-to-ends. First date might involve a subtle, uh, color verification.

That’s my dream girl.

I howl with laughter, practically crying as I reread it. She’s going to love me.

Then it asks me a series of questions about myself.

The first one: What are your passions?

I don’t even think. I just type one word: Sex.

It isn’t true, but let’s be honest, I’m doing this to piss her off.

Next question: What is your hidden talent?

Well, that’s easy—and true. I type: Sex.

What would be your perfect date?

I think it goes without saying. Sex.

What’s your favorite breakfast look like? Pussy.

What’s the number one thing on your bucket list? Sex.

This is fun.

What’s the best compliment you ever received? I’m awesome at sex.

Have your friends ever tried to set you up with someone? How did it go? Sex.

What was the best birthday present you’ve ever gotten? Sex.

What is your best pickup line? Sex?

How do you like to bond with your family?

I stop. Shit. She got me. I leave that one blank. My family is pretty awesome, adoptive parents and my four older sisters, and I can’t bring them into this sex thing.

The wind taken out of my sails, I scroll through the rest of it and hit Submit. Then I forward the reference page to ten of my football buddies and Graham, my reasoning being that at least three of them will fill it out for me.

With a satisfied smile, I prop my legs up on the coffee table.

I’ll probably never hear back from her.

Which is too bad. I can only imagine what she’d look like in bed, underneath me.

Ah, hell no.

That’s no way to think about Jane.

I shove that thought away.

But I did sort of ask her out, and she blew me off. Whatever. I didn’t mean it.

Moving on, I put my phone away and plop in front of the TV to watch ESPN and see if they’re talking about next season’s chances, but all they want to discuss is the horrible Seattle game that ruined our chances at the playoffs.

I end up picking up my phone again and googling Jane.

I replace a lot of modeling photos of her in designer clothes where she’s clearly younger, and her scowl is more of a pout. My body stills as I focus on those pillowy lips of hers. Damn, she is beautiful.

Then I’m picturing her on her knees in front of me—

I shut it down.

Hearing my name, I look up at the television. One of the announcers says, “You think it’s going to be heartbreak for the Pythons again, or is Jannich going to lead them to victory this time?”

I mutter under my breath, ire rising. True, I’m thirty-one, but I’ve still got some good years in me.

I check my email, anxious to see if Jane has seen my application and sent me a scathing reply.

Instead, I have a text from an unfamiliar number.

(212) 555-2789: Is this JJ?

I grin. This is promising. It’s not her cell number, which I already have, but a new number, one I guess she uses for the business.

Me: Why yes, it is. Is my application already in review? I’m so eager for love.

(212) 555-2789: Sorry, “Jasper Jannich.” I told you you’d be denied.

So it is her. Ha. I’ve chipped the ice princess’s shield. After all, if she really wanted nothing to do with me, she could’ve sent that rejection email. But she texted me.

Me: Come on, I just want some love.

Jane: No, you want sex. And I’m not going to subject any of my clients to that.

Me: Why? They’ll probably thank you.

Jane: No. My clients don’t want a meaningless hook-up. They can go to Tinder for that. They want their forever. That’s what I’m trying to provide.

I think for a moment.

Me: I’m open to that.

Jane: Sure you are.

There’s no doubt Graham’s been talking about my past. Yes, I’m a member of a private sex club in New York, but I haven’t been in ages. Obviously, she’s been paying close attention. But I’m not antirelationship. Far from it. I’ve had some good relationships, but for some reason, they never stick for long. When I was first drafted, it was because all I wanted to do was focus on my career. Then later after I got superstar status, it seemed like most of the women just wanted a celebrity to hang around. I’m not sure they really knew who the real Jasper was.

Me: I am. If the right woman came along . . . I’m down.

I’m not certain that is true, but I push the thought away.

Jane: I saw those girls with you tonight. They looked young.

Me: Because they’re my nieces. I’m babysitting them while my sister goes on vacation.

I hold the phone, waiting an entire minute before she replies.

Jane: Still. Why didn’t you say something at the bar or introduce me?

Me: I thought you’d know that I don’t date teenagers. I didn’t think of introducing you because I only wanted to get them home.

Jane: Whatever. It’s still your fault.

Me: Only you would put the blame on me for YOU making a wrong assumption.

Jane: Let’s move on. According to your profile, you want a football-loving woman with a carpet that matches the drapes. Don’t you think that’s too much to ask? And we can’t forget, the “right woman” has to have a one-track-mind for sex.

Me: If they have it with me, that will be all they want.

Jane: I don’t have anyone in my database to match with you.

Me: Okay, fine, she doesn’t have to be able to cook. Or sing. Or talk about physics. But the sex part is nonnegotiable. I like a woman who is lusty. I like it when she grabs my ass or my dick and makes me her boy-toy.

The three dots, indicating she’s replying, dance for a long time. I think I’ve stricken her speechless. Finally, her reply comes through.

Jane: Sorry, I’ll keep your application on file. I don’t have a match.

She’s trying so hard to be professional. I bet her face is red and she’s got steam coming out of her ears. I scrub my stubble with my hand. Hmm, the truth is, I don’t want a match. Not with anyone in her database, anyway.

Me: What about you? I stare at the words I’ve just typed and groan aloud. Why the hell did I say that?

Jane: What?

Me: Are you seeing someone? In for a penny, in for a pound.

Jane: No. I’m not interested.

Me: Why not?

Jane: For many reasons, the least of which being that I don’t care about sex quite as much as you do.

I’m just typing in Because you haven’t had it with me when another response comes through:

Jane: And it’s not just because I haven’t had it with you.

I whistle. Huh. I love a girl who has my number. As I’m deleting and trying to think of something witty to reply with, she responds again.

Jane: I’m really, truly, 100% NOT INTERESTED.

Me: And yet you’re messaging me, late at night, when you could’ve just declined me by email.

Jane: Good night.

Shit. She’s really not going to change her mind.

Fuck it. I throw the phone down. Her loss.

But then I think back to earlier in the night, about how I was hyped up with people watching me beat some idiot pinball game. That’s how far I’ve sunk. I haven’t been out in weeks, because the guys on the team are all busy with their families, girlfriends, et cetera. They’ve all gotten whipped by their ladies. The suckers.

I need something to fill my lonely days.

How long has it been since I’ve gotten laid?

I grab the phone back and type something desperate.

Me: I’m not joking.

Jane: Yes, you are.

Me: No, I’m serious. I’m sick of playing around.

I’m sure somewhere, she’s laughing her ass off at that.

She responds a moment later.

Jane: Fine.

I pump my fist.

Me: So you’ll go out with me?

Jane: No. Stop playing with me. I know you’re just trying to irk me when you say stuff like that. But I’ll set you up with one of the girls from my database. It won’t be a perfect match to your profile as I think some vibrators would have trouble meeting your expectations, but . . . just pay the sign-up fee. We also need to set up a time for you to come in for an interview with me.

Me: For what? You know me.

Jane: It’s just standard.

Me: So we’ll have to talk, one on one.

Jane: Yes.

All right. Fine.

I navigate to the website, credit card in hand, and prepare to enter in my digits. When I get to the fee screen, I chuckle. A $2,000 sign-up fee. Pretty steep. But it’s supported by a money-back guarantee if you aren’t happy after three matches.

After I complete the transaction, I send her another text.

Me: Paid. Just let me know the time and the place.

Jane: I will. But Jasper, understand one thing. If you hurt her . . . I will hurt you.