Free Bad Boy by Olivia Goldsmith Page A

with it and you put it in your refrigerator to deodorize it.”
    “And your friend from Santa Barbara forgot her Crest or was knocked over by the odor of your Frigidaire?”
    Tracie gave him a look, then shrugged and threw both products into the cart. She turned toward the front of the store and marched away. Jon followed her. He wouldn’t give up on this brainstorm. He hadn’t gotten where he was at Micro/Con without persistence. Maybe humor would work. He crouched down, holding on to the cart handle, and began begging, the way kids beg their mothers for stuff in all stores. “Please? Please will you? Please? Come on. I’ll do anything. I promise.”
    Tracie glanced around, clearly embarrassed. “Get up!” she hissed. He knew she hated public scenes and was counting on it. “Jon, p. 73 you have a great apartment, a terrific job, and you’re going to be rich ‌ —as soon as you cash in your Micro stock options.” She tried to ignore the old woman with a basket over her arm and the tall young man with a cart full of beer. “Get up,” she repeated. “There have been plenty of girls who liked you.”
    He didn’t get up. “But not that way,” he whined. “It’s never that way. Women want me as a friend, or a mentor, or a brother.” He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice. Bitterness didn’t sell projects. Anyway, Tracie was one of those girls, foremost among them, but he didn’t need to say so.
    “Come on. Stand up,” she begged again. “People are looking.” Actually, the two had wandered off and now there was only a clerk, who wasn’t looking, because he was too busy affixing price labels directly onto grapefruits. Tracie left him. Fine. He’d use her embarrassment against her. He could make it work for him. Tracie pushed the cart to the checkout line at the front of the store. Good ‌ —there were lots of people around. Jon helped Tracie put the groceries on the conveyor belt. Still on his knees, he whined loudly, “I want interesting girls. The hot girls. But they all want bad boys.”
    “Get up,” she hissed. “You’re exaggerating.” Unfortunately, it was too late for a crowd to gather. He’d have to use his trump card: her innate honesty.
    “Come on, Tracie. You know it’s true.”
    “Well . . .”
    p. 74 The cashier finally stared at the two of them. Then she shrugged and totaled the purchases. Tracie fished in her bag for the money. Jon sighed, stood up, and looked blankly at the rack of tabloids and women’s magazines. His knees were hurting. Begging was hard work. Then he noticed a GQ magazine. Some young movie star was on the cover, one who had recently dumped his girlfriend, publicly, on TV, right before the Oscars. Jon looked back at Tracie and pointed at the magazine cover. “I want to look like one of those kind of guys,” he said.
    “It’s not just about looks,” Tracie told him, picking up her bag. “You’re good-looking . . . in a nice-guy kinda way.”
    He took the bag from her and the two of them began to walk out. “Right. And that guy doesn’t look nice. He looks hot. He didn’t take his stepmoms out on Mother’s Day.” He turned back around and pointed to the guy on the cover. “What did he just do? You know.”
    Tracie glanced at the magazine and shrugged. “He just told his new girlfriend that he’d like to see other people,” she told him, and walked out the exit.
    Jon followed her. “I could do that! If I had a girlfriend. And if you’d help me,” he pleaded. “Look at it as your dissertation.” He ran back, grabbed the magazine as a reference point, threw a five-dollar bill on the counter, and raced after Tracie. “You’re an expert,” he told her. “Only you could distill all the rotten behavior that you found so adorable and inject me with it.”
    p. 75 Tracie was at the door of her car, fumbling with the keys. She took the bag from him, opened her door, and got in. “Forget this, would you?” she requested.