Max Evans Sucks dot Com - 1
The plan was to meet Michael at the airport, three hours before the flight was due to take off. Fifteen minutes after he’s supposed to be here, Michael sends me a message to let me know he’s ‘running late’.
One thing that I cannot abide is tardiness and Michael Guerin specializes in tardiness. It would serve him right to miss this flight. It might make everybody at
Whisper wake up to the fact that Michael is an idiot.
Thankfully, we each have our own boarding cards, so I don’t have to hang around and wait until he manages to roll himself from whatever bed he’s fallen into the night before and make his way to the airport. I go through security and make my way to the gate.
As I have plenty of time to wait before the flight, I pull out my notebook to do some work. I jot down a couple of ideas for the column; just because Michael came up with one good suggestion does not mean that I won’t have to come up with the next one. I plan out the questions I want to ask the Max Evans’ girls and read up on Roswell in the tourist guide that I bought in the airport bookshop.
I do all this and there’s still no sign of Michael.
I’ll admit that I am getting a little anxious. This is going to be the first time our column will be a feature, instead of just a column. It’s so important that it goes well and if Michael misses the flight and can’t make it to Roswell then we’re screwed. Should I wait for him? Or go without him?
My phone rings and I snatch it up, expecting it be Michael but the caller ID shows it’s my best friend, Serena.
“Hi Serena.”
“Hi Lizzie, just calling to check how the romantic comedy is coming along.”
I frown. “The what?”
“The Liz and Michael romantic comedy,” Serena exclaims excitedly.
“I need to come up with a better title, obviously.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know! You and Michael totally have the romantic comedy thing going on. You apparently hate each other, but really it’s a cover for the sexual tension you’ve got going on. Now you’re headed to a small town in the middle of nowhere. You’ll end up in a weird, but oddly romantic inn run by an eccentric owner where there’s been a mix-up with the booking and you’ll have to share the honeymoon suite. Cue lots of hilarious misunderstandings and slapstick pratfalls until you have a huge heated argument which ends in you kissing passionately and getting it on. Roll credits, the end.”
“Oh. My. God. You crazy, deluded, person.”
Serena chuckles.
“Think about it Parker, you tick all the clichés. You work in the media industry. You’re anal and uptight. You even have the token, black best friend.”
“Firstly, you are not a token,” I clarify. “Secondly, you are crazy. Michael does not like me and I despise him. There is no sexual tension. Just tension. We hate each other. If you really think that anything could happen between Michael and me, then you are deluded and just plain stupid, no offense. Besides, the jerk isn’t even here yet and they’ve just started boarding the plane. Gotta go.”
Serena protests, but I snap my phone shut and gather my belongings. For some reason, Serena’s phone call has made me angry and in that anger, I have decided to get on the plane to Roswell. Screw Michael Guerin.
So you can imagine my annoyance to find none other than Michael Guerin himself, sitting in the seat next to mine and casually flicking through a magazine.
“No! How did you get in here? You weren’t even outside.”
Michael raises a disinterested eyebrow. “I got here when you were yakking on the phone.”
I close my eyes trying to draw strength from somewhere. This was going to be a long week.
***
Contrary to Serena’s predictions, the “weird but oddly romantic inn” is just a regular Holiday Inn. The only mix up with the booking was that they’ve booked us in for one night longer than we planned, but that’s quickly rectified.
I wanted to have a short nap before we go to dinner but as soon as I lie down on the bed, heavy metal music begins to blare from Michael’s room on the other side of the wall. I don’t want to get into an argument with him, so instead I have a shower and dry my hair.
Naturally, Michael is not ready to go at the appointed time and I have to knock for about three minutes before he hears me over the din of the so-called music he listens too. I suggest walking as the diner is close by and he agrees readily.
The Crashdown Café is small, kitschy and cute. The menu is mostly greasy, fried food which makes Michael very happy. I have to search hard to find a healthy salad option. The diner is full with tourists and teenagers and a few locals, but there’s no sign of Max Evans.
“Because that would have been too easy,” Michael quips.
“So what’s the plan?” I ask. We’re eating our dessert now and apart from some very banal comments on the décor and the weather, conversation has been sparse.
Michael shrugs. I hate when he does that. “We’re meeting those girls tomorrow and we’ll talk to them. One of them offered to take us to a bar he hangs out in tomorrow night so we can see him in action. We’ll see what happens.”
“That’s it? That’s the plan?” I’m annoyed. Michael has been the one organizing this trip, which I knew was a mistake, but even I thought he’d put a little more effort into it than this.
“What?” Michael asks angrily.
“We hope that we run into him? That’s your plan?” I shake my head in disgust.
“Oh, I have more,” Michael snarls. “We go to the bar with these girls, they introduce you to Max. He takes you to a dark alley or wherever he does his business, and checks your pipes with his plunger. Hopefully, while he’s doing that he removes the stick from your ass. Then you go home and write up the Max Evan’s experience.”
“You are such an ass,” I hiss furiously.
I cannot stand to be around him for one second longer so I storm out of the diner. I had intended to go back to the motel, but so blinded by my fury, I guess I take a wrong turn. It actually takes me a while to realize that I’ve been stomping in the wrong direction.
When I finally figure out that I’m lost and with no clue how to get back to the motel, I stop walking and look around. The area looks safe and respectable; all the same, I want to get indoors and around other people. I spot a bar down the street and as it looks decent from the outside, I decide to risk entering.
Luckily, my judgment seems to have been correct. The bar is just the type of bar that I like. It’s quiet, clean and homely. The barman greets me with a smile. “What can I get for you?”
“I need a cab. I was wondering if you have the number of one that I can call?”
He nods and picks up a cordless phone. “My brother drives a taxi; he can be here in a minute. Would you like me to call him for you?”
I glance around the bar and decide that I would much rather sit here and sip a glass of wine than go back to my motel room and stare at the boring walls there. “You know, I’ve changed my mind. I’ll have a drink first. Can I have a glass of merlot please?”
“I’ll bring it down to you,” he offers.
“Thanks.” I take a seat in a secluded corner and sink into the plush cushions. I wish I’d brought a book with me.
After the barman brings over my wine, I relax in my seat and just enjoy the peace and quiet. It’s very rare for me to just sit and do nothing. It feels like I’m always doing something and I feel guilty when I’m not. Even if I’m reading a book, I’m making notes on it for reviews, or quotes or possible interview questions.
Of course, as soon as I start enjoying my solitude, somebody intrudes.
“Excuse me, I noticed you were alone and, well, a beautiful woman like you is probably waiting for somebody, but I wanted to say hello.”
Oh please!
I look up at Mr. Cheesy and, holy crap, it’s Max Evans himself.
Now, I work at a fashion magazine, with gorgeous male models in and out of the office every day, Brian is very handsome (even if he is a lying, scumbag, jerk.) and I suppose, Michael is attractive too, if you’re into that kind of look. So I’m used to being around good-looking men; they don’t affect me or impress me. I care more about the inner beauty of a man anyway.
Even so, as I look at Max Evans, my pulse races and I suddenly wish that I’d made more of an effort with my appearance tonight. I’ve seen photographs of Max Evans on the website that Michael showed me, so I knew he was good-looking, but they didn’t do any justice to just how gorgeous he is in the flesh.
I swallow the retort that was on the tip of my tongue. This is a chance to see how Max Evans works. So I smile at him. “I’m not waiting for anybody.”
He gestures at the seat opposite me and I nod for him to sit down. He places his drink on the table and holds out his hands to me. “I’m Matt Stevens.”
“Matt,” I articulate. For a moment, I wonder if I was wrong about who he is, but it was mentioned on the website that Max had started using fake names as women now knew him by name.
“It’s very nice to meet you. I’m Liz Parker.”
He shakes my hand and releases it slowly, as if reluctant to let it go. A Max Evans signature move, apparently.
“What brings you to Roswell, Liz?” He asks.
“I’m a writer, with
Whisper Magazine. I’m here to work on a story.”
He looks surprised. “Wait, Liz Parker? You write that column with Michael Guerin.”
It’s my turn to look surprised. “Yes, you know it?”
“I’m a huge admirer of your work. I read the column every month.”
“Really?” I laugh. “Are you an aficionado of women’s magazines?”
He grins bashfully and I can’t help but notice how his eyelashes brush against his cheek. “My sister is. She gets them all and I borrow a few of them. I know that a lot of people look down on fashion magazines or women’s magazines in general. Personally, I think that is really short-sighted. Some of the best and most insightful articles and writers are in women’s publishing.”
I refrain from rolling my eyes and pretend that I’m buying his bullshit. “That’s so progressive, I wish more people thought like you.”
“What kind of story are you doing in Roswell?”
“Aliens, of course.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t have thought a magazine like
Whisper would be interested in aliens,” he says, rightly.
“Oh,” I laugh. “Uh… Actually, we’re writing a column on science fiction. You know, the way men are so obsessed with it, the whole Star Wars thing and all that. My writing partner is taking charge of this month’s assignment and he decided that we’d come here. I think he decided on here just to piss me off.”
“Ah, does that mean the tension in the column spills over into real life?” Max asks knowingly.
“Let’s just say that we don’t have any trouble coming up with opposing arguments to any topic we’re given,” I say.
Max smiles sympathetically. “And now you’re trapped in here in Roswell with just him for company? No wonder you’re drinking alone.”
I sigh. “I just couldn’t stick with him any longer. He’s so…. so…. so…. infuriating. He makes me want to stab him with a pencil or something and I swear, I’m the least violent person you’ll ever meet.”
“What did he do?”
“He exists,” I groan. Then I shake my head and try to explain. “We’re just two completely different people. I’m a perfectionist and he doesn’t take anything seriously. Like this week for example; we came here to research a story. If I was organizing it then I would have organized interviews before we came and would have a plan of approach. But Michael, his plan is to see what happens. It’s going to be a disaster.”
Max contemplates what I said, he shakes his head. “I don’t know, there’s something in the ‘let’s see what happens’ approach. After all, you hadn’t planned on being here tonight. It was chance that brought you here. I wasn’t supposed to be here either: I was supposed to be meeting a friend, but she had to cancel. So if it wasn’t for chance, we might have never met. I believe that things happen for a reason.”
As he speaks, he reaches across the table and touches my hand. His eyes never leave mine.
He’s cheesy and slimy and a jerk, but now I suddenly understand why he has the reputation he has. If I didn’t know who he really was and that I am being played by a master, I would believe that the look in his eyes is real. And even knowing what I know, there’s a part of me that wants to believe it’s real, that Max Evans and I were destined to meet here, tonight.
Fortunately, I come to my senses. I pull my hand away and drain the last of my wine. Max Evans might be an expert in bedding women, but this is one woman he’s not going to charm into his bed. Tonight, Max gets a taste of rejection.
“I should go, it was nice meeting you,
Matt." I stand up and grab my purse. I gesture to the barman and he picks up the phone to call a taxi for me.
He looks disappointed and rises to his feet. “Are you sure you can’t stay longer?”
“No, I had a long day today and I just want to get to bed.”
“Can I walk you back to your hotel?”
“Thank you, but no.”
The barman approaches us then. “The taxi is outside.”
“That was quick, thank you,” I exclaim. “Good night, Matt.”
Before the door closes behind me, I hear the barman snort and Max shushes him. As promised, there’s a cab waiting right outside the door.
“Liz, wait,” Max’s voice calls from behind me.
I turn around to face him. “Yes?”
He holds out a business card to me. “Here’s my number.” When I hesitate, he steps closer. “I’m a partner in the UFO museum downtown so I have a pretty good knowledge of the alien lore. If I can be of assistance to you,” again he steps closer to me, crowding me against the taxi and when he speaks again, his voice is huskier, more intimate, “in any way, please call me.”
I swallow nervously and try not to let him see that he has affected me. However, I do take the card from his hand. He holds it for a moment, so that our hands are touching and then lets it go before stepping back and holding open the car door.
“Good night, Liz,” he says before closing the door.
My voice is shaking as I tell the driver the name of the motel and I’m still feeling the butterflies in my stomach when I get back to my room.
Relieved that I can relax, I change out of my clothes and into my pajamas. As I’m brushing my hair, there’s a knock on the door.
I check my appearance in the mirror, smooth down my hair and open the door. I admit that a tiny, teeny tiny, part of me was hoping for Max. It’s Michael.
“What?” I ask in my most annoyed voice.
He holds up his hands in defense. “Just wanted to make sure you got back ok.”
I relent, slightly. “As you can see, I am fine.”
“Good. I’ll see you tomorrow. We can discuss what we’re going to do over breakfast.”
I guess that’s as close to an apology as I’m ever going to get from Michael.
“Good night, Michael.”
***
