[ - ]
Table of Contents [Report This]
Printer Chapter or Story Microsoft Word Chapter or Story
- Text Size +
Chapter One: Consulting the Master


“I need to have sex with a girl, but she can’t know who I am when we do it,” I said.

AJ was silent on the other end of the phone line.

“AJ?” I prompted.

“I heard you,” he said. “I think. I hope I misheard you. Come again?”

“Chris and I have this bet,” I said.

“Oh cripes, here we go,” AJ said, “Nothing good ever comes out of anything that starts with Chris and I have this bet, Nick.”

I laughed.

“I’m not kidding.”

“Well we have this bet either way, where Chris thinks girls are gettin’ prudey, and I don’t think they are, I think they’re still slutty. But Chris thinks I’ll have just as hard a time as him landing girls if they didn’t know that I’m a Backstreet Boy, so we made this bet where I have to sleep with more girls this month than him, but they can’t know who I am before I shag’em.”

AJ was silent again.

“AJ?”

“Yeah, wow, I did hear you right,” he said. “Well, at least I don’t have earwax build up or anything. That’s a relief. Sort of.”

“I need your help, ‘J,” I said.

“My help? It sounds like you need the Witness Protection Program. Or a plastic surgeon. Maybe both.”

“C’mon, before Rochelle, you were the master of sex with random women,” I said, “How many mights did I wake up to find random chicks sneaking out of your hotel room carrying their shoes and underwear?”

“That was a long time ago,” AJ said. I could hear Ava in the background somewhere crying. “And they all knew perfectly well who I was,” he added.

“You spent an entire school year as a different person,” I said.

“I was like eight and nobody knew who I was,” he argued.

“AJ.”

“Nick.”

“Please.”

“You’re one of the most recognizable people in the world, dude,” he said, “I don’t think there’s a damn thing I’m gonna do that will keep you from being recognized, man.”

“AJ… if anyone could do it…. you could.”

He was quiet for a long moment. “And what do I get from it if I succeed?”

“Details,” I whispered. “Every bittersweet adventurous detail.” I was quiet a moment. “If the opportunity arises, maybe even pictures.”

“Shit.” AJ was quiet a moment. I knew I had him. “I’ll be there in an hour.”

“An hour?” I demanded, “Can’t you be here now?”

“I gotta stop and get some supplies,” he answered.




AJ arrived on my door step two hours later – almost twice as long as he’d said he’d be – carrying a Walmart bag and his laptop slung over his shoulder. “It took longer than I thought to get Ava asleep,” he explained as I stepped aside to let him in.

“What’s in the bag?” I asked, pointing as I closed the front door.

“Supplies,” AJ replied. He held the bag up to me. I looked inside. His pair of faux black-rimmed glasses and a box of L’Oreal hair dye and a tee shirt with Pacman on it sat in the bottom of the bag. “You go upstairs, dye your hair, put the glasses on, and the shirt, then come back down.”

“But –”

“And take a picture of yourself after the dye dries,” he said. “Make the duck lips or something in the bathroom mirror. Throw a peace sign. Whatever.”

“AJ?”

“What?”

“What are you gonna do while I do all this?”

“The key to your dilemma is Match.com,” he replied.

“Match.com?”

“Yes,” he said. “Go upstairs. I’ll be creating your new identity.”

“How very Inspector Gadget,” I said, carrying the bag up the stairs. I got to the top and paused, watched for a moment as AJ unlatched his computer bag and pulled out the Macbook he’d painted red and black. “This dye isn’t gonna turn my hair green or something, right?” I asked.

“No,” he answered. “I don’t think so.”

I took a deep breath and headed into the bathroom, reminding myself that first pick for life, and a hundred grand if I lost, was on the line.




According to Match.com, Nate Crosby was 33, tall, and had dark brown hair. He wore glasses. Nate Crosby looked a lot like Nick Carter. He got that a lot, and would’ve considered it a compliment back in the 90s, but dude, what were the Backstreet Boys even doing these days? He didn’t have a preference on body type, hair color, or anything. If a girl was interested, she could contact him at this encrypted Yahoo Messanger account, and here’s a picture of his dog, a collie named Cobain. His favorite movie was Zombieland, but he wasn’t against watching a well-directed chick flick. He was thinking about going to film school but currently worked as a “freelance social media consultant”.

“Well?” AJ asked.

“Jesus,” I whispered. I clicked enlarge profile photo and stared at Nate Crosby’s eyes. Well, my eyes. The faux glasses and hair dye had done wonders. I looked like me, but I also looked like this whole other person, too. Like someone who might go to film school, own a collie named Cobain, and do things like make duck faces at oneself in the bathroom mirror.

“No,” AJ said, “Not Jesus. Nate.” He grinned.

I punched him. “Dude, this is incredible.”

“I thought so.” AJ replied egotistically. “It ain’t easy changing your identity.”

“You should work for the FBI or something,” I said.

AJ laughed. “Just remember the deal: I help obscure your identity, you give me a play by play of Nate’s romantic adventures.”

“I won’t forget,” I replied. I clicked on the photo of the collie, Cobain, then on another picture, this one photoshopped though not obviously so, of Nate -er, me – standing in front of a rock climbing facility. It was two different photos AJ had spliced together. I clicked the next one. It was one where he’d drained the color out of the image and photoshopped in some glasses on me while I stood holding a camera on my shoulder.

I clicked browse profiles. Tons of chicks came up as potential matches for me. I looked up at AJ.

AJ patted my back. “Good luck.”