Mister Uno: A Short Story Series (Mister Mister Series Book 1) Read online

  ISBN 9780648377061 (paperback)

  ISBN 9780648377054 (ebook)

  Mister UNO

  ©2019 by Belle Brooks

  Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilisation of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher, JMA Publishing Pty Limited, Po Box 2302, Yeppoon QLD Australia 4703.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All rights are reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published in arrangement with JMA Publishing Pty Limited Q.L.D.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by

  JMA Publishing Pty Limited Po Box 2302

  Yeppoon Qld 4701

  AUSTRALIA

  Edited: Lauren Clarke

  Proofread: KM Golland

  Cover: Belle Brooks

  Formatter: Jaye Cox

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  MISTER DOS …

  A NOTE TO THE READER

  This book has been written using UK English and contains euphemisms and slang words that form part of the Australian spoken word, which is the basis of this book’s writing style.

  Please remember that the words are not misspelled. They are slang terms and form part of everyday Australian vernacular.

  Dedication

  For Krista Ricchi

  My wolf!

  You’re hired!

  I heard these words one year ago to the day.

  I’d landed my dream job.

  Until …

  “Anthea, if you don’t come up with a new article idea for your column, one that’s not a pile of crap, by this afternoon, I’m sorry, but I’ll have to let you go.”

  Trevor Schuler is my boss, and the man who will can my arse if I don’t do as he says.

  It must be edgy. Modern day. Twenty-first-century stuff.

  I can do that.

  Or can I?

  I tap my pen aimlessly on the desk. Writer's block. Is there such a thing?

  I’ve covered everything from how to land your dream job in a male-dominated market to how to knit the perfect winter sweater, and now I’m out of ideas.

  I need something fresh.

  Spending three hours doodling, boxed in between four white walls, is not helping my creativity. Maybe I should take a break. Roam free. Go out into the city of Canberra, get some fresh air, and find the perfect story for Rogue before I lose everything I’ve worked so hard for over the last year.

  Ring, ring, ring. Ring, ring, ring.

  I reach for my mobile. I smile when I see Pip’s name flashing across the screen. Pip will have an answer. Pip always does.

  “Just the person I needed to hear from,” I say upon answering.

  Beeeeeeep! Beeeeep! Honk, honk!

  “Where are you?” Why is someone beeping so aggressively?

  “I’m in the city. Can you do lunch at The Mill House Café at twelve?” she yells.

  “Sure. Is everything okay?”

  “It is. So, can you do lunch?”

  “Yep.” I have nothing better to do. No ideas. Nada.

  “I need to run. See you there.” She puffs like she’s midway through a marathon.

  The line goes dead.

  It takes one second for my mind to wonder from Pip’s rushed call back to the pit of idea-less despair I find myself in.

  I’m so getting fired.

  By twelve o’clock I’m sitting in a cosy chair, surrounded by a bustling, yet chilled atmosphere in a little café in the middle of the city. Pip’s still not here, and I’m doodling on the same piece of paper I was in the office. Why did I bring this piece of crap with me?

  Scrawling, ‘I love Nick Bateman’ over and over is not how I thought I’d spend my workday at twenty-five years’ old, yet here I am, penning the words like I’m back in high school and covering my binder with graffiti.

  Hang on! High school. I could use that as an angle.

  Headline: The Teenage Girl Inside You. Why you should embrace her.

  I write this down.

  We should never let that fearless, smart-mouthed, horny teenage girl leave us. I write this too, then drop my head and sigh. I’m pretty sure I’ve already done a fabulous column on this topic.

  I huff over exaggeratedly. A few heads turn, so I quickly pick up my phone and place it against my ear. “I’m taking a call,” I mouth, pointing to my mobile. I’m pretty sure nobody’s bought my lie, but they do look away.

  The stress of my future is weighing heavily on my sanity.

  Long tanned legs, a skirt too short for the office, bleach-blonde hair, and the brightest red lipstick ever packed into a tube now stands in front of me. “Babe, my God, my boss is riding my arse so hard today …” Pip takes an exaggerated breath, “… and not in a good way.” She winks.

  I shake my head.

  Pip bends at her midsection and pecks my cheek before pulling out the seat across from me and falling heavily into it. “I’m turning this torture device to silent”—she holds her mobile in the air—“because if I have to hear Evan’s voice again in the next thirty minutes, I think I’m going to kill him.” She places her ‘torture device’ on the table.

  “That bad, hey?”

  “You should write an article for your column about how successful, handsome, multimillionaire men are all freakin’ pussies who are still sucking on their mothers’ tits. My boss can’t even get himself a drink of water.” Pip rolls her eyes.

  I laugh but stop abruptly. Could this be an angle for my column?

  Headline: The Multimillionaire Male and Why You Shouldn’t Date Him.

  I tip my head to the side. And I ponder this for about five seconds before I realise I’ve already written this article too.

  My shoulders drop, and I pout. Writer’s block. I’m blocked up as severely as my loo was last month from all the tampons I’d been flushing down it.

  Hang on!

  Headline: Why Women Need to Throw Away Their Tampons.

  I straighten my posture; my eyes grow with possibility. Bingo! I have a story. There are so many natural alternatives on the market these days, and bonus, you don’t need to flush those. Plus, no expensive plumber bills, or the risk of toxic shock syndrome and all the chemicals going into your glory hole.

  “Earth to Anthea. Did you hear what I said?” Pip clicks her fingers an inch from my face.

  I didn’t hear shit.

  I shake my head and drop my chin. I’ve already done that eye-opening article too, so why am I still using tampons? Arrrghh.

  “What’s the problem?” Pip says when I raise my head. She flutters her eyelashes and smiles like she’
s sweet, innocent, and a lady.

  All lies. Pip’s far from sweet, and she’s definitely not innocent.

  I laugh half-heartedly. “Can’t write story to save life. Going to lose job. No ideas. Going to be homeless. Going to miss apartment overlooking city.”

  “Me Tarzan, you Jane. Me feed you cake and coffee. Me help you come up with idea. No homeless Anthea. Not on Pip’s watch.”

  We both laugh.

  Pip is fucking crazy.

  “Sexy and you Know It” by LMFAO plays from Pip’s torture device, still abandoned on the table.

  “Evan.” She scowls as she picks it up. “Argh!” She takes one hand, bends her fingers, and then shakes it like she’s one-handily attempting to strangle someone.

  “You better take that.”

  “Nooooo!” she groans before she picks it up and answers. “Hello, Evan.” Her tone is sweet, caring, and professional. “Of course I can. I’ll be right back.” There’s a short pause. “No. It’s not a problem at all.” She rolls her eyes. “No, you’re the best.” She pokes out her tongue like she’s about to dry-heave. “Okay, sir, I’m on my way.” When she takes the phone from her ear, she shakes her head mechanically. “Fucking pussy,” she mutters. “I need a rain check on lunch, but can we do cocktails tonight?”

  “Sure. Where?”

  “Our normal stomping ground.”

  “Done! I’ll meet you at The Highball Express.”

  “Love you.”

  “Love you, too.” I smile. “Good luck.”

  “I need more than luck,” she says when she stands. “I’ll help you with your problem tonight.”

  I nod, even though I know that by tonight it will be too late.

  ***

  It’s the end of the day. I still have no new ideas. I still don’t know why Pip called for a spontaneous lunch, only to leave. Did it have to do with Evan, her demanding boss? I’m not sure. But what I am sure of is that I’m about to become unemployed. I pre-empt my dismissal and start packing my stuff into a cardboard box. A picture of me and Ruffy, my Maltese, and my coffee cup that says ‘Smart Bitch’ that Pip gifted me for my birthday are all I have.

  Well, this was the easiest clean-out I’ve ever done. Is that all I’ve managed to hoard into this cubicle in a year? I look around the space. It is. Sad.

  “Anthea.” Big blue eyes, blond hair, a double chin, and a beer gut stand at the opening of my cubicle. “You have until the morning to present me with your next pitch. I’m throwing you an olive branch here, so hold onto it because if you don’t, you’re gone.”

  I half-smile. I take my cardboard box under my wing and walk towards Trevor. “I’ve got nothing.”

  “It was nice knowing you,” he replies calmly, seemingly satisfied I’m finished up here.

  It was nice knowing me …

  That’s just great.

  Lillian, Ana, Starlet and Pip. My girls. All under one roof for the first time in … oh, my God, how long has it been? At least a month. I suppose celebrating my loss of income with cocktails is a good way to get the girls together.

  Lillian leans into me, the smell of tequila strong on her breath. “You are better than that job anyway.” Her short black bob bounces as she jerks her head back.

  “I am.” I suck back a mouthful of Pina Colada through the straw poking out from my hurricane glass.

  “Let’s do shots,” Ana squeals like a teenager.

  Oh, that’s where the story idea came from for the ‘teenage girl inside you’ piece. I grin.

  “No! Let’s help Anthea save her job.” Starlet swirls her red wine in her glass in the way only a professional wine taste-tester would. The corner of her lips curl slightly. “We can come up with something, right?”

  I nod.

  “I’d rather chase hunky dudes. Are you ladies seeing all the hotties in this freakin’ club tonight?” Lillian wiggles her overgrown eyebrows, causing her thin-framed glasses to move up and down with them.

  “Now you’re speaking my language,” Ana says.

  “I could go with a good throwdown myself,” Starlet states as Pip hums in agreeance.

  “Hot men it is.” I shrug. It will be better than discussing my unemployment.

  Turning my head from left to right repeatedly, I eye a tall man who’s wearing dark blue jeans and a button-down shirt. He’s handsome, maybe of Spanish origin. Damn! He’s fine.

  Pip nudges me, shielding us from the rest of the group with a shoulder. “Oh, la, la. Look at him.”

  “I know, right?”

  “I think he’s in his late twenties. Not much older than us. You want him?”

  “You can have him, Pip.”

  “I think he might be from a different country, like—”

  “Spain,” I interrupt.

  “Yep. Look at his dark hair and his tan.” Pip’s eyes widen. “Your mum taught you how to count to twelve in Spanish. Give me a quick lesson. I want to sound, impressive.”

  “Uno, dos—”

  “Stop! Stop! Oh my God! I have an idea. I have an idea.”

  “No, Pip, I’ll not have a threesome with you. The answer is still no and will always be no, so don’t ask—”

  “No, not that. Ladies, huddle. We might have just saved Anthea’s job after all.”

  “What?” I say.

  Starlet leans in, her eyes wide.

  “Interesting.” Ana bites at her lower lip.

  “I have a dare for you, Anthea, and we all know you never say no to a dare. Well, unless it’s for a threesome with me.”

  We all laugh.

  “I’m listening.” It’s true I have never said no to a dare—not in my lifetime. I bend in close.

  “Twelve men. Twelve months. You’ll date hotties like Mr Spanish, and write about it. You can focus on what men really like. How they think. What they’re looking for in a woman. How to secure the one for you. And you can sell it to all those single ladies looking for Mr Right and not Mr Right for Now—but there’s a catch. You can never know their real names.”

  I bite at my nail. Shit! This idea is good.

  “Anthea will never go for it, she’s always too busy with work to date,” Starlet says.

  She’s right. I am always chasing another idea, another column. But this would be for work. “I’m interested.”

  “It’ll keep you in your job for another year,” Pip continues.

  “I’d like that.” A smile stretches my lips.

  “There’s one more catch, though.”

  “Yes? What?”

  Pip taps her finger against her chin. I’m on the edge of my seat with anticipation. She opens her mouth. She snaps it closed again. She grins, and then she says, “You have to call each man according to the number of the month you met him in. In Spanish.”

  I think about it for all of two seconds and find myself grinning the same way Pip just was.

  “Fuck, this is perfect.” Ana smacks her hand against the table causing our drinks to spill.

  “I’m on to something, aren’t I?” Pip wiggles her eyebrows.

  I leap from my chair, throw my hands in the air, and yell, “Woohoo!”

  A huddle of jumping, mildly intoxicated women follow.

  This idea will work, and it’ll give me a chance to go on a date which I can’t even remember the last time I did, and to learn more about all types of different men.

  I have my article.

  Headline: Are all Men from Mars?

  Perfect!

  ***

  One should never celebrate with six rounds of shooters—tequila, to be exact—but that’s how we do it.

  And after six rounds of shooters, one should also never come up with the brilliant idea to hightail it in the rain to one’s boss’s house at two a.m., trying not to slip in one’s stilettoes.

  But here I am—standing at the door of number 228, Canterbury Drive, in an upmarket area, with my hair a tangled mess, my tight dress soaked through, water dripping from the tip of my nose, and my thighs chafed. L
etting out a puffed breath I press my finger to the doorbell.

  Ding, dong. Ding, dong.

  The porch light turns on. The sound of a barking dog fills the air, and I shiver.

  Frick, it’s cold out here. When did it get so cold? My arms cover in millions of tiny goosebumps.

  The door opens slowly; I expect a creaking sound just like you hear in the movies, but it doesn’t make any noise.

  Trevor Schuler. In the flesh.

  Too much flesh.

  He’s shirtless. His gut hangs over a pair of boxer shorts that have red love hearts scattered on them. Yuck!

  He rubs at his eyes. “Hello.” His voice croaks.

  “Trevor. It’s me, Anthea. I have my story.” I shiver like someone is trotting over my grave.

  “Two-fucking-a.m. That’s the time. Why the fuck are you at my house?”

  Rude much?

  “Are you not listening, old man?” I say with a slight slur. “I have an idea for my column.”

  “This couldn’t wait until the morning?” Annoyance lifts his chin, then his eyebrows.

  “When the iron strikes hot, time is just—well, time. Listen up.” I shake, and my teeth chatter, but I manage to spit out the entire idea. “So, I’ll travel to twelve different countries. I’ll date one man for each month of the year. I’ll never know his name, or tell him what I’m doing, and I’ll only refer to him by a number, and not an English number—a Spanish number. I’ll write an article on each of them.”

  He nods, slowly.

  “So, YES?” I clasp my hands under my chin in prayer.

  “With one condition.”

  “I’m listening.” I tug at my lower lip with my teeth.

  “You’ll travel around Australia and you’ll write a fucking travel story, as well as your regular column, because the budget is so tight, you’ll need to make it worthwhile,” he takes a quick breath. “The world,” he mumbles to himself. “The fucking world. You’re dreaming.” He shakes his head.