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A customer walked up and ordered a drink, so Robbie paused to help him. Jack leaned across the bar and grabbed my phone to get a look at Braden’s photo. He nodded approvingly.
“My opinion?” he said quietly. “He’s not out of your league.”
“Thanks, Jack.” I gave him a smile. “How you doing tonight? You’ve been at the bar a lot lately.”
He took a long pull of his beer before saying, “Family problems.”
“Wife?”
“My son, actually,” he said. “From my first marriage. We’re sort of estranged, and he won’t return my calls despite my best efforts.”
I put a hand on his. “Sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah, well, beer helps.”
Robbie came back after serving the customer a drink. “At least this answers the important question: Braden does like you! The two of you matched on Tinder! He was probably flirting with you after the show because he was wondering why you haven’t responded to him.”
“Well, not exactly…”
I pulled up my profile. The fake name I’d used was Angela, and the photo was a selfie strategically angled to show everything from my tits down. Not my face.
“He doesn’t know it’s me,” I said.
Robbie rolled his eyes. “It still proves my point that he’s interested in what you’ve got going on.” He gestured at my body. “What did he message you?”
I pulled up the match:
BRAD: Hey there. I’m an actor working my way up Broadway. Totally lame, right? But you mention theater as one of your interests, so I figured I’d lead with that and see where it got me ;-)
“Eww, a winky face,” Robbie said. “The five dollar slut of the emoji world. Give me that.”
“Hey!” I protested as he snatched the phone from me again.
“You need me in the driver’s seat,” he insisted, twisting to keep the phone away. “Let me work my magic.”
“Give it back!”
Robbie tapped on my phone for a few moments and then hit send. He showed me what he’d written:
Angela: Hey stud muffin. Got plans tonight?
“Stud muffin? He’s going to think I’m a 65 year old cougar!”
“My wife used to call me a stud muffin,” Jack chimed in.
Robbie pointed at him. “See?”
“Granted, she stopped decades ago. I don’t think I’ve heard anyone use that phrase unironically since the Berlin Wall came down.”
It was my turn to point at Jack. “See!”
“Shut up,” Robbie hissed. “He’s responding!”
BRAD: Damn, I knew this was a catfish. Good luck with more gullible guys.
“What’s a catfish?” I demanded. “Is that hot? It doesn’t sound hot.”
Robbie grimaced. “It’s a fake profile trying to string men along for money. Usually prostitutes, or hackers sitting in their basements.”
