Through the Grinder by Cleo Coyle Read Free Book Online Page B

not a thing of beauty.
    My first official “date” of the last two years had started out badly and went downhill from there.
    Frankly, the last thing I expected to be doing exactly one week after “My Dinner with Quinn” (as I now thought of it) was sitting across from a guy who looked like he’d stepped off the cover of the Metrosexual’s Handbook.
    Yet here I was, sitting in the Union Square Coffee Shop, which, despite its name, was not, in fact, a coffee shop, but a trendy restaurant made to look like a 1960s-style coffee shop/diner, with the addition of mood lighting, loud music, a slick crowd, and a Brazilian-American menu.
    Later, when I was happily back at the Blend, Tucker would inform me that the waitresses there were employed by a major modeling agency—which owned this restaurant, as well as another, called (appropriately enough) Live Bait. And I would consider myself a heel (in retrospect) for consenting to eat at a place where a twenty-two-year-old reed-thin underwear model with long blonde hair asked my date, “What would you like?”
    This man had e-mailed me as a result of the profile Joy had helped me post on SinglesNYC.com—and the only reason I’d even posted in the first place was to check out the dating service my daughter intended to use.
    “What would you like?” Paris Hilton asked again.
    Ensconced in the vinyl booth, I’d already ordered the churrasquino carioca; however, my date, a forty-something with curly black hair, refined features, watery hazel eyes, and a profile that listed his occupation as “Director of Fundraising,” seemed to be having an issue with the menu.
    “I thought you had vegetarian fare?” he asked unhappily.
    “We have a veggie burger and a ton of fish dishes,” suggested the waitress.
    “I’m a vegan. No animal products, which includes the swimming animals.”
    A vegan? I thought. His profile hadn’t mentioned that. I could have sworn it said nonsmoking gourmet food lover. O-kay.
    “Veggie burger?” asked the model-slash-waitress hopefully.
    Brooks Newman sighed the sigh of a martyr. “I suppose.”
    “Cheese?”
    “Yes.”
    “You know cheese is an animal product,” I pointed out. “I mean if you’re a vegan.”
    “Oh, yes,” said Brooks. “Of course. It’s only been three days.”
    “Three days vegan?” I asked. “Is that like three days sober?”
    Brooks wasn’t amused. He gave me a little squint. “No cheese,” he told the waitress.
    “Anything else, sir?”
    “Yes,” said Brooks. He snapped the menu shut. “And another martini. Dry. Got that? D-R-Y.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    The Hilton look-alike spun on her go-go boot heel and left.
    “I hate it when girls that age call me ‘sir,’” said Brooks, his eyes glued to the waitress’s retreating ass. “Makes me feel old.”
    “Well…” I said. No reason for that. After all, you’re acting like a child.
    “You, uh, don’t look forty.”
    “Thanks. I know. It’s the botanicals.”
    “Botanicals?”
    “Yes, in the facial products. I find a weekly spa visit to be vital for people our age. You should try it. Really.”
    Oh, for pity’s sake.
    “Renu Spa,” he said, draining the last of his not-dry-enough martini. “Park Avenue, by the W Hotel.”
    “Renu, eh? Funny…”
    “What’s funny?” he asked.
    “Renew! Renew! Renew!” I said. “You know, Logan’s Run ? Do they have a ‘Carousel’ treatment for clients over thirty?”
    Brooks made his little squinty face again. “Why would they have a merry-go-round in a spa?”
    I shook my head. “Not merry-go-round. Carousel. Don’t you remember Logan’s Run ? That sci-fi movie from the mid seventies?”
    “Sure, I remember it. Farrah Fawcett, right?”
    “Right. Well, the entire premise is based on the idea that it’s the twenty-third century and Big Brother takes care of everything for you. Your whole life is spent in the pursuit of pleasure. The only catch is when you turn thirty, the red crystal embedded in your