by Emma Chase
crucial that he have the right start in life. His school will provide that for him.”
I nod. Pointing out the extreme fucked-upness of this philosophy really isn’t worth my time. “Right. Of course it will.”
And I’m just about to extract myself from the conversation when Julian Wolfe comes striding on over. He’s decent looking for a guy, tall but thin, with white-blond hair and a pale complexion. Kind of reminds me of a high-ranking Nazi officer.
“Rosaline, there are some important individuals I need you to meet.” Then he notices me. “Hello, Fisher.” He doesn’t extend his hand, and I sure as hell don’t offer mine.
I just nod my head. “Julian.”
Rosaline and Julian are prime examples of why people need a hobby. If money is your only passion, you’re going to be a miserable human being. And eventually, your hobby will be spreading that misery and being a general douche to everyone you meet.
“Sorry to steal her away. Again.” He chuckles, because that’s his idea of a joke.
And although it’s more of a woman’s game, if he wants to play with words, I’m up for the challenge. “No, take her off my hands, please. You’re doing me a favor.”
Julian sobers. And Rosaline touches my arm. “It was good to see you, Matthew.”
“Take care,” I tell them both.
Once they walk away, Drew comes up next to me. “Bet you’re glad you dodged that bullet.”
“You have no idea.”
He nudges me with his elbow. “You okay?”
Take a good look—this is as close to “a moment” as guys like Drew and I will ever get. We could hang out all day and not utter a single word about anything important going on in our lives. Words aren’t necessary—’cause when the chips are down, we’ll be in each other’s corner.
I assure him, “Yeah, man, I’m top-notch. Like you said, dodged a bullet.”
We return to Alexandra’s side, and I can tell by his expression that he’s going to ask to be excused again. But then, Drew seems to decide on a different strategy. He smiles deviously. “Hey look—Squeaky’s here.”
“Who?” Alexandra inquires.
Drew gestures with his wineglass. “Curly haired brunette, in the blue dress near the bar.”
Lexi’s head bobs until she spots the lady in question. “That’s . . . Alyson Bradford.”
Drew shrugs. “She’ll always be Squeaky to me.”
“Why do you call her Squeaky?”
Mentally I shake my head. Because Alexandra should’ve known better.
“She squeaks when she comes.”
“What?”
Casually, Drew explains, “Like a dog’s chew toy.” He holds up his hand, opening and closing it. “Squeak, squeak, squeak, squeeeeeak. At least she did when we were seventeen, but I don’t think that’s a condition she’d outgrow.”
“How do you know that?” Alexandra asks, expectedly grossed out. “When did you have sex with Alyson Bradford?”
Drew looks to the ceiling, recalling the event. “Um . . . junior year. It was in the dark days following our loss to St. Bartholomew’s in the playoffs. I wouldn’t say she was my rock bottom, but she was close.”
Lexi turns away. “Eck . . . forget it, I don’t want to know.”
If it’s one thing The Bitch can’t stomach, it’s detailed stories of her brother’s sex-capades.
Which is precisely why Drew says, “She also does this nasty thing with her tongue . . .”
Alexandra clasps her eyes shut. “All right! You know what? Fine—if you want to go that badly, then go. If you want to leave me in my hour of need . . .”
She never should have given him an out.
Drew smiles brightly, puts his glass on the tray of a passing waiter, and kisses her cheek. “You’re the best sister ever. Bye.” Then he asks me, “Are you coming or what?”
I’ve never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth, or in this case, an escape route. “Super party, Lex. See ya.” Then I follow Drew to the door. And if you look to the far side of the ballroom, you’ll see Rosaline—following me with her eyes.
Chapter 6
After leaving the fund-raiser, Drew and I head out to a bar. He ends up going home with a leggy, black-haired lawyer looking for some sexual healing to ease the pain of a courtroom defeat. I nurse a beer and spot a few prospects, but none that motivate me to make an effort. On the walk home, I’m tempted to break the Three-Day Rule and call Delores.
What’s that? You don’t know what the Three-Day Rule is? Listen and learn. Three days is the perfect amount of time to wait before calling a woman after you’ve seen her. I don’t care what category she’s in. Whether you’ve banged her or not, you don’t dial her number until the third day. It’s not about head games or having the upper hand—it’s about keeping her interest. Getting her to think about you. Day one, she’s probably reminiscing about the last time she saw you. Day two she’s hoping you’re going to call and wondering if you had as good a time as she did. On day three—the magic day—she’s just about given up hope that her phone is going to ring. She’s questioning what went wrong, did she misread your signals, then—bam—your call swoops in and makes her day.
I’ve thought about Dee at random times throughout the day—always with a smile. Her straightforward, wise-ass humor, the way she danced . . . her nipple piercing. But, my phone stays securely in my pocket—because the three-day statute should never be broken.
Saturday night rolls around and it’s business as usual. I meet up with Jack and Drew at the opening of the newest hot spot. It’s a large club, a renovated warehouse in the heart of the meatpacking district. It’s crowded—wall-to-wall bodies with barely any elbow room and a line around the corner. We’re sharing a booth with five gorgeous Dutch cruise ship passengers. Amsterdam is wild—it’s the modern-day Sodom and Gomorrah. Women from Amsterdam who’ve been at sea for three weeks could be hard to keep up with—even for us.
I squeeze my way through the throng of people to the bar. I lean forward and try to catch the bartender’s eye. A minute later, I’m shoved deliberately from behind. I glance over my shoulder and see a short, Snooki-sized redhead with heavy lids, swaying in her high-heeled brown boots. She points her finger at me and slurs loudly, “I know you. You’re the guy I slept with two weeks ago, the one with the motorcycle.”
I thought she looked familiar. And her name is trendy, androgynous—Ricki or Remy . . .
Her equally petite but clearly more sober friend puts an arm around her. “Come on, Riley, forget him.”
Riley. So close.
Riley pouts sloppily. “You never called. Prick.”
I’m just gonna put this out there: I’m all for equal opportunity hookups. A woman shouldn’t be thought any less of because she wants to get her freak on as frequently as a guy—no name-calling, no slut-shaming. On the other hand, girls need to stop playing the victim card. If I tell you I’m interested in one night only—why am I suddenly an asshole when that’s all it turns out to be? Listen to what a guy says. Don’t assume that there’s some hidden meaning behind his actions. Real life is not chick-lit or a romantic comedy; you shouldn’t expect it to be.
Still, it leaves a bad taste in my mouth when a girl feels used. “Don’t be like that, babe. We had a good time—neither one of us wanted more. I never said I was going to call.”
My words fall on deaf ears. Riley’s eyes look to my right and she warns, “Watch out for this one, sister—he’s a player.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
And even with the loud, synthesized music at maximum volume, I know that voice. I close my eyes, turn my head, and open them to find Delores Warren standing next to me.
You’re not surprised, are you?
Riley fades from my sight and my thoughts as I check out Dee in her club wear. Her blond hair is painted with streaks of purple and blue, a tight, electric blue crop top barely covers her tits, her skirt is nothing more than strips of blue and purple fabric,
and fuzzy, calf-high boots adorn her feet. Every inch of her fabulously exposed, body-glitter-covered skin sparkles like diamonds.
She smiles playfully. “Hello, God. It’s me, Dee.”
I don’t try to hide that I’m happy to see her. “Hey. What’s up? I left you a message this afternoon.”
Today was day three. But Dee seems to be one of those rare women who is immune to the Rule. She turns to face the bar but replies loudly enough for me to hear. “I know.”
“Why didn’t you call me back?”
She bops her head in time to the music and shrugs. “I figured you were just being nice.”
“I don’t do anything just to be nice.” I hook my thumb in the direction Riley was standing. “Obviously.”
I don’t kiss ass—unless a girl asks me to—and the only smoke I blow is from my cigarettes.
A few feet away, a dark-skinned, hair-gelled dude in a white T-shirt and skinny jeans yells in Delores’s direction. “Yo, Dee—hurry up with the drinks!”
There are two kinds of male Brooklynites—liberal, wealthy transplants who want to immerse themselves in urban living while restoring their historic brownstones to their former splendor, and homegrown, heavily accented, wise-guy wannabes who’ve watched Goodfellas one too many times. This dumbass is definitely the latter. I motion with my chin. “Who’s he?”
“That’s Mickey.”
“Did you come here with him?”
“No. I came with a few girls from work. They’re . . . around here somewhere.”
Then I ask the more crucial question. “Are you going to leave with him?”
“Probably.” The single word hits me like a jab to the chin.
Dee leans over the bar to place her drink order. When she’s back on her feet, I move in closer, so I don’t have to yell. “You can do better.”
She looks into my eyes. Wearing the same expression she had on her face when I left her apartment Wednesday night—yearning mixed with sadness. Resignation.
“Maybe I don’t want better.”
“You should. Shoot for the moon and you still end up amongst the stars.” It’s an expression my mother used to say.
Dee lifts one shoulder. “Outer space isn’t for everyone. I’m more of a ground-level kind of girl.”
A woman’s view of herself is like a reflection in a fun house mirror—bent, sometimes warped. The way others see them is always more accurate.
“You’re so wrong.”
“Mickey’s uncomplicated. Easy.”
I smile. “If you’re looking for easy, I’m your guy—they don’t come easier than me.”
She chuckles. And I step to Dee’s side, blocking her view of the worthless wonder. Out of sight, out of mind, right? Smoothly I ask, “When can I see you again?”
The side of Dee’s mouth inches up. “You’re seeing me right now.”
“I want to see you in a predetermined location . . . preferably in less clothing.”
Dee glances down at her outfit. “Less clothing than this? That’d be risking indecent exposure.”
I smirk. “Always a sign of a great time.”
Her drinks arrive. She picks up the tray and tells me, “I think seeing you again would be a bad idea—for both of us.”
“Wrong again.”
She smiles softly. “Bye, Matthew.” And starts to walk away.
I call, “Hey, Dee.” She turns. “Next time, tell him to get his own fucking drinks, okay?”
She holds my gaze for a moment, then nods and disappears into the crowd.
A while later, Drew tells me he and Jack are going to go party with the Dutch world travelers. “Are you coming?” he asks. “Drop some anchor, do a little deep-sea muff diving?”
I scan the dance floor, trying to catch a glimpse of electric blue. “Nah, I’m working on something here.” I watch Jack by the door, entertaining the five girls, and ask, “Which one are you going for?”
“The girl in the middle seems like quite the eager beaver.” He chuckles at his own joke.
Called it. I snort and Drew asks why. “You don’t think it’s unusual that out of five Scandinavians, you’re shooting for the lone brunette in the bunch?”
Drew gets my point. But he blows it off. “Thanks, Sigmund. If I want to be psychoanalyzed, I’ll throw good money away on an actual fucking therapist.”
“Whatever you say, man.” I slap him on the back.
After Drew and Jack leave, I do a lap around the club. I spot Dee on the dance floor with Tony Soprano Junior and it turns my stomach. His spastic, rough steps are a sharp contrast to Dee’s effortless, rolling movements, and I wonder again what the hell she’s doing with him.
I find an empty table but get blindsided by an aggressive, chatty blonde in a short-sleeved cashmere sweater and leather skirt. She sits herself down and seems oblivious to the fact that I’m not paying attention to anything she says.
“. . . and I was like, really, Dad? Like, how am I supposed to focus on graduate school with that measly allowance . . .” The droning continues until a dark-haired girl happens by the table. Blondie grabs her hand. “Tracy! Omg, it’s been, like, forever. Let’s get a pic.” She leans her head against Tracy’s and snaps a picture with her iPhone. “That’s going on my Instagram!”
But, as soon as Tracy’s out of earshot, Blondie turns to me with a glower. “I hate that bitch.”
You know what I hate? Fakeness. Phony affection. It’s stupid and a waste of time. The only falsies I appreciate are on a set of cosmetically altered boobs.
I’ve had as much of this chick’s company as I can stand, and then I see Delores, walking out the door of the club, behind the Italian loser. Determined to salvage the night, I ask Blondie, “Do you want to get out of here?”
She beams. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Chapter 7
Blondie doesn’t want to ride the Ducati to her place, so she gives me her address and I settle her into a cab before climbing on my bike to meet her there. I’m unusually indifferent about the prospect of getting my dick wet. This girl’s like a salad that’s included with your meal—you’ll munch on it, but only because it’s already on the table in front of you. My mind keeps drifting back to Dee, walking out of the club with that undeserving fuckface.
I remember the way she moved Wednesday night and the appreciative, sexy sounds I elicited from her each time I sunk into her, slow and deep. I wonder if he’s hearing those same tantalizing noises—and it pisses me the hell off. Not because Dee’s screwing another guy, but because the guy is so goddamn unworthy.
At least, that’s why I tell myself I’m pissed.
I shake off my conflicted feelings as I find a parking spot, at a meter, around the corner from the blonde’s apartment, who I now think of as “Salad-girl.” She’s waiting for me inside the atrium of her building and opens the door to her first-floor apartment.
“Wow, it’s really cold,” she tells me in a high-pitched, almost whiny voice. “I can’t believe how quick the temperature dropped. I wonder if it’s going to snow early this year. I hate the snow. Even at Christmastime, I’ll take a sandy beach over . . .”
I kiss her eagerly—just so she’ll stop talking.
She squeaks into my mouth before recovering and putting her all into kissing me back. Her tongue flicks at mine quickly—too quickly. There’s no rhythm or finesse. Feels like there’s a stingerless bumblebee trapped in my mouth, and its wings are beating the hell out of my tongue. She shoves me back onto the sofa and yanks her sweater over her head, revealing a beige, lacy bra, encasing a set of mega-huge melons.
Like I said before, I’m a breast lover, so I try and focus my attention on this positive attribute, but her idea of dirty talk is a major distraction.
“Oh, yeah,” she moans, pushing her tits together. “I’m a bad girl. You gonna be my daddy? Daddy gonna punish his naughty slut?”
There are so many things wrong with that statement, I don’t even know where to frigging begin.
First off, the Daddy talk is a boner killer. It’s as effective as being submerged in a tub of ice water. It makes me think of my father and children and a thousand other things I don’t want to be imagining during foreplay. The naughty slut was a valiant effort—I’m definitely into the name-calling, ass-slapping, dominant role-play thing women seem so fond of these days. But her babyish, breathy voice ruins the effect.
Delores’s voice is low, sultry, unmistakably woman. When she begged me to fuck her, or called out how she wanted me to fuck her—it wasn’t forced or fake. It was unrehearsed and real, because she was so turned on, so caught up in the ecstasy of the moment, that staying silent simply wasn’t possible.
I grunt as Salad-girl pounces on my lap. She claws at my shirt but only succeeds in giving me rug burn on my neck. Shirt-burn. Then, with surprising strength, she forces my head between her breasts, holding me so tightly I can’t fucking breathe. The Vikings believed dying on the battlefield was a “good death,” and normally I’d feel the same way about being tit-smothered . . . but these aren’t the tits I want doing me in. I struggle to turn my head, finally succeeding when I grip her biceps and push back. I tilt my head up and reinflate my lungs.
And then, still holding her arms, I look at Salad-girl’s face. A cute nose, wet, pink lips, and round blue eyes gaze back at me. She’s hot. A solid 8. Any other night I’d be all over this, but tonight . . . I’m not.
Because the eyes I want gazing back at me are light brown with flecks of gold. The lips I want to nibble on are red and full and have the most direct, unexpected responses coming out of them. I’m more turned on picturing Dee in my head than I’ve been for the last five minutes with this topless alternative grinding on my lap.
“Wait . . . hold up a second. This isn’t working for me,” I tell her.
“What do you mean?”
Women always say they just want men to be honest with them. Let’s see how that plays out. “You’re pretty and you seem like a fun girl . . . but, I just realized . . . I’m into somebody else at the moment.”
Her neck swivels as she asks, “Excuse me?”
“No offense.” She covers her immense chest with her hands. And now she’s glaring at me. “If it makes you feel better, if I hadn’t met her first, I’d totally be having sex with you right now.”
She scampers off my lap. “You’re an asshole!”
I can see why she’d think that.
“Get the hell out of my apartment, you dick!” She picks a coaster up from the end table—the heavy ceramic kind—and whips it at my head. The first one misses. But the second one nails me in the shoulder blade as I dive for the door.
“Ow! Christ, I’m going!”
“Jerk!”
This proves it—whoever said honesty was the best policy, was obviously lying.
I park my motorcycle on the sidewalk and sprint up to the front door of Dee’s building. I push her buzzer once, twice, three times for good luck. I wait five seconds, but there’s no response.
Next, I do what every other normal human being would.
I push the button down until my motherfucking fingertip turns white.
Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz . . .
When that doesn’t get an answer, I admit, I start to panic. I walk onto the sidewalk, below Delores’s front window, and cup my hands around my mouth.