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 d.i.c.k 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 f.u.c.kface.

I remember the way she moved Wednesday night and the appreciative, s.e.xy 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 p.i.s.ses me the h.e.l.l off. Not because Dee's s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g another guy, but because the guy is so G.o.dd.a.m.n unworthy.

At least, that's why I tell myself I'm p.i.s.sed.

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 b.u.mblebee trapped in my mouth, and its wings are beating the h.e.l.l 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 t.i.ts together. "I'm a bad girl. You gonna be my daddy? Daddy gonna punish his naughty s.l.u.t?"

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 b.o.n.e.r 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 s.l.u.t was a valiant effort-I'm definitely into the name-calling, a.s.s-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 f.u.c.k her, or called out how she wanted me to f.u.c.k her-it wasn't forced or fake. It was unrehea.r.s.ed 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s, holding me so tightly I can't f.u.c.king breathe. The Vikings believed dying on the battlefield was a "good death," and normally I'd feel the same way about being t.i.t-smothered . . . but these aren't the t.i.ts 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 s.e.x with you right now."

She scampers off my lap. "You're an a.s.shole!"

I can see why she'd think that.

"Get the h.e.l.l out of my apartment, you d.i.c.k!" 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 b.u.t.ton down until my motherf.u.c.king 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. "Delores! Hey Dee-you awake?"

Because this is New York City, a neighbor immediately yells back, "We're all awake now, a.s.shole!"

A few "Shuddups" come from various directions, and I think one woman may have thrown a potted plant at me.

But I'd like to believe it was an accident.

With no other recourse, I throw my head back and go for my best Marlon Brando impression. "Stella!! Steeellllaaaa!!"

Delores's window opens. f.u.c.king finally.

"Matthew?" she calls down, surprised.

My fingers hook my belt loops, going for a nonchalant stance. "Hey," I answer. "S'up?"

"What the h.e.l.l are you doing?" she asks.

Here is when I realize my grand plan to stop her and Tony from getting busy . . . only reached this point. d.a.m.n. From here on out, it's all improv.

"I wanted to . . . Can you come down, please?"

Miraculously, she doesn't tell me to go screw myself.

And two minutes later, she's walking out onto the sidewalk . . . with Goomba Johnny trailing behind her. Thankfully, she's still fully dressed in her club clothes. That doesn't really mean much-especially considering the outfit covers little more than a bra and underwear would, but at this point, I'll take whatever bright side I can.

The wise guy wannabe walks in front of Dee and shoves me back. "The f.u.c.k's your problem? You some kinda psycho?"

On instinct, my fists rise to a defensive posture. "I didn't come to fight you, but you wanna go? We can go."

Then I notice the tattoo low on his bicep-a tattoo of the Virgin Mary with AVE MARIA scrolled below it. And I take a different approach.

"I'm just trying to save my marriage."

Yes, lying is a low blow-but desperate times . . .

His head snaps to Dee. "You're married?"

She's horrified. "No, I'm not married. He's out of his mind!"

I open my wallet to the picture of Mackenzie and force sincerity onto my expression. "My family is my everything. I know you don't know me, but could you just do me a steady and . . . walk away?"

Now Dee is seriously p.i.s.sed off. She pushes my shoulder and turns to the Jersey Sh.o.r.e reject. "Mickey, that is not my daughter, and he is not my husband!"

He replies, "My name is Mikey."

It's a relief to see I'm not the only one having trouble with names tonight.

Exasperated, Dee asks, "Does it matter?"

For most guys, it doesn't matter-we don't care if you scream the Pope's name while we're giving it to you. But apparently, "Mikey" isn't most guys. Because he throws his hands up in surrender. "This is way too heavy for me. I'm outta here." Then he turns on his heel and walks away.

I watch his retreating form with glee. Then I turn to Dee and hook my thumb over my shoulder. "Some people are so gullible."

That's when she punches me-right in the mouth.

I stumble back and taste blood. Delores may be pet.i.te, but she can throw a h.e.l.l of a right hook. She points and wags her finger as she rails, "I don't know what the f.u.c.k this is, but it is not okay!"

My hand drops from my injured mouth to my side. And my mind is blank-not a single smooth line or witty comeback in sight. So all I can do is ask, "Why don't you like me?"

"What?"

"We had a great time-the s.e.x was hot, we laughed-but now you don't want anything to do with me."

"This is a new concept for you?"

I snort. "s.h.i.t, yeah, it's new. Everybody likes me. I'm a great f.u.c.king guy."

Dee ma.s.sages her forehead with her fingertips the way my mother used to do when she had a headache brewing. Then she sighs and admits, "Okay . . . the thing is . . . it's not you, it's me. I'm the problem."

My eyes crinkle with revulsion. "Jesus Christ, are you serious? I'm practically pouring my heart out here, and you can't even be bothered to make up a decent lie?"

Dee throws out her arms, "I'm telling you the truth. I do like you. You're very cute, you're very funny, and you're fantastic in bed. But I . . . I'm a more content person when I'm not in a relationship. When I get serious with someone . . . I go a little crazy."

"Who's said anything about a relationship? Let's just . . . keep having a good time. See what happens. It's not like we're going to take off for Vegas and get married."

That would just be ridiculous.

Dee shakes her head. "You don't understand. It never ends well. This won't be any different, Matthew. I used to think it was the men I picked, but I've finally accepted the fact that it's me. I make good guys go bad. I'm like . . . a p.e.n.i.s pump . . . I turn men into gigantic p.r.i.c.ks. I'm the girl your mother warned you about-bad news."

And her expression is so serious, I can't not laugh. "No, you're not."

"You don't know me."

"What I know so far is pretty awesome."

She starts to deny what I've said, but I push on. "You're overthinking this. We can be f.u.c.k buddies if it makes you feel better. New friends with fabulous benefits. I'll be the scratch for your itch . . . the booty to your two a.m. call. Just . . . don't screw any other guys-you won't need to."

She begins to shake her head. Until I remind her. "And the world could end tomorrow, remember? The aliens could invade . . . global warming . . . we've got to live for the now, 'cause you never know when the now will be gone."

I hold out my hand. "Take a chance, Dee. I won't let you down."

Her honey-colored eyes look wistfully at my hand. "G.o.d, you're good."

I smirk. And it just comes out. "That's what she said."

Dee cracks up.

Then she takes my hand in hers. They're a perfect fit.

Like two middle schoolers experiencing their first crushes, we stand like that for a few moments, smiling at each other. Wordlessly, we turn and walk toward her apartment.

Much too seriously, Dee says, "Hey, Matthew?"

I raise my eyebrows.

"When you've had enough? Just remember I tried to warn you, okay?"

I don't know what kind of f.u.c.ked-up, douche bags Dee has been going out with, but that kind of talk ticks me off. I'm determined to prove her wrong and lighten the mood. So I lean toward her and whisper, "You're too beautiful to ever get enough of."

Delores rolls her eyes. And I get the distinct impression she thinks I'm bulls.h.i.tting her. Guess I'll just have to keep calling her beautiful until she believes it.

Chapter 8.

Waking up in a place that's not yours is always slightly disorienting. My eyes open to sunlight streaming through sheer purple curtains and to a clothes-cluttered bedroom. Last night, Dee and I talked some more after going inside her apartment. Turns out, she didn't have s.e.x with the homeboy. She said he spent the majority of their time at her apartment on the phone with a friend. Idiot. She asked me if it would've bothered me if she had-my answer was yes. But . . . I would've gotten over it.

I slip on a pair of boxers, then I follow the smell of bacon and the sound of music to the kitchen. Dee stands at the stove with her back to me, singing along to "Beneath Your Beautiful" that pours out from the stereo, which is mounted below her cabinet.

Her voice is adorably bad-off-key and screechy-like a mating cat's. Her reddish-blond hair is pinned up with chopsticks-still color-streaked from last night-and the only piece of clothing she's wearing is my b.u.t.ton-down, blue shirt. As the song ends, I applaud.

She spins around, spatula in hand. "Morning."

"Nice shirt."

She shrugs. "Since I was making you breakfast, I decided to go full fledged cliche and wear it."