Текст книги "Surviving Ice "

Автор книги: K. A. Tucker

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

A man I’ve never seen before stands motionless in front of me, amusement in his eyes as he stares. Nothing else about him betrays his thoughts, though. His stance is still and relaxed, his angular face perfectly composed.

My heart begins to race with unease.

“I’d like some work done.” His voice is deep, almost gravelly, his tone even and calm.

I climb to my feet, because I don’t like anyone towering over me. And because his piercing eyes unsettle me. Unlike the two-hundred-and-fifty-pound biker who just left, this guy makes me nervous. The wrench is still in my fist, and I grip it tightly now. “I’m not working today.”

“Tomorrow.”

“I’m not working tomorrow either.”

The corner of his mouth twitches as we face off against each other. “When will you be working again, then?”

He’s patient. It’s annoying. But he also seems very interested in this tattoo, which makes it less likely that he’s here to hurt me. I relax my grip on the wrench. “I won’t be. Not here, anyway. Black Rabbit is closed for good, or at least until it opens under new ownership.”

He pauses, his shrewd gaze weighing so heavily on me that I finally have to look away from him. I feel like a sophomore year science class dissection—the unfortunate amphibian donated in the name of education. “That’s a shame.”

Either he’s not from around here or he hasn’t read the news. Or he’s one of those sickos who gets a kick out of crime scenes. “It is.” What’s really a shame is that this guy didn’t come a few weeks ago, because I gladly would have agreed to mark his entire body with my hands then.

On first-glance impression, he actually reminds me of Jesse Welles, the love of my teenage life, though I’d never admit that to anyone. This guy’s eyes are lighter—a cool chocolate rather than near-black—but they have that same intensity; a similar smirk sits atop his full lips. He, too, has dark hair coating his hard, masculine jaw; it’s just sculpted to a perfect short beard. He’s taller and broader than Jesse. Harder looking, not just by a few years of age but as if by life itself. That’s a little concerning, given the kind of life that Jesse Welles has already lived.

But there’s something distinctly different about this guy, too. I can’t quite place it, but I can feel it. Something slightly “off.” Or maybe it’s just this place that’s making everything in my life feel off—after all, my mind is still in a haze over Ned’s death. The last thing I should be thinking about right now is this guy or Jesse or getting laid.

He takes slow, even steps around me, circling the chair, his hands resting in his pockets. “What if I offer to pay you double your rate?”

I frown. I’ve never had anyone offer to pay more. If anything, they’re haggling to lower my hourly charge. Is he an idiot? “Do you know what my rate is?”

His lips twist into a pucker, as if he’s thinking about it. “It can’t be too much.”

I eye him up and down. He’s wearing nondescript black hiking boots, a black T-shirt, and plain blue jeans. Not Wranglers but not custom-made. He looks good in them, but I think that has more to do with his impressive build than choice in fashion. “What if I said it was five hundred an hour?”

“Then I’d say that I heard you were really good at what you do.”

“You mean kick-ass, right?” To some people, I sound arrogant. But in this business, you have to exude confidence. People are allowing you to take a needle filled with permanent ink to their bodies. They’re not going to feel safe with an insecure artist. That’s something Ned taught me. He also said that you have to walk the talk, because you won’t fool a person more than once and this business is all about referral—except for the odd moron who walks into a shop and flashes his skin without ever so much as looking at a portfolio. It’s rare, but it happens.

Thankfully, I can walk the talk. I am that good.

“Who’d you hear that from?” I ask.

“A friend named Mike.”

I’ve traveled all over the world and inked hundreds of people. I’ve worked on at least five Mikes, Michaels, or Micks. Names mean little. “What’d I do for him?”

“A skull,” he answers without missing a beat.

Great. Just as useless. I’ve done at least a dozen skulls. So common.

His upper lip twitches ever so slightly. “Do you normally interrogate potential customers like this?”

“No,” I admit. I’m not exactly sure why I’m doing it now. Looking for reasons not to trust this guy, a valid excuse to turn him away, perhaps.

“Then do my reasons for being willing to pay more really matter?” Again, that arrogant little smirk.

In another time, that may have held sway. I’ve always had a weakness for strong but quiet masculinity. “No, they don’t. Because Black Rabbit is closed and I have a ton of cleaning up to do to get the place ready for selling.” I can’t help my voice from cracking with emotion now. I’ve managed to keep down so far. If I can just get through this, maybe it’ll fade without ever truly surfacing.

He nods toward the chair. “What are you doing with that?”

“Throwing it in the Dumpster, if I can ever get this bolt off.”

“Why?”

I’m tired of being questioned about this stupid chair. “Because someone was murdered in it.”

Most normal people would flinch at an answer like that, or press with more specific questions. Not this guy. He simply leans over to reach into the toolbox on the floor for another wrench.

“Don’t bother. I need a torch,” I mutter as he crouches down, the cuffs of his jeans hiking up to show more of his boots.

He ignores me, latching the end onto the bolt. The muscles in his arms and shoulders cord as he works on it, his body rocking back and forth several times until the bolt gives way and begins to rise from the ground, flecks of orange rust dusting the floor.

“That worked?” I exclaim in shock, relief filling my chest. Bobby was wrong. Or he just tricked me into agreeing to finish his ink for him. Either way, I’m going to call the beefy biker on it—who must have at least fifty pounds and three inches on this guy—when he shows up here tomorrow.

“Use a six-point wrench next time. Better grip,” the guy says, standing up smoothly. All of his movements seem fluid. “Do you want help bringing it outside?”

“No. I’ll do it myself.” He’s being too nice to me, and I don’t have the energy to be nice back.

A flash of surprise skitters across his face—a momentary lapse of his carefully guarded expression perhaps. “How?” His eyes drift over my limbs, toned but slender.

I know I’m small. I’ve always been small. When I was young, I was tiny. Thank God for that growth spurt at fourteen or I might have snapped one day and turned homicidal, after a lifetime of people telling me what I can’t do because of my size. My teachers, my friends, their parents. Even my own parents worried about me more than they did my brothers. They still do. It’s a double-edged sword with them, though. Not only am I small, I’m also a girl. Aka fragile.

Weak.

I’ve spent my entire life proving to them—and everyone—that I’m not a weak little girl. That’s probably why I’ve become so independent. If I don’t ask for help, then in my head I’m proving them all wrong. I can’t have people seeing me in that light, especially in this profession.

Granted, as I stand next to this tattoo chair that probably weighs as much as I do and I probably am physically too weak to drag down the hall, I know that I should accept his help. Too bad I’m also stubborn.

“It’s not your problem.” I level his unreadable gaze with one of my own, that I know without seeing a reflection isn’t pleasant. My friend Amber tells me often enough to wipe it off.

It doesn’t seem to faze him. He folds his thick arms over his chest. Waiting for me to ask for help, which I’m not going to do, because then I’d owe him and I hate owing people.

The guy isn’t wavering, and this showdown is becoming more and more uncomfortable as each second passes. Finally I break free of his gaze. “If you don’t mind, now. I’m going to be here all night as it is.”

He tears a sheet of paper towel from the roll and wipes the wrench before setting it back in the box. He wipes his hands next. Again, so graceful. Turning on his heels, he begins walking toward the door, offering a low “You’re welcome.”

“Wait . . .” I heave a sigh, rolling my eyes.

He stops, turns. Settles that stone-cold gaze like he’s expecting something.

Fuck, I already do owe him. I really hate owing people! And somehow I’ve gone from no customers to two in a matter of thirty minutes. Though, as I study his face—a nose that should be too long and narrow but on his angular face not so; a too-perfect dark trim beard, as if he shaped it with a straight razor or something—I decide there could be worse things than owing a man who looks like him. “Come by on Thursday and we’ll talk. Maybe I can do your ink then.”

“I’ll think about it.” He turns and strolls out the front door, leaving me staring at his back in wonder. What was that supposed to be? A hissy fit?

“Whatever,” I grumble, locking the dead bolt on the door to avoid any more surprise customers. Holding my breath, I pull the shades down. I dismiss the guy from my thoughts and shift back to my task. This fucking chair that, thanks to the mystery man, can now go into the Dumpster.

I put all of my weight into it as I push.

It doesn’t even budge.

SIX

SEBASTIAN

With my keys in the ignition, I pause once to get another look at the old storefront signage, at the playful eyes staring down at me, and smile. They belong on a puppy or kitten, not on a feral fanged jackrabbit. Kind of like the exotic girl with the razor-sharp attitude inside. Though her eyes aren’t necessarily playful. Soft, yes. Veiled behind a tough act, but I saw the vulnerability there. The need to appear strong when she doesn’t really feel it inside.

She is strong, I’ll give her that. Her uncle was murdered a week ago and she’s not sitting in there, crying about it. She’s set her grief aside to do what needs to be done, and that’s a quality not everyone possesses. She’s doing it on her own, too, I presume, because I don’t see anyone around to help her.

But she’s definitely not unaffected by what’s happened. I could see it in the dark bags under her eyes, as if she hasn’t slept in days. I saw it in the way she reacted to me entering the shop, her tiny fist curled around the wrench, ready to defend herself if she needed to.

I knew about her two-hundred-dollar-an-hour rate before stepping inside, thanks to a quick website search. That, along with an impressive portfolio of work, confirmed to me that I have nothing to worry about if I were forced to have her hold a needle to my flesh. But for now that’s not necessary because I got what I needed.

Information.

She’s going to be busy here for a good few hours, which means her house is waiting for me.

I feel the pull, though, to go back and just drag that chair out for her, despite her attitude. She’s too arrogant or suspicious or plain fucking mule-headed to accept help when she clearly needed it, stretching her tiny body—that I could snap in two in a heartbeat—to her full five-foot-two stature in defiance, even as I towered over her. She clearly wants it out for emotional reasons, to try to unsee whatever she witnessed that led to her uncle’s murder. I want to tell her that it’s pointless. She’ll never be able to shed those memories.

But I’m not here to be her shrink or her confidant.

And if she knows anything about this videotape, then I’m about to become her worst nightmare.

Ingleside hasn’t changed much in the years since I’ve driven through here. The houses are all still small, square, and crammed together, and lining some of the steepest hills in San Francisco with a rainbow of colors—everything from muted gray to Pepto-Bismol pink. Bars cover the first-floor windows of the seedy corner stores and the houses, telling me that the area’s issues with burglary haven’t abated.

I leave my car a full block down from Ned Marshall’s address and walk the rest of the way, keeping my baseball cap pulled down over my face. Of the few people I pass, the majority are Asian. That’s a plus. Most prosecutors consider them unreliable witnesses when it comes to identifying Caucasian suspects. Not that I expect to get caught.

I spot the number up ahead and turn to climb the steep steps like I belong here, at this house on the corner with decorative white grates to protect it from invaders. I prefer window entry, but it would require scaling the walls to the second story here, leaving me exposed. So I’m left with going through the front door.

The gate lock takes me ten seconds to pick, allowing me into the small, secluded entranceway, littered with old running shoes and a can of sand filled with cigarette butts. A flawed and idiotic set up in home design. You’re just giving people like me cover while they spend the extra time to pick your dead bolt and get into your house. Of course, a dead bolt isn’t child’s play. It would cause issues for a local thug looking to lift a TV or cash, but it’s not going to stop a guy like me, who was picking locks for fun long before I had any real reason to.

I’m inside in another thirty seconds, securing the door quietly behind me. I stop to listen for creaks and voices, the cold metal of my Beretta pressed against my leg, ready to be pulled out of my boot if necessary. I’m ninety-five percent certain that no one else is here. The guy who jumped into an airport taxi this morning with a suitcase was clearly leaving, and there were no signs of anyone else here after the girl left for the shop.

Ned Marshall was an avowed bachelor, that much is obvious. A few mismatched chairs are scattered throughout the living room, a four-person glass-and-brass table with tall-backed white kitchen chairs—the ones from the eighties, with the trademark blue, green, and pink patterned cushions—fill the dining room. My parents had those when I was growing up.

The walls are a faded mint green, probably painted by the previous owner, or maybe an ex-wife, and empty save for a few Zeppelin and Willie Nelson posters. In my initial scan, I see nothing of value, other than the fifty-inch flat-screen hanging on the wall and the corner cabinet of liquor bottles.

But there may be something of worth within these walls. Something that will destroy all the good work that Alliance has done if it gets into the wrong hands.

I slip on my gloves and begin my search.

This is what happens when you put a bullet in a guy’s head before you get the fucking information that you need out of him.

I wipe the sheen of sweat off my forehead with my forearm, my frustration settling uncomfortably on my nerves. I’ve searched under every piece of furniture, in and behind every drawer. I even crawled through the narrow attic.

There’s no videotape.

If it’s not in this bedroom, then it’s not in this house.

I check my watch, keenly aware of the time and how long I’ve been here. Hours. It’s six now. I’m guessing that the girl doesn’t often come home to eat, given that a look inside the fridge revealed nothing but soda cans and ketchup. Still, I’ve mapped my escape route. The window in the back bedroom, which lets out above a small shed in the prison-cell-size concrete backyard, will work if I need it.

Strolling over to the unmade mattress that sits on the carpet, I crouch down to lift red lace panties lying haphazardly on top. This is obviously the girl’s room. It feels like it would be her room. Chaotic. Clothes are scattered all over the floor, overflowing from the open suitcase that lies there. That’s probably been sitting there since she landed in San Francisco seven months ago.

With only a two-drawer chest and a small closet for her clothes, she could use the lack of storage space as an excuse. With a recent death in her family, she could use the excuse of being in mourning. But my five-minute read of her today told me she’s the type that just doesn’t give a shit about order on any given day.

I, on the other hand, thrive on order.

I begin searching the usual spots—furniture, mattress, vents—and when that turns up nothing, I move on to the nightstand. Sliding open the drawer, I find no videotape. What I do find is an open box of condoms and a pink vibrator. I’m going to assume that the condoms mean she doesn’t hate men, though today’s encounter would suggest otherwise. Bentley’s report said nothing about a boyfriend, and if there were even a hint of a boyfriend, it would have been in that report. A twenty-five-year-old girl who keeps a box of condoms in her nightstand is definitely responsible and possibly promiscuous. Or at least she isn’t opposed to spontaneous sex. She’s not keeping these in her dresser for when she meets “the right guy.” Women who do that hide their stash in the bottom of their dresser drawer until the guy is actually in the picture.

I reach down and pick up the long, smooth pink vibrator that lies next to the condoms, rolling it in my gloved hand. A tube of lubricant is also in the drawer, and it’s half used, telling me that this toy isn’t collecting dust, and that this unfriendly girl likes to get off.

She’s a bit scrawny for my taste. I like my women with some meat on them. Tits that bounce and hips to grab. Still, invading her most private things right now is stirring my blood.

I set the toy back in the drawer and push it shut, quietly chastising myself. I never have trouble focusing on my task. That’s why Bentley trusts me. This must be because my targets have always been middle-aged men with vile reputations.

I move on to a collection of mostly black and purple clothes, rifling first through the mess on the floor and then in the drawers that house her collection of bras and panties. Surprisingly, I find a lot of pink-and-white lace and silk. A feminine contradiction to her edgy exterior.

A well-used sketchbook rests on the floor next to my foot, distracting me from her intimates. I pick it up and begin flipping through. Each page is filled with portraits of various faces, everything from little girls to weathered old men. The detail is impressive, but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. I already knew she was a talented artist.

I know I won’t find any tapes in this room, and yet I’m not ready to leave. There could be something of use here. Something that helps me understand her and where she might have hidden it. Or where her uncle might have hidden it for her to find.

A bottle of perfume sits on the counter. I wonder if it’s the same intoxicating scent my nose caught in Black Rabbit earlier today. I’ve been trained to rely heavily on all of my senses, so I tend to process my surroundings differently than a civilian would. The way a specific door hinge squeaks or a person’s footfall scrapes against the floor, the scent of a cologne that may help identify a person who was in a room just moments ago, the taste of a smoke in the air—it’s how I’ve survived this long.

Pulling my gloves off so as not to get any of the perfume on the leather, I pick up the bottle and spray a small stream into the air. The girlish mix of almonds and coconut permeates the room, and I close my eyes, reveling in its femininity for a few long moments while I clear my thoughts.

A cell phone rings from somewhere in the house.

My eyes fly open.

“Hey . . . I thought you’d be over the ocean by now,” says a female voice.

She’s in the fucking house.

She’s in the fucking house and I didn’t hear her come in because I was too distracted by her art and perfume.

This complicates things.

“Dude, that sucks, but at least they got you onto another plane . . . right . . .”

A creak sounds, and I know that it’s on the third step because I noticed it when I climbed up earlier.

She’s on her way upstairs, and that means my escape route is no longer an option.

Setting the perfume bottle down carefully, I grab my gloves and dive for the only hiding place available, my adrenaline spiking.

SEVEN

IVY

“Text me when you land over there, ’kay?”

“Did you get far with the shop today?” Ian asks through a yawn. He must be exhausted. Sitting at JFK for almost three hours because of plane issues—after already flying across the country—has to suck.

“A dent. I called that painter but I’m waiting for him to get back to me. Any specific color you want me to tell him to use?”

“You pick. I trust you.”

I roll my eyes.

“Thanks, Ivy, for doing this. I know I’ve left you alone to handle all of this at the worst time.”

That’s right, you have! the bitter little voice in the back of my head screams. I keep it at bay, though, mainly because I don’t know why I’m hearing it now. I’ve never minded being alone. I’ve preferred it, actually. Only now alone feels very different. It’s not thrilling and liberating. It’s scary and overwhelming.

“Being busy is good for me right now,” I say instead. That’s probably true as well. “Safe flight.” I hang up and toss my phone onto the mattress with a deep yawn. I had every intention of working on the shop into the night so I could maybe be done with it, but I hit a wall around six and was ready to curl up into a ball in the back room.

I’m guessing it’s because I haven’t really slept in a week and it’s finally catching up to me. The first night—the night that Ned died—I didn’t even walk through the front door downstairs until seven the next morning. I didn’t sleep the rest of that day, either, and drifted off only when Ian arrived on the doorstep. Every night since then I’ve found myself staring out the window for hours, until I finally drift off from sheer exhaustion, only to wake up in a cold sweat and with a knot in my stomach a few hours later.

I glance at my alarm clock. It’s almost seven. If I go to bed now, I’m afraid I’ll be lying awake and restless in bed by midnight. I stretch deeply and glance around the perpetual mess that is my room. I guess I could kill time by putting away my clothes.

My least favorite thing to do, next to folding laundry. But I may as well start the process. Once the shop is in order for sale, the house will be next, and no real estate agent will agree to put this place up looking like it does right now.

Scooping up the items that I know are dirty, I half stagger over to the hamper sitting next to my chest of drawers. A wave of my perfume hits me and I automatically inhale. It was a birthday present that came in the mail from my friend Amber a few weeks ago. I stole enough squirts from her bottle when I saw her last to flag that it might be something I would like. I must have put too much on earlier, if it still lingers in the air now. That or my senses are overloaded from exhaustion.

A basket full of freshly washed, now-wrinkled clothes sits next to my bed. I dump everything onto my mattress and fish out the long black dress with deep slits up the sides that I wear often. This I definitely want to hang in my closet for when I’m not elbow-deep in packing.

I head for the narrow slatted door ahead, turning the dress right-side out on my way.

My cell phone rings, stopping me in my tracks.

I’m relieved, happy to abandon my half-assed efforts to tidy and have an excuse to dive onto my mattress again. When I see who’s calling, I’m even happier. “Hey, you.”

“Hey. How are you holding up?”

A few years ago, if someone told me that Amber Welles and I would become good friends, I’d have laughed in their face. She’d been my enemy since sophomore year of high school, though she had no idea, and it turns out I didn’t really have a good reason for hating her. But I didn’t know that until last summer, when a night of Jameson whiskey, unbridled words, and an Irish bartender revealed the former rodeo queen’s vulnerabilities, I guess. It allowed me to confront all the ways I thought she had wronged me but hadn’t. It also forced me to confront all of my insecurities.

It was a chance to hit the Reset button, and I’m glad I took it.

“I’m okay,” I say through a yawn, growing more tired by the second. I lie back and hit Speakerphone before setting my phone on my chest.

“I’m so sorry I couldn’t make it to the funeral.”

It’s the third time she’s apologized. “Seriously, I would never expect you to cancel your trip to Dublin for my uncle’s funeral. I sure as hell wouldn’t cancel my trip anywhere for your uncle’s funeral.” That sounds awful now that I’ve said it out loud. But she knows what I mean.

“Still . . .” Silence hangs between us.

“How was your latest reunion?”

I can hear the smile in her voice. “Amazing. And also terrible. It’s getting harder and harder to come home.”

I knew this long-term relationship arrangement would not work for Amber. “You should just stay over there. I don’t know why you’d want to come back.”

“Because I have family here, Ivy!” she exclaims, exasperated. Amber is a daddy’s girl, through and through. “Just like you do, by the way.”

“Right. I do, don’t I?” I say dryly. A mom and dad and two younger brothers, whom I love very much but don’t feel related to. “I just saw my parents a few days ago, for the funeral. They came down and stayed with my aunt Jun at a hotel for two nights. It was long enough.” My dad glared at my sleeve of tattoos with disappointment. I’ve sabotaged any chances for a decent job and respectable husband, he told me. My mom didn’t say much of anything at all, having already given up on her daughter. Her focus is now on her two boys—Jin, the nineteen-year-old, who’s on his way to med school in another two years, and my twenty-one-year-old brother Bo, who also has Spanish citizenship and was just added to the roster of their national soccer team. “You know, the more I think about it, I wonder if Ned and my mom had a secret affair and I was the result.” I frown. “But I guess that wouldn’t explain the whole Chinese thing. Maybe I’m just Ned’s child, and I have no mother. I just appeared one day.”

“Oh my God, Ivy. When did you sleep last?”

“It’s been a while,” I admit.

“Maybe you should think about coming home for a while.”

My mom said the exact same thing at the funeral. I hadn’t expected them to show up, to be honest, but they didn’t necessarily come to pay respects to Ned—they had no respects for him. But Jun and Ian were here, and they wanted to support them, and me, I guess. “Sisters was never my home.” It was just another place that I stayed for a while.

“Portland then, at least? It’s only a few hours away.”

I sigh. “I know you can’t survive without me, but I’m not moving back.”

Amber’s soft laughter carries through my bedroom, bringing with it much-needed life. “So . . . where to next?”

She has learned about my wayward tendencies by now, although it baffles her that I’m happier not having permanent roots, while she thrives on those roots. She’s clearly trying to relate to me by asking this question, but still, I’m tired of answering it. “I don’t know. I have friends in New York. I think I’ll go squat over there for a while. Pick up some work.”

“And what’s the plan for the house and the shop?”

“I was at the shop all day, cleaning it out so it can get painted. It’s going to take a while, though, seeing as I’m on my own.”

She sighs. “I tried to get a few days off so I could come down and help you, but I think I’ve already pissed my boss off with my crazy schedule and constant traveling.”

“Don’t worry. I get it.”

“What about Dakota? Can she help?”

I snort. “Honestly, I’ll be faster working on my own than with Dakota there to distract me with her musings about spirits and auras and the meaning of life.” We’d probably just end up smoking a joint and staring at the wall for the afternoon. “I’m managing on my own just fine. Though I had to get help loosening a seized bolt today, from this guy who came in for a tattoo.”

“That was nice of him to help. What’d you end up doing on him?”

“Nothing. I refused to do his tattoo,” I mutter.

“Ivy . . .” Amber’s got the whole motherly reproachful tone down pat already. Her future kids are screwed.

“I know.” The guilt over being a complete bitch to him still lingers. “And he was really hot, too.”

“Let me guess—J.Crew and Calvin Klein?”

“Levi’s and Hanes, actually.” Amber’s making fun of the fact that I wear tats and leather and shave the sides of my head, and yet I go after guys who look like they belong in a chain store catalog. She’s right and I can’t explain it.

“So Miss Picky actually found a guy she deems ‘really hot’ and she turned down the chance to tattoo him and then, I’m sure, sleep with him?” Amber mocks. “I think that’s a first.”

I smile. “It’s definitely a first.”

“What did he look like?”

“Kind of like your brother, actually.”

“Ugh. Gross. And where did he want his tattoo?”

“Doesn’t matter. I would have made him strip either way,” I admit with a smirk.

Amber laughs. “And then you’d have had your way with him and sent him packing.”

“What can I say? My affections are fierce but short-lived.”

“I still don’t know how we became friends.”

“Neither do I, honestly.” We are as opposite as opposite gets. Amber thrives on long-term commitment. I’m pretty sure that her little “Irish fling” was the most spontaneous, wild thing she’s ever done, and ever will do—and now they’re in a full-fledged, long-distance relationship. Meanwhile, the longest commitment I ever made was to a guy named Jet, when I was twenty-two and living in Portland. He was a professional rodeo guy. I don’t even like rodeo guys. But I dated him for three whole weeks, mainly because we didn’t do much talking during that time.

“We just haven’t found you the right guy yet.”

“Good luck finding me someone who holds my interest for more than a night or two.”

“He’s got to be out there. And when you find him, you’re going to call me and, for once, I’ll be the one who gets to tell you to stop talking about a guy so much.” I roll my eyes at the cheesy romantic notion. I don’t see that ever happening.

“Seriously, how long has it been since you’ve dated anyone?”

“Dated” is so the wrong word for any of my hookups and Amber knows that, but I don’t correct her. “Since last summer, in Dublin.”

“Oh my God. Wait, does that mean you haven’t slept with anyone since—”

“Yup.” I admit grudgingly. “The longest dry spell of my short life since high school.” As much as I was an outcast in high school, as soon as I got out, I never had trouble attracting guys. Apparently everyone wants to fuck a badass Asian girl at least once.