Текст книги "Jerk"
Автор книги: Kat T. Masen
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Текущая страница: 1 (всего у книги 17 страниц)
Copyright © 2015 Kat T. Masen
All rights reserved.
Edited by Michelle Josette:
Mjbookeditor.com
Formatted by Sassie Lewis
Cover design by Clarissa Yeo:
Yocladesigns.com
OTHER BOOKS BY KAT T. MASEN
The Dark Angel Series:
Into the Darkness
Into the Light
Adriana
Julian
TABLE OF CONTENTS
#DEDICATION
#PROLOGUE
#CHAPTER1
#CHAPTER2
#CHAPTER3
#CHAPTER4
#CHAPTER5
#CHAPTER6
#CHAPTER7
#CHAPTER8
#CHAPTER9
#CHAPTER10
#CHAPTER11
#CHAPTER12
#CHAPTER13
#CHAPTER14
#CHAPTER15
#CHAPTER16
#CHAPTER17
#CHAPTER18
#CHAPTER19
#CHAPTER20
#CHAPTER21
#CHAPTER22
#CHAPTER23
#CHAPTER24
#CHAPTER25
#CHAPTER26
#EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
#DEDICATION
To all women waiting for their #Jerk.
The dictionary defines a jerk as a contemptibly foolish person.
That’s being nice.
And nice wasn’t something I did.
Give me something in return and maybe, I can play nice. Like the time I sucked up to get that promotion with that made-up title, or when I befriended the local stoner and got an extra stash of weed. And we can’t forget about last night with the promise of some sweet pussy, but what a disappointment that turned out to be.
I got what I wanted because I didn’t give a damn.
About anyone or anything.
I just wanted to have fun, but even then, that game was fast becoming old.
I was bored and needed a new challenge. Something to keep me occupied. And one day, it all just fell into place (by accident of course).
Our office was one giant playground. I dubbed myself the school bully and the ice queen was my target. It’s her own fault though; I’d never met a woman so fucking uptight you would need a whole army to pull the giant stick out of her ass.
It was one juicy ass though. Perky, with that round bounce that you just know would make a terrific sound when you slapped it with your palm.
But that was beside the point. Way beside the point.
I didn’t like her stubbornness. Nor her obsessive need to have everything clean and in order. I loathed the way she would answer every question like a pompous know-it-all bitch. And that ridiculous skirt she always wore that made her look like a schoolgirl (alright, perhaps there were benefits to that skirt if you pictured her in eight-inch heels and a pair of garter belts peeking through) was not appropriate office attire.
What irked me most was the way she would parade ‘round the office with her nose stuck up in the air. Miss I’m-Too-Good-for-All-You-Juveniles-so-I’m-Going-to-Act-Like-a-Fucking-Grandma.
Yeah, she thought she was fucking all that. I didn’t like bitches like that, especially when they paraded that ring on their finger like some fucking accomplishment. The guy probably gave it to her ‘cause he had a small dick and couldn’t get any better. Yeah, well you’ve got a big dick and probably could teach her a lesson or two.
Then it happened—the day that ring no longer taunted me.
The day the office gossip went into overdrive because Presley Malone was back to being single. The ice queen didn’t even look sad. I don’t even think she shed a tear and I’m thinking Mr. Small Dick probably found some less-frigid pussy elsewhere and jumped ship. But a victory for every goddamn cock and balls in the office that went ape-shit fighting over who could get her in bed first.
It was exactly the challenge I needed.
And I didn’t intend to play nice.
Nice was for chumps. I pulled pigtails and lifted skirts. No lie.
It wasn’t payback, and it wasn’t vindictive.
It was clean, harmless fun.
Fuck that…it was dirty fun.
There was only one way to get her attention, just one way for her to finally notice I existed; I had to make her life in the office a living hell. Push all the right fucking buttons.
According to her, if it walks like a jerk, and talks like a jerk, then I am a jerk.
But I understood the meaning of ‘jerk’ a little differently. To be a selfish, manipulative, insensitive asshole luring her in by playing Mr. Nice Guy, only to give her false hope and leave her cursing the day I was born.
From a very early age I knew I was different from the rest of the kids I hung around with. I may have only been seven years old, but my mother wasn’t shy of telling me that I was an old soul with the wisdom of an eighty-year-old. I didn’t consider it a bad thing; my Grammy was the most awesome lady that ever existed, next to my mother of course.
It was the mid-eighties, and the biggest thing to rock my world was the newly released Peaches ‘n Cream Barbie. I can still remember the epic moment when the box was placed in my hands and how incredibly beautiful she was, dressed in her flowing peach gown and shimmering bodice. Her hair was golden, perfectly styled, and adorning her neck was an exquisite diamond-like necklace, fit for a princess. She deserved a special spot on my shelf, and Workout Barbie took a hit, moving out of center spot.
My mother would often complain, “Presley, why don’t you play with your dolls like other girls?” Well dear mother, other girls had Barbies with god-awful haircuts and missing shoes, and rings were a rare commodity.
I had to have everything perfect.
So you can imagine my horror when I arrived at school the next day and every girl with their new Peaches ‘n Cream doll had short-cut bobs, mismatched shoes and zero rings. I decided then and there that my Barbie deserved the best. So I planned the most epic wedding event of all time.
Barbie was finally going to marry Ken.
I invited all my friends, and under the big oak tree in my backyard, they tied the knot on that sunny September day. The guests oohed and aahed. I overheard my friends commenting on how pristine my Barbie looked, ‘fresh out of the box’, and then there was the groom. Ken looked ravishing with his light grey suit and pink pocket square to accentuate his tanned skin and plastic comb-over.
The thrill and excitement of this perfect day was forever engrained in my memory, and at the ripe old age of seven, I knew exactly what I wanted—I wanted to get married to my Mr. Right and live in our double-story dream house.
I had a plan.
The problem with plans is, the second they fall apart, you have absolutely no idea how to cope.
Fast-forward twenty years, I was certain that Mr. Right just sat at my table. His name was Jason Hart, tall, handsome, with the deepest blue eyes—if you stared long enough it was like staring into the ocean.
We met at a mutual friend’s wedding, thrown together onto the shameful singles’ table in the back corner of the ballroom. All we needed was a neon sign flashing “sad and pathetic single people looking for a good time”.
This time, however, the party was at our table. It was a fun group—we were all in our mid-twenties, looking to get plastered on some free booze. Jason was seated directly opposite from me and it was impossible to ignore his flirtatious smile. My ovaries were having a celebration, the party was on, drinks were served and damn, we would make very cute babies together.
Lucky for me, Jason turned out to be the sweetest guy you could possibly ask for. It was the perfect story to pass onto our grandkids. Met at a wedding, love at first sight, and who could forget the moment I caught the bouquet? Okay, so maybe I was pushing fate. You know, by stepping on another woman’s foot to dive for the bouquet. Bouquet catching should be declared a sport; it’s every woman for herself out there!
The moment Jason grabbed my hand and asked me to dance, I thought, Yes, he is Mr. Right. He is my Ken, minus the plastic comb-over of course, and together, we could live happily ever after in our dream house.
We went through the relationship milestones, moving in together after a year, joining our bank accounts in an effort to save for our first apartment, and last year on our fifth anniversary, he popped the big question and obviously…I said yes!
My parents loved him, his parents loved me. It was just one perfect moment after another, and to curb my OCD (which had intensified over the years), it was all going according to plan. Until the day I had lunch with my mother and mother-in-law.
Hours were spent going through magazines, interviewing wedding coordinators, immersing ourselves in various fabrics, and all the while, alarm bells were ringing in my head. Miss Plan-Out-Her-Whole-Life had absolutely no clue what she wanted. Every magazine page that was thrown in front of me showed a blushing bride staring lovingly into her groom’s eyes. I couldn’t remember the last time Jason and I looked at each other with such love. We were comfortable. But comfortable wasn’t perfect. I loved him, it was impossible not to love him, but there was this tiny bug crawling within my gut telling me something wasn’t right. I prayed every night that this mysterious bug would grow into a beautiful butterfly and remind me what we were all about.
Yeah, that butterfly never showed up, and that damn bug had sunken its teeth in even further.
We both got stuck in this routine. Working till late, ordering take-out almost every night, sex on Fridays, and the Saturday trip to the Laundromat. The spark that had ignited that day at the wedding had died down to a dwindling fire.
I craved more. Not sure of what that was, I tried spicing things up by cooking some nights in, a quick rendezvous to the Hamptons for Valentine’s Day—and maybe I should have fought harder for us, but we both agreed our perfect relationship had run its course.
“I just don’t think it’s working out, Jase. It’s just…I can’t explain it,” I spoke solemnly.
Sitting on our sofa dressed in a neatly pressed tux (having just returned from a wedding), he leaned back and rubbed his face vigorously with his hands. I, on the other hand, didn’t want to cry. This shouldn’t be about emotions. Rather, it should be a rational decision between two adults.
“Are we doing the right thing, Jase?”
His voice croaked, but quick to compose himself, he smiled and (as always) managed to say the right words.
“We are just so comfortable. I didn’t…never mind.”
“No, tell me, you didn’t what?”
He hesitated at first, then opened up, attempting to relay his emotions. “I didn’t think we would fall into this rut so quickly. You hear all the time that couples get married and the relationship becomes a routine.”
Remaining quiet, I gave myself a moment to get my words right. “You expect raw and wild sex at random moments, dinners at fancy restaurants, making out at the movies, but it’s not like that.”
He chuckled heartily. “Presley Malone, I will sure miss your ways. I’m hoping the next relationship I have won’t shoot me for placing my black socks in the same row as my white.”
Ouch, that stung a little.
Brush it off, you wanted this. Yes, you loved him dearly, you’re just not in love with him anymore. You knew it wasn’t right, you knew you wanted more. More what though?
“But this is so calm. Aren’t breakups supposed to be full of tears and throwing bags of clothes out the window?” I asked.
“Yeah, maybe, but we’re beyond that. I’ll always love you, Pres. But this…this is the best for us. We owe it to each other,” he reaffirmed.
He was right. We had given each other five great memorable years. I couldn’t have asked for a better person to have shared that with, and now we both needed to see what else is out there in the world.
I wasn’t sure if it was proper breakup protocol to hug it out, but I leaned in anyway, and for the very last time I held on to Jason. His embrace was warm and familiar, and I knew that no matter what happens to me, wherever I go or whatever I do, I had a friend in Jason Hart.
We called off the wedding and parted ways.
Single. Again. At thirty-fucking-two.
Marriage, three kids, and that damn dream house just flew out the window.
What terrified me most was that maybe it wasn’t in the grand plan for Presley Malone. Maybe fate and the universe got together and said, “Hey, Miss Plan-It-Out needs to be taught a lesson in life. Let’s screw her sideways and see how she copes.”
The problem wasn’t fate or the universe—it was the biggest jerk of all time.
And unfortunately, now, I was bound to him.
Forever.
I am running a marathon, and beside me, others are speeding past, threatening to reach the finish line before I do. Run, Presley, run! The adrenaline is kicking in, and just at that point when my legs are about to give out and refuse to carry me any further, the black and white checkered flag comes into sight, waving proudly.
The end is within reach, only a few more minutes and you’ve crossed the finish line. Crowned first place. My heart is thumping loud, ready to burst out of my chest and collapse onto the ground. The sweat beads have formed and are dripping down my face. The time clicks over to thirty minutes and like a strike of glory, I hit stop.
My marathon was actually me running on the treadmill. My lungs hurt so much that I am this close to calling the cute personal trainer over to resuscitate me.
Okay, so I’m being a drama queen.
It’s way too early in the morning for this, and let’s not forget to highlight the fact that I am a gym virgin. I don’t mind a brisk walk or run in the park once in a blue moon, but the gym and I, we’re complete strangers.
Since Jason (my now ex-fiancé) moved out last week, I have come here almost every day hoping to relieve the anxiety and tension that consumes me. It’s not like we ended on bad terms. In fact, it was the best breakup you could have asked for. No tears, finances were divided evenly, and we decided to put the apartment on the market and split our profit.
I couldn’t have planned a more amicable breakup. That was the problem here. It was going way too smooth, and I sensed something looming on the horizon. No matter what I did I couldn’t shake it off, and so here I am today, sore and working out like I’m about to enter a real marathon.
Maybe I’m telling a little white lie. Yes, there is no doubt that the anxiety is also stemming from the fact that I feel I have no sense of order in my life, but for the most part, I find the gym surprisingly entertaining.
I have absolutely no life right now, and I’m one step away from joining a pottery class.
The treadmill has become my newfound friend. The running becomes mundane at times, which is why I zone out and pretend to run a marathon or watch others around me in amusement. Take last week, for example. A man fell off the treadmill as a ridiculously made-up gym bunny walked past.
In my first week I had learned a few things; some treated the gym like a sport, dressed head to toe in spandex, often a little too tight around the groin. The wannabe Arnies huddled in the weights area, grunting and throwing around the barbells as if they were inflatable balloons. You could smell the steroids and testosterone a mile away.
There were some cute men in the Zumba class, but I suspected that those men were eyeing the cute Zumba teacher and his perfectly sculpted ass. Boy, does he know how to shake his bon bon.
Today’s entertainment consists of the two ladies attempting to do yoga on the mats in front of me. I grab my towel and wipe myself down before I sit on the floor beside them. Trina works at a marketing firm on level ten. We run into each other often and got to talking one day. She’s a nice enough gal, a little naïve, which is expected since she’s in her early twenties.
“Be honest, I’m hot right?” Trina asks, looking at both me and the woman beside her. “Oh, Presley, this is Sarah, she works on six.”
I smile at Sarah, and she smiles in return. We then look at each other awkwardly; are we meant to answer Trina? Or was it a rhetorical question?
Sarah rolls her eyes at Trina, yet indulges her with a response. “Look Trina, of course you’re hot. Get over him, sounds like a douche to me.”
“But…but we had a connection,” she says innocently.
Sarah snorts. “The only connection you had was when he stuck his pecker in your bird hole. A dime a dozen, Trina. Let it go.”
In my uncomfortable pose, I try my hardest not to laugh at Sarah’s comment, but I do and attempt to cover it up by leaning forward and stretching my legs to the point that they scream in agony.
“It wasn’t just about sex, we flirted for weeks. He even mentioned something about visiting his mom.”
“Oh, the mom card. That’s pretty serious,” I say.
Trina nods in agreement, looking heartbroken.
With a hint of sarcasm, Sarah asks, “Uh huh, and remind me again what happened?”
“He left in the middle of the night without saying goodbye and has avoided me ever since,” Trina mumbles.
“Okay, so put your big-girl panties on and forget about him!”
This time, I agree with Sarah. Only a loser would do that, and the worst part was, this is what I had to look forward to being single.
“I have to agree with Sarah—he doesn’t seem worth it. You’re young, beautiful, and surely could find better fish in the sea.”
“But he’s the prime catch,” she pouts.
Sarah butts in, “And tell Presley who paid for dinner that night, the cab ride back to the hotel, and the hotel room?”
Trina appears to be agitated at Sarah’s blast of information.
“It was a misunderstanding.”
“Right, as was the accidental text he sent to you that was meant for another woman about how he was going to screw her brains out the night after he left you?”
Ouch.
“Trina, do yourself a favor and seriously grab another fishing rod because he is so not worth your time.” With my water bottle and towel in hand, I stand up to head on out. “Listen ladies, I have to get to work. Sarah, do not let her go anywhere near this douchebag.”
Sarah salutes me. “Once a douche…always a douche.”
After showering at the gym, I dress in my new designer white blouse for the very first time. It took me forever to save up for it. In fact, I had several bank accounts which I coordinated with my paycheck and finally my ‘special’ account had enough money to purchase this gorgeous blouse. It taunted me for weeks in that boutique window. I am so in love with it that I spend minutes staring at the mirror, eyeing myself from every angle. To complete the outfit, I wear my vintage grey pleated skirt. It kind of looks like those skirts we used to wear in school, but it’s my absolute favorite piece.
With my black pumps on, I shove my gym gear into my bag and quickly apply some makeup. If I’m on the market, I need to take better care of myself. Then it dawns on me, how unfamiliar it is to be alone, and the thought of finding someone new fills me with fear. Thank the lord I’m not Trina though, and being thirty-two should make me wise enough to avoid the douchebags that lurk in the city.
My hair is always quick to misbehave so I quickly run some product through it and let it out. I may control and plan everything in my life, but my hair will forever be untamed. Bouncing curls may be ideal to some; I call it a walking disaster.
It’s just before nine when I make my way into the office, and there is nothing more enjoyable than sitting in a quiet office before all the mayhem begins.
I have been working at Lantern Publishing for almost ten years, starting as a junior and working my way towards my goal of Editor. It’s not as big as other publishing houses but we retain good staff, and together, we work well.
At times, my job is repetitive, reading manuscript after manuscript with no end in sight. Occasionally, that golden egg hatches and there is nothing more exciting than holding that next bestseller in your hands.
After working long hours last week, I feel confident pitching a new manuscript to my co-editors in a few hours. My presentation is ready to go, and I have prepared myself for the usual questions or negative comments that arise.
My steaming hot tea sits on my coaster beside my computer monitor. Allowing it to cool down, I arrange my pens in order from shortest to longest and place my Post-It notepad in exact alignment with the pens. I glance over at the clock and the second it flicks to nine, I turn my computer on and start scouring through my emails.
The noise starts to invade the office floor and colleagues drag themselves in, fleeing to their cubicles as they talk above the partitions. I try my best to avoid the distraction, but office gossip is difficult to ignore especially when the office skank, Dee, starts talking about her Saturday night. Talk about loose lips (and I don’t mean the ones on her face).
I reach for my mug and throw the tea bag into the trash, pulling the mug towards my lips. I allow the steam to linger when all of a sudden my seat jerks forward and part of my tea lands on my keyboard and blouse.
“What the f—”
The hot liquid scalds my skin and I turn to see who knocked into me so carelessly.
“Office 101, no cussing in the workplace.”
I grit my teeth in an effort to control my temper. My vision is all red, with his face as a target.
The fucking asshole.
Do not encourage childish behavior. I’m not giving him anything to work with, grabbing my tissues in an attempt to wipe down my blouse. The brown stain seeps through the white loose fabric. Just fucking great. Months of saving for the ridiculously expensive blouse only for it to be covered in tea. I want to cry. Would I be judged if I cried over spilt tea?
His hands land firmly on my seat and he swivels me around till we are facing each other. I am ready to blow and give it to him, but am distracted as he grabs some tissues, attempting to wipe down my blouse.
“Um, excuse me? Get your filthy hands off me!”
I push his hands away, his widening smirk indicating how much he is enjoying this.
“Sorry about that, you’re just a little wet and stained.”
“Well no shit. The next time you want to play dodgem cars with your office chair, have some respect for your colleagues around you,” I huff.
“Aww what’s wrong, Miss Malone? Sounds to me like someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”
I stop wiping my blouse, abruptly moving my head till my eyes meet his. Never having paid this much attention to him before, I stare directly into the hazel eyes that sit behind his thick, black-rimmed glasses. Tiny freckles are scattered around his nose and his annoying smirk is accentuated as his lips purse together. For some reason, my focus turns to his eyebrows, perfectly sculpted on his freshly tanned faced. Such a metrosexual. I wouldn’t be surprised if he hit the tanning salon along with a hot wax afterwards.
The nerve of this fucking asshole to do this today, a Monday morning for Christ’s sake, when I have a presentation to do in one hour. And my poor, poor blouse. I had really high hopes that it would keeping me smiling throughout this whole ordeal. I no longer care what comes out of my mouth; Haden Cooper needs a fucking lesson in manners and I am just about to give it to him when he pulls my chair closer to him, catching me off guard with a devilish grin.
“You know, if you woke up with me, you’d always be on the right side of the bed.”
Is he serious? What a complete ass!
“Haden, thanks for nothing. Now get out of my way.”
I spend close to an hour in the bathroom, cleaning my blouse and standing in my bra, trying to dry off under the hand dryer. My heels tap impatiently against the floor tiles. Argh! The nerve of him! And to make it worse, what kind of a line was that? I replay the words in my head; like seriously, cheesiest line ever.
So stop thinking about it.
Thankfully, I borrow a blazer from a fellow employee and button it up to cover the stains. Providing the room stays at the same temperature, I can manage.
The boardroom is filling with colleagues and I prepare my materials, ready to stand at the front of the table. Having done this a dozen times, it has become second nature. Halfway through my presentation, the air becomes stifling hot and my armpits start to stick to the blazer. Did someone turn up the heat in here? It’ll be alright, as long as I don’t sweat where anyone else can see.
As I look at others seated around the table, some are peeling their jackets off while others use a piece of paper to fan their face. My eyes scan the table for the remote to the air con unit but cannot spot it for the life of me. There were a million questions asked, and normally I enjoy answering, but today I am a bitch in heat and ready to tear that smug look off Haden’s face. It’s clear that this presentation won’t end as quickly as I want it to, so I take the jacket off and watch as everyone stares at my stained blouse with curiosity.
“Enough with the staring, a moron spilled tea all over me this morning.”
“Sounds to me like you need to pay more attention to those around you,” Haden snickers.
I shoot him a death stare, ready to tear him a new one. I don’t think anyone dares to question me further, so I carry on and wrap up as quickly as possible.
Making my way back to my desk, I slam my notebook and pen down, nearly missing the showdown that is happening beside me.
“I know you didn’t want me to come up here, but you’ve been avoiding me.”
As the familiar voice continues, I lean my head slightly to see Trina at Haden’s desk.
Get out of town! Of course he would do something like this.
The voices become muffled until Trina storms off, visibly in tears. I give it a few moments before standing up to confront him. He is leaning causally over Dee’s partition, and from where I can see, she is flashing some major leg. You’ve got to be kidding me. I know it’s none of my business, but I head over to where he is standing.
“Wow, it’s like you have no moral conscience whatsoever.”
“What’s your problem now, Malone?”
“You just don’t give a shit about anyone but yourself. I mean look at me, you don’t care that you’ve ruined a brand new blouse that cost me a hell of a lot of money, then you embarrass me in front of everyone in that presentation, and to top that off, you treat Trina like last night’s take-out box!”
Dee is shocked at my outburst, and carefully pulls her skirt down to cover herself up. Haden is livid, and I swear if you look closely, you can see steam coming out of his ears. His eyes have narrowed behind his glasses, and in an effort to control himself, he runs his hands through his dirty-blond hair.
“Some mouth on you, Malone. You better watch your back. Human Resources would deem that as harassment.”
“Harassment? I’m the victim here, not you!”
I storm off, having spent enough time and energy on him that I forgot all about my best friend Vicky. She is sitting on my desk when I return, all smiles and giggles, having returned from Paris only yesterday.
“Ah Mademoiselle Malone,” she says in a thick, but fake, French accent.
Defeated, I slump in my chair. “Tell me about Paris, in your normal voice please?”
She sits on the corner of my desk, crossing her legs appropriately. Vicky and I met a couple years back through mutual friends. At the time, she was having an affair with the biggest loser to walk this earth, a married man with three kids. It ended badly so from that day on, Vicky vowed to never get into a serious relationship again, and was happy to play the field.
“The shopping was fantastic, totally maxed my credit card. The sightseeing was awesome and the men…. Pres, like seriously, the French men know how to make you scream so loud, I swear the people at the top of the Eiffel Tower could hear us.”
“A one-time type of thing?”
“You know me, Pres. I like my men foreign. Keeps the fantasy alive.”
“But aren’t you worried about what could happen after?”
“Like what? I’m always protected, you’ve got to make sure the both of you understand it’s a no-strings-attached kinda night. Anyway, I met this guy, Jean-Phillipe, and he’s been texting me all day.”
Distracted by her cell, she types something ridiculously fast into it, then places it on the table.
“So, are you going to finally tell me what happened with Jason?”
“We broke it off. I’m fine, really,” I lie, convincingly.
“We so need to get you drunk and in someone’s bed, pronto.”
“Wait, Vicky, that’s awful. I’m not like that, plus I would never do that to Jason.”
“How do you know he hasn’t done it already? Where did he stay last night?” she is quick to interrogate.
“At a friend’s house, and besides, Jason is not like that.”
The thought of Jason being with another woman pulls on the jealous strings that I thought laid dormant. I am not that type of girl and I strongly believe Jason wouldn’t so heartlessly jump into the next bed that came along. He is a better man than that.
“Pres, look, I’m not trying to be insensitive. Jason is a guy. Just don’t be surprised if he has moved on,” she says, this time in a softer tone.
I’m not a big crier, and the thought of crying at work is embarrassing in its own right. I can control my emotions, even if Vicky is staring at me like I’m an orphaned child with no shoes on my feet.
“We only broke up last week. His stuff is still in our apartment,” I croak.
“Yeah, well trust me, they only need a minute of being released from the ball and chain.”
“I’m not a ball and chain!”
“Well you’re not exactly a spontaneous ‘let’s push everything off the table and fuck like wild animals’ kinda gal either.”
She has a point; I can’t think of anything worse. What a mess that would make. And my pens? No, don’t go there.
I move my mouse to start up my computer when I notice some excess tea on my desk. Letting out a huff, I grab another tissue to wipe it down. This day needs to be over so I can crawl into bed and forget the world exists. Vicky raises her eyebrow at me and I unbutton the blazer that I had placed back on, revealing the stained blouse.
Unable to control herself, she laughs out loud, resting her hand on my shoulder with a sympathetic look.
“On the bus ride over here?”
“Nope, just an asshole that is now trying to get into Dee’s pants.”
“Haden? How can someone so hot be such a royal pain in the ass?”
“Hot? I can’t see past the arrogance and petulant behavior. He’s like a goddam box of mixed chocolates; you don’t know what you’re going to get next.”
“Dee told me he wanted a threesome on Saturday night. Tried to get with her and her sister.”
“Are you joking? How inappropriate.”
“Yeah, maybe, but Dee sure looks happy today.”
Just when I thought my opinion of him couldn’t get any lower, I am proven wrong.
