Tamed (7 page)

“I thought they were in Europe.”

“They came back to the city last week.”

As Rosaline reaches our trio, Drew and Alexandra move in front of me—like bodyguards. Rosaline flashes a captivating smile—one that I used to know well. “Alexandra, Drew, it’s so nice to see you. How long has it been?”

“Not nearly long enough,” Alexandra replies with a deceptive smile.

This is The Bitch, in full force. To the outside world, Alexandra is a refined lady—but simmering below the surface is a ferocious, protective person who’ll pull her hair back, take her earrings off, and open up a major can of whoop-ass on anyone she perceives as a threat to the people she loves. And she has a special kind of hate for my ex.

I didn’t find out Rosaline was screwing around until after she dumped me. Getting kicked to the curb was rough, but discovering she’d been fucking someone else the entire time . . . that was utterly crushing. In the days that followed, Drew was the one who took me out, got me drunk, made sure I got laid. But Lexi . . . she was the one I cried to. It’s not pussy to admit I cried—shedding a few tears is perfectly acceptable after your chest is ripped open and your heart is peeled like a potato.

Following in his sister’s footsteps, Drew says, “I read there was a Listeria outbreak in Europe. You seem to have escaped unscathed. Pity.”

Rosaline’s smile stays in place as she ignores the barely veiled insults. “Yes, we enjoyed our European travels—the culture, the history. But Julian missed New York. We’ll be here until the spring.”

Separately, the Evans siblings are capable of throwing some deadly verbal daggers—you’ve seen them in action. But together? They’re a tag team that would put professional wrestlers to shame.

Alexandra’s voice lowers to a whisper. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, Rosaline . . . well, actually . . . I don’t mind telling you at all. I’ve heard your Julian is having a torrid affair with his secretary.” She touches a thoughtful finger to her lips. “Or was it the nanny?”

Drew adds, “I’ve heard he’s screwing them both.”

Again, Rosaline’s composure doesn’t waver. I used to think her poise was an asset—a sign of sophistication and maturity. But looking at her now, she just seems . . . unfeeling. Distant. Annoyingly passive.

She sighs sweetly. “Men do so love their variety.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Alexandra counters.

“I would,” Drew admits. “But, then again, I haven’t vowed to forsake all others.”

She folds her hands demurely. “I’ve resigned myself to Julian’s dalliances. As long as I’m the woman he comes home to, it’s not a problem.”

Drew was always annoyed by his inability to goad a reaction out of Rosaline, no matter how crude he was. He gets a sick sense of amusement out of being able to drive people to the brink of assault. Which is why he digs deep and says, “Until he realizes the icebox you call a twat just isn’t worth the price of admission anymore.
That
could be a problem.”

Rosaline chuckles softly. “You always did have a colorful way with words, Drew.”

And another round goes to the Stepford Wife.

“It was nice to see you both again. If you’ll excuse me.” Just like that, they’ve been dismissed. Rosaline steps around Alexandra and Drew and approaches me from the rear.

I run a hand through my hair and turn to face my heartbreaker. She looks at me kindly, sympathetically, the way a nurse
would behold a patient who’s recovering from a life-threatening sickness. “Hello, Matthew.”

I’m determined to show her that my recuperation is complete. “Rosaline.”

“You look wonderful.”

“Thank you,” I reply coolly. “And you . . . haven’t changed a bit.”

It’s weird talking to her again, even after all these years—especially after all these years. There’s no attraction, no hatred, no strong emotion at all. There’s some regret—a part of me wishes I could reach back in time and beat the shit out of my younger self for being so stupid. And blind. But that’s more about me. As for Rosaline? She’s just someone who I used to know . . . that I never really knew at all. Even though I’m intimately acquainted with every swell and crevice of her body, she’s still a stranger.

I clear my throat. “So . . . you have a son?”

Did I forget to mention that? Yeah—Rosaline didn’t only screw around on me, she got knocked up. I’m fairly certain that was her plan all along. Like with the royal family, the heir and the spare? I was the spare, just in case things didn’t work out with Julian. Luckily for me, his dart hit the bull’s-eye first.

She smiles. “Yes, Conrad.”
Poor kid.
“He’s at boarding school in Switzerland.”

I do the math in my head. “Boarding school? Isn’t he, like, six years old?”

“He’ll be six next month.” I must look dumbfounded, because she adds, “It’s 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.

A
fter 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?”