Tamed(17)

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 * 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?”