Tamed(18)

“That’s Mickey.”

“Did you come here with him?”

“No. I came with a few girls from work. They’re . . . around here somewhere.”

Then I ask the more crucial question. “Are you going to leave with him?”

“Probably.” The single word hits me like a jab to the chin.

Dee leans over the bar to place her drink order. When she’s back on her feet, I move in closer, so I don’t have to yell. “You can do better.”

She looks into my eyes. Wearing the same expression she had on her face when I left her apartment Wednesday night—yearning mixed with sadness. Resignation.

“Maybe I don’t want better.”

“You should. Shoot for the moon and you still end up amongst the stars.” It’s an expression my mother used to say.

Dee lifts one shoulder. “Outer space isn’t for everyone. I’m more of a ground-level kind of girl.”

A woman’s view of herself is like a reflection in a fun house mirror—bent, sometimes warped. The way others see them is always more accurate.

“You’re so wrong.”

“Mickey’s uncomplicated. Easy.”

I smile. “If you’re looking for easy, I’m your guy—they don’t come easier than me.”

She chuckles. And I step to Dee’s side, blocking her view of the worthless wonder. Out of sight, out of mind, right? Smoothly I ask, “When can I see you again?”

The side of Dee’s mouth inches up. “You’re seeing me right now.”

“I want to see you in a predetermined location . . . preferably in less clothing.”

Dee glances down at her outfit. “Less clothing than this? That’d be risking indecent exposure.”

I smirk. “Always a sign of a great time.”

Her drinks arrive. She picks up the tray and tells me, “I think seeing you again would be a bad idea—for both of us.”

“Wrong again.”

She smiles softly. “Bye, Matthew.” And starts to walk away.

I call, “Hey, Dee.” She turns. “Next time, tell him to get his own f*cking drinks, okay?”

She holds my gaze for a moment, then nods and disappears into the crowd.



A while later, Drew tells me he and Jack are going to go party with the Dutch world travelers. “Are you coming?” he asks. “Drop some anchor, do a little deep-sea muff diving?”

I scan the dance floor, trying to catch a glimpse of electric blue. “Nah, I’m working on something here.” I watch Jack by the door, entertaining the five girls, and ask, “Which one are you going for?”

“The girl in the middle seems like quite the eager beaver.” He chuckles at his own joke.

Called it. I snort and Drew asks why. “You don’t think it’s unusual that out of five Scandinavians, you’re shooting for the lone brunette in the bunch?”

Drew gets my point. But he blows it off. “Thanks, Sigmund. If I want to be psychoanalyzed, I’ll throw good money away on an actual f*cking therapist.”

“Whatever you say, man.” I slap him on the back.



After Drew and Jack leave, I do a lap around the club. I spot Dee on the dance floor with Tony Soprano Junior and it turns my stomach. His spastic, rough steps are a sharp contrast to Dee’s effortless, rolling movements, and I wonder again what the hell she’s doing with him.

I find an empty table but get blindsided by an aggressive, chatty blonde in a short-sleeved cashmere sweater and leather skirt. She sits herself down and seems oblivious to the fact that I’m not paying attention to anything she says.

“. . . and I was like, really, Dad? Like, how am I supposed to focus on graduate school with that measly allowance . . .” The droning continues until a dark-haired girl happens by the table. Blondie grabs her hand. “Tracy! Omg, it’s been, like, forever. Let’s get a pic.” She leans her head against Tracy’s and snaps a picture with her iPhone. “That’s going on my Instagram!”

But, as soon as Tracy’s out of earshot, Blondie turns to me with a glower. “I hate that bitch.”

You know what I hate? Fakeness. Phony affection. It’s stupid and a waste of time. The only falsies I appreciate are on a set of cosmetically altered boobs.

I’ve had as much of this chick’s company as I can stand, and then I see Delores, walking out the door of the club, behind the Italian loser. Determined to salvage the night, I ask Blondie, “Do you want to get out of here?”

She beams. “I thought you’d never ask.”





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 dick 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*ckface.

I remember the way she moved Wednesday night and the appreciative, sexy 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 pisses me the hell off. Not because Dee’s screwing another guy, but because the guy is so goddamn unworthy.