Tamed(7)

You don’t have to base your response to a dude’s proposition on this information; I just thought you’d want to know.

Now, back to the phone conversation.

I can hear a smile in her voice as she accepts my invite. “I’m always up for a drink.”

Up. More sexual innuendo. Definitely not my imagination. I am so getting laid.

“Cool. You free on Friday?”

Silence meets my ears for a beat, until she suggests, “How about tonight?”

Wow. Guess Delores Warren missed the chapter requiring two days’ advance notice for all screwing offers.

Lucky me.

And then she elaborates. “I mean, there could be a blackout, a water shortage, aliens could finally decide to invade and enslave the entire human race . . .”

There’s one I haven’t heard before.

“Then we’d be shit out of luck. Why wait for Friday?”

I like the way this girl thinks. As the saying goes, “Don’t put off till tomorrow anyone you could be doing today.” Or . . . close enough.

“Tonight works for me,” I readily agree. “What time?”

Some girls take forever and a day to get ready. It’s f*cking annoying. Going to the gym or the beach? Shouldn’t require prep time, ladies.

“How about an hour?”

Two points for Dee—great tits and low maintenance. I think I’m in love.

“Sounds good,” I tell her. “What’s your address? I’ll swing by and pick you up.”

My building has private parking for tenants. Lots of New Yorkers spend thousands of dollars a month for parking spaces—only to not drive their cars because of city traffic. Auto congestion doesn’t bug me; I always leave myself extra time. Like I said before—time management is key.

And another thing: I don’t have a car. I drive a custom-built Ducati Monster 1100 S. I’m not looking to put on a cut and join an outlaw MC or anything, but riding is another hobby of mine. Few things in life feel as great as cruising down an open highway on a blue-skied, crisp fall day when the leaves are just starting to change. It’s as close to flying as a human being can get.

I take the bike out at every available opportunity. Sometimes a girl will bitch about being cold or messing up her hair—but when all is said and done: Chicks dig motorcycles.

Delores responds, “Um . . . how about I just meet you?”

This is a smart move for a single woman. Just like you wouldn’t give out your social security number online, you don’t give out your address to some guy you barely know. The world is a f*cked-up place, and women especially need to do everything they can to make sure the f*cked up doesn’t find its way to their front door.

But, unfortunately, it also means the hog is staying home tonight. I’m a little sad about that.

“Meeting up sounds good.”

Before I can suggest a place, Dee takes charge. “You know Stitch’s, on West Thirty-seventh?”

I do know it. It’s low-key with good drinks, live music, and a comfortable lounge. Because it’s a Wednesday night, it won’t be packed, but no bar in New York is ever empty.

“Yeah, I’m familiar with it.”

“Great. I’ll see you in an hour or so.”

“Awesome.”

After we hang up, I don’t get dressed right away. I’m not picky about my clothes, like some young semi-asexual professionals, but I’m not a slob either. I can be ready to walk out the door in seven minutes flat. So I grab the folder from my briefcase and use the extra time to finish the work reading I planned to do before bed. Because it looks like I won’t be hitting the sheets any time soon—and when I do, I’m definitely not going to be alone.





Chapter 3


I get to Stitch’s early. I drink a beer at the bar, then step outside for a cigarette. Yes—I’m a smoker. Break out the hammer and nails and commence with the crucifixion.

I’m aware it’s unhealthy. I don’t need to see the internal organs of deceased cancer patients on those creepy-ass commercials to understand it’s a bad habit—thank you, Mayor Bloomberg. Making me go outside doesn’t stop me from lighting up—it just pisses me off. It’s an inconvenience, not a deterrent.

But I’m considerate about it. I don’t toss my butts on the street, I don’t blow smoke in the faces of the elderly or children. Alexandra would literally slit my throat if I ever lit up anywhere near Mackenzie. Literally.

I do plan on quitting . . . eventually.

But for now, the long-term damage I might be doing to my lungs falls second to the fact that I like to smoke. It feels good. It’s really just that simple. And you can keep your bar pretzels to yourself, because nothing goes better with a cold beer than a cigarette. It’s as good as a mom’s old-fashioned PB&J.

I snuff out my cigarette on the wall of the building and throw it into the trash can on the street. Then I pop an Altoids in my mouth. Because—like I said—I’m considerate. I don’t know if Dee is a fellow smoker or not, but nobody wants to slide their tongue into another person’s mouth and taste ashtray. And getting Dee’s tongue in my mouth . . . among other places . . . is definitely on the schedule for tonight’s festivities.

I head back in the bar and order a second beer. I take a swig and notice the front door opening. I watch as she walks in.