Tangled (The Tangled Series)(23)

She smiles. “Cynical much? So you don’t believe love is real?”

“Didn’t say that. My parents have been happily married for thirty-six years. My sister loves her husband, and he worships her.”

“But you’ve never?”

I shrug, “I just don’t see the point. It’s a whole lot of work and not much payoff. Your odds of making it for even a few years are only fifty-fifty at best. Too complicated for my tastes.”

I prefer simple and straightforward. I work, I f*ck, I eat, I sleep, on Sundays I have brunch with my mother and play basketball with the guys. Effortless. Easy.

Kate sits back in her chair. “My mother used to say, ‘If it’s not difficult, it’s not worth it.’ Besides, don’t you get…lonely?”

On cue, a busty shot girl comes to our table and leans over with her hand on my shoulder and her cleavage in my face. “You need anything else, cutie?”

That pretty much answers Kate’s question, huh?

“Sure, honey. Could you bring us another round?”

As the waitress moves away, Kate’s eyes meet mine before rolling to the ceiling. “Anyway. Give me your ten.”

“I’ve had sex with more than ten women in one week.”

Cancun. Spring Break 2004. Mexico is awesome.

“Uck. Is that supposed to impress me?”

I grin proudly. “It impresses most women.” I lean forward and lower my voice as I rub my thumb slowly against hers. “Then again, you’re not most women, are you?”

She licks her lips, her eyes on mine. “Are you flirting with me?”

“Definitely.”

Shot Girl brings our drinks. I crack my knuckles. I’m up. Time to get…intimate.

“First blow job?”

I tried. I held out for as long as I could. I couldn’t resist any longer.

The smile drops from Kate’s face. “You have serious issues. You know that, right?”

Borrowing some peer pressure from The Breakfast Club, I goad, “Come on, Claire—just answer a simple question.”

Kate picks up her drink and knocks it back impressively.

I am both shocked and appalled. “You’ve never given a blow job?”

Please, God, don’t let Kate be one of those women. You know the ones I mean—cold, unadventurous, the ones who just don’t do that. The ones who insist on making love, which means f*cking in the missionary position only. They’re the reason men like Elliot Spitzer and Bill Clinton risk the destruction of their political careers, ’cause they’re just that desperate for a happy ending.

She flinches as the vodka burns down her throat. “Billy doesn’t like…oral sex. He doesn’t like to give it, I mean.”

She’s got to be drunk. There’s no way in holy hell that Kate would be telling me this were she not completely and utterly shitfaced. She hides it well, don’t you think? But she still hasn’t answered my question.

As for her fiancé—he’s a *. No pun intended. My mother always told me, “Anyone worth doing, is worth doing well.” Okay, she didn’t actually say those exact words, but you get the picture. If I’m not eager to go down on a chick, then I’m not screwing her. Sorry if that’s crude, but that’s just how it is.

And this is Kate we’re talking about here. I’d eat her for breakfast every day of the week and twice on Sunday. And I can’t think of a single man I know who would disagree with me.

Billy is a total f*cking idiot.

“So, since he’s never…you know. He doesn’t think it’s fair that I should do it to him. So, no…I’ve never…”

She can’t even say it. I have to help her out. “Given head? Sucked him off? Been tea-bagged? Blown his balls and his mind?”

She covers her face and giggles. I’m pretty sure it’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen. She takes her hands off her face and blows out a breath. “Moving on. My ten. I’ve been with Billy for over ten years.”

I choke on my beer. “Ten years?”

She nods. “Almost eleven.”

“So you started dating when you were…”

“Fifteen. Yeah.”

So, if I’m hearing her correctly, what she’s most likely saying is no man has ever gone down on her? Don’t mean to beat a dead horse, but I just can’t wrap my mind around this. That’s what she’s saying, right?

I could cry. What a f*cking sin. Spare the karaoke guy—save the bullet for Kate’s boyfriend.

“How long have you been engaged?”

“About seven years. He asked me the week before I left for college.”

Those two sentences tell me exactly what kind of man shithead Billy happens to be. Insecure, jealous, clingy. He knew his girl was out of his league, that she was going places and would most likely leave him in the dust. So what does he do? He asks her to marry him, pretty much trapping her before she knew any better.

“That’s why the ring is so…you know…small. But it doesn’t matter to me. Billy worked for six months to get me this ring. Bussing tables, mowing lawns, killing himself. This tiny stone means more to me than the biggest rock at Tiffany’s.”

And those few sentences tell me exactly what kind of woman Kate Brooks is too. A lot of Manhattan women are all about flash—the brand of the car, the name on the bag, the size of the ring. Superficial. Empty. I should know; I’ve slept with most of them. But Kate is the real deal. Genuine. She’s all about quality, not quantity.