Tangled (The Tangled Series)(34)

And I was seventeen. A year in a guy’s life when a light breeze is capable of giving him a boner. I spent so much time in the bathroom, my mother thought I had a virus. Finally, after the seventh day, I couldn’t take it anymore. I braved the elements and walked to Rebecca Whitehouse’s condo uptown. We humped like bunnies in the janitor’s closet of her parent’s building.

She was a nice girl.

Anyway, once again, I’ve been reduced to jerking off in the shower. It’s humiliating. I feel so dirty. Not that there’s anything wrong with a good rub and tug in the morning to start the day off right. Particularly if, like myself, last weekend’s typical Saturday score night had to be bypassed because of family-related holiday obligations. But if that’s the only action you’re getting? Well, that’s just…sad.

The reason behind my recent extended sexual famine? I blame Kate. It’s all her frigging fault.

Apparently, I’ve grown a conscience. I don’t know when it happened, I don’t know how it happened, but I am not happy about it.

If I could, I would squash that Jiminy Cricket f*cker like the roach he is.

Because you know how some people have gay-dar? Well, I have dump-dar. That means I can pick out a recently dumped female a mile away. They’re easy pickings. All you have to tell them is that their ex is an idiot for letting them go, and they’ll be begging you to nail them.

Kate now falls into the aforementioned dumped category. Should be a sure thing, right?

Wrong. Here’s where Jiminy rears his ugly little bug head.

I can’t bring myself to make a move. The idea makes me feel like a goddamn predator. It’s hard to tell if she’s still raw. She doesn’t seem to be, but you never know. She could just be putting up a good front. And if she is—hurt and vulnerable—that’s not how I want her. When it happens for Kate and me, I want her ripping at my clothes, and her own for that matter, because she can’t wait a second longer to have me pounding into her. I want her moaning my name, scratching my back and screaming because of the sheer magnificence of it.

Damn it, there I go again. I’ve got a hard-on just thinking about it.

What a mess. I can’t f*ck Kate, and I don’t want to f*ck anyone else. It’s my own personal Perfect Storm. Told you I’d get what I deserve. Are you happy now?

I turn off the lights in my office and walk over to Kate’s. She doesn’t see me right away, so I cross my arms and lean against the doorframe, just watching her. Her hair’s down, and she’s standing, bent over her desk, looking at her computer. And she’s singing:

No more drinks with the guys

No more hitting on girls

I’d give it all up

And it’d be worth it in the end

If you were my lady

I would comprehend

How it feels to have something real

I would want to be a good man…

She really does have a great voice. And the way she’s bending over her desk like that…I just want to walk up behind her and…Christ. Never mind. I’m just torturing myself.

“Rihanna better watch her back.” She looks up at the sound of my voice, and her face breaks into a wide, embarrassed grin. I request, “Don’t stop on my account. I was enjoying the show.”

“Very funny. Show’s over.”

I crook my finger at her. “Come on. I’m kicking you out. It’s after eleven on a Friday night, and you haven’t eaten yet. I know a place. My treat. They make a great turkey club.”

Kate turns off her screen and grabs her bag. “Oohh, they’re my favorite.”

“Yeah, I know.”





We grab a table in the bar area and order. The waitress brings our drinks, and Kate takes a sip of the margarita I ordered for her. “Mmm. This is just what I wanted right now.”

I told you I was good at the drink thing—remember? We talk comfortably for a few minutes, and then…watch this.

Kate’s eyes go wide as saucers, and she dives under the table. I look around. What the hell? I duck my head and take a peek at her. “What are you doing?”

She looks panicked. “Billy’s here. Upstairs, in the loft over the dance floor. And he’s not alone.” I start to lift my head when she yells, “Don’t look!”

Jesus Christ—this is ridiculous. So much for being over the dickwit.

“It’s just…I can’t let him see me like this.”

Now I’m confused. “What are you talking about? You look great.” She always looks great.

“No, not in these clothes. He said it wasn’t attractive that I was so driven. It was one of the reasons he wanted to break up. That I…he said I was too…masculine.”

You have got to be f*cking kidding me. I’m masculine. Hillary Clinton is masculine. Kate Brooks doesn’t have a goddamn masculine cell in her body. She’s all woman, believe me.

But I know what the f*cker was going for. Kate is intelligent, outspoken, ambitious. Lots of men—like the shit-eating *, for instance—can’t handle a woman like that. So they twist it around. Make those qualities seem unappealing. Something to be ashamed of.

Screw this. I grab Kate’s hand and drag her out from under the table. She looks around quickly as I lead her to the dance floor.