Tied (Tangled, #4)(41)

I don’t want to be rude, but—screw it—I’ll go with rude. “What are you doing here?”

“You said this was where you were staying.”

“I also said we’d be busy.”

She responds coyly, “But I saw the look you gave me. I knew you only said that so your girlfriend wouldn’t get upset. So she wouldn’t think you were interested.”

Okay—I’m all for women who are assertive. You are sexual beings with needs. Own it. Relish it. But coming on strong to a guy who blatantly doesn’t want you isn’t going to change his mind.

It just makes you look pathetic.

Her hand reaches out to rub my chest, but I catch her wrist before she makes contact.

“Except I’m really not interested.”

Like a horny ghost, Jack appears at my side. “I, on the other hand, am very interested.” He takes her elbow and leads her away. “Don’t mind Drew—he’s a blind fool. How about we get you a drink?”

The brunette friend fades into the crowd, but the baby face just stands there looking blank. She twirls her hair in that “dumb blonde” way that makes me suspect her IQ may actually be lower than Warren’s. But she’s hot—definitely a step above the trough he’s been feeding at lately. I nudge him with my arm and jerk my chin in the blonde’s direction.




He wipes his hands on his pants nervously. Then he speaks to her. “Hey, wanna hear a joke?”

And all my hard work goes down the f**king tubes.

“Okay,” she answers.

“What did the blanket say when it fell off the bed?”

“What?”

“Oh, sheet.”

Blondie’s lips pout in confusion. “I don’t get it. Is the blanket, like, computerized?”

Warren’s face falls. “No . . . it’s . . . let me try another one. What did the duck say . . .”

I wrap my arm around his neck and squeeze, cutting off his air supply just a little. “Billy—remember what the doctor said about your voice?”

I turn to the girl, hoping to salvage Operation PPFW. That’s Premium * for Warren, in case you weren’t sure.

“My friend here is a singer. Billy Warren? He has to save his voice for his next concert—doctor’s orders.”

Her eyes open wide and her tone is dim-witted. “My horoscope said I was going to meet someone famous today! Billy Warren—I didn’t recognize you. I totes loved your last single.”

Matthew calls, “Drew, come on—you gotta roll.”

“Right.” I fish a handful of quarters from my pocket and slap them into Warren’s hands. “Why don’t you kids go play the slots? You’ll be safer there.”

With a giggle, Blondie informs me, “The way the wheels go around and around is so funny! I love slot machines.”

“That makes so much sense,” I tell her.

Could you imagine the children these two would have? Maybe genetic selection isn’t evil after all.

I shove Warren away. “And remember, don’t f**king talk. At all.”

He smiles and gives me two thumbs up. He looks so grateful and brainless, I can’t help but laugh as they walk away.



Twenty minutes later, Matthew and I are still on fire. Unstoppable. He’s taken over rolling, and I shift our chips around, betting big because we’re up by a lot. Matthew rolls a two and the room erupts in cheers. I give him a man shake and double our bet.

Which is when a certain semi-stalker flight attendant shows up next to me. Again.

“Can I give you a blow?”

My ears immediately perk up. “Excuse me?”

She points to Matthew. “The dice. Can I blow them for you? For luck?”

How about you blow me instead? I immediately think. Because I may be a man in a committed relationship—but I’m still a man.

That is the curse of evolution. Instincts. It’s why most guys have such a hard time with monogamy. Because our natural drive is to spread our seed around—offer it to as many willing partners as possible. We don’t have to act on it, but the impulse is always there. So the next time you think your guy is flirting with some random ho bag? Try not to get too upset. He’s waging an epic internal battle against his own body’s inclinations.

“Not needed,” I tell her. “We’re on a streak—never mess with a streak. These dice are doing fine on their own.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket. The text from Kate says the girls are finally ready and on their way down to the casino.

Flight girl leans over my shoulder and looks at my phone. “Cute kid. He yours?”

She’s referring to the picture of James on my main screen. I took it a few weeks ago, when I was trying to get James to eat a bowl of pasta. He wasn’t pleased with his meal and told me so by dumping the whole f**king thing on his head.

“Yep.”

She moves close to my ear and cuts me off. “We don’t have to play these games. I have a hotel room waiting two blocks away. I want you. It’s obvious you want me. Stop fighting it.”

I lean back. “Did we forget to take our meds this morning?”

She laughs. Sounds kind of like Norman Bates, doesn’t she? Throughout my debauched pre-Kate years, I encountered my fair share of Fatal Attraction, I’ll-never-f*ck-you-even-if-you-are-that-hot-because-you-obviously-have-several-screws-loose women. They’re out there and they’re not hard to spot. I was a master at avoiding, deflecting, and escaping their fanatical grasp.