Still clad in my green scrubs, my hair a tangled mess, and my eyes glassy with lack of sleep, I inwardly prayed that the elevator would finally close and carry me to my apartment on the tenth floor. I wanted to undress, dip into a hot bath, and lie in bed, binge-watching Portlandia. And I wanted not to think about my ex-boyfriend, Darren.
Actually, I really wanted not to think about him.
Violent clicks of street-corner high heels echoed in my ears, seemingly out of nowhere, growing louder by the second. I twisted my head to the lobby and stifled a cough. The elevator's door had already started to slide shut, but a feminine hand with red-hot fingernails slipped through the crack at the very last second, pushing it open with a high-pitched laugh.
I frowned.
Not him again.
But sure enough, it was him. He barged into the elevator, reeking of alcohol that I suspected would intoxicate a mature elephant to the point of death, armed with two women of the Desperate Housewives variety. The first one was the genius who compromised her arm to catch the elevator-a chick with velvet-red Jessica Rabbit hair and cleavage that left nothing to the imagination, even if you were extremely resourceful. The second was a petite brunette with the roundest ass I've ever seen on a human being and a dress so short, you could probably perform a gynecological exam on her without having to remove any clothing.
Oh, and then there was Dean 'Ruckus' Cole.
Tall-perfect size for a movie star-with moss-green eyes, almost radioactive in their sparkle and bottomless in their depth, disheveled, deep brown sex hair, and a body that would put Brock O'Hurn to shame. Sinfully sexy to the point you really had no choice but to look away and pray your underwear was thick enough to absorb your arousal. Seriously, the man was so outrageously hot, he was probably outlawed in ultra-religious countries. Luckily for me, I just so happened to know Mr. Cole was a world-class jerk, so I was mostly immune to his charm.
Mostly being the operative word here.
He was beautiful, but he was also a mess of epic proportions. You know those women who want the fucked-up, gorgeous, vulnerable guy they could fix and nurture? Dean Cole would be their wet dream. Because there definitely was something up with this guy. The notion that people in his immediate environment didn't see the flashing neon warnings-his drinking, excessive pot-smoking, and raging addiction to everything sinful and fun-saddened me. Yet, I recognized that Dean Cole wasn't my business. Besides, I had my own problems to deal with.
The HotHole hiccupped, punched the button to his penthouse five hundred times, and swayed in the small space the four of us shared. His eyes were feverish, and he wore a thin coat of sweat on his skin that smelled like pure brandy. A thick, rust-eaten wire twisted around my heart.
His smile didn't look happy.
"Baby LeBlanc." Dean's lazy tone slipped right into my lower belly, and I stilled. He grabbed me by the shoulder, spinning me in place so that I faced him. His companions eyed me like I was a pile of rotten eggs. I placed my palms on his iron-steel chest, pushing him away.
"Careful. You smell like Jack Daniel's just came in your mouth," I deadpanned. He threw his head back and laughed-this time sporting an honest smile-thoroughly enjoying our bizarre exchange.
"This girl." He wrapped an arm around my shoulder and squeezed me to his chest. He pointed at me with a hand that held onto the neck of a beer bottle, looking at the girls with a dazed grin. "Is fuck-hot and has brains and wit that would eclipse Winston Churchill in his finest hour," he gushed. They probably thought Winston Churchill was a Cartoon Network character. Dean turned to face me, his brows dropping low all of a sudden. "That puts her in a high risk to be a condescending bitch, but she isn't. She's also fucking kind. That's why she's a nurse. Hiding that fine ass under scrubs is a crime, LeBlanc."
"Sorry to disappoint, Officer Pothead, but I'm just volunteering. I'm actually a barista," I corrected, ironing my scrubs with my hand as I wormed out of his touch, offering a polite smile to the girls. I volunteered at a NICU three times a week, monitoring incubators and cleaning baby poop. I wasn't as artistically talented as Millie or as lucky as the HotHoles, but I had my passions-people and music-and I didn't think any less of my aspirations than what they did for a living. Dean had an MBA from Harvard and a New York Times subscription, but was he really better than me? Hell, no. I worked in a small coffee shop called The Black Hole between First Ave and Ave A. The money was bad, but the company good. I figured life was too short to do something I wasn't passionate about. Especially for me.