Ruckus (Sinners of Saint #2)(7)

Jessica Rabbit rolled her eyes. The petite brunette hitched one bare shoulder and turned her back to us, messing with her phone. They thought I was a salty bitch. They were right. I literally was. But if we were being literal here, they were in for a rude awakening. I knew my neighbor and my sister's ex-boyfriend's ritual by heart. In the morning, he'll call them a taxi and won't even bother to pretend he saved their numbers.

In the morning, he'll act like they were nothing but a mess he had to clean. In the morning, he will be sober, hungover, and ungrateful.

Because he was a HotHole.

A privileged, unhinged, egomaniac from Todos Santos who thought he deserved everything and owed nothing.

Come on, elevator. What's taking you so long?

"LeBlanc," Dean barked this time, leaning against the silver wall and pulling a joint from behind his ear, fishing for his lighter in his tailored, dark jeans. The bottle was discarded and passed to one of the women. He wore a designer V-neck tee-the kind of lime green that made his eyes pop and skin look even more tan-an open black blazer and high-top sneakers. He made me want stupid things. Things I never wanted from anyone, much less from a man who dated my sister for eight months. So I bottled them up and tried to be mean to him. Dean was like Batman. He was strong enough to take it.

"Tomorrow. You. Me. Sunday Brunch. Say the word, and I'll be eating more than just food." He dipped his chin down to exhibit his emerald eyes, a sinister expression on his face. No question marks with this guy. Brat, the bitter thought crossed my mind. He is going to have a threesome in a few minutes, and he's standing here hitting on his ex-girlfriend's sister. They can hear everything, too. Why are they still here?

I ignored his less-than-stellar advance on me, warning him about something else entirely. "If you light that thing in the elevator," I pointed at his blunt, "I swear I will sneak into your apartment tonight and pour hot wax all over your groin."

Jessica Rabbit gasped. Petite Brunette shrieked. Well, they would be in the fire line if that happened.

"Geez, get some chill." The brunette waved a hand at me, ready to explode. "Like, creepy much?"

I paid no attention to the woman with the crayon makeup. Instead, I simply stared at the red numbers above the elevator's door, indicating that I was getting closer and closer to a bath, wine, and Portlandia.

"Answer me." Dean ignored the girls he was about to pork, returning his glazy eyes to mine. "Brunch?" Hiccup. "Or we can just skip the whole thing and fuck?"

Hopeless romantic, I know, but sadly, it was still a no for me.

In all honesty, I wasn't just turned off by how he tried to drag me into his bed, but also by his poor timing. It had been three weeks since Darren packed his things and moved out of the apartment we had shared for six months-we had been together for nine months, after a short stint I had with a greasy monkey, metal music enthusiast named Hal. Dean hadn't wasted any time trying to accommodate the casual rebound position. The fact that Dean was essentially my landlord and that I only paid him a hundred bucks a month for legal reasons didn't make it easier to reject him. He co-owned my apartment with Vicious, Jaime, and Trent, and while I knew he wouldn't kick me out-Vicious would never let him-I also knew I had to play nice with him.



       
         
       
        

But the notion that he could possibly give me every STD listed on WebMD did make it easier to turn him down. A lot easier, actually.

The red numbers crept up on the display.

Third.

Fourth.

Fifth.

Come on, come on, come on.

"No," I said flatly, when I realized he was still staring at me, waiting for my response.

"Why?" Another hiccup.

"Because you're not my friend, and I don't like you."

"And why is that?" he pushed, smirking.

Because you broke my heart and I pieced it back together all wonky and wrong.

"Because you're a hopeless manwhore." I gave him reason number two on my 'Why I Hate Dean' list. That thing was long with a capital L.

Instead of feeling embarrassed or disheartened, Dean leaned in my direction again and pressed his index finger to my cheek with the hand that held the unlit blunt, his face cool and collected. He produced an eyelash he had picked from my face, his finger so close to my lips I saw the round pattern of its print swirling around my curly eyelash.

"Make a wish." His voice was satin wrapping around my neck, squeezing softly.

Closing my eyes, I bit my lower lip. Then opened them. Then blew the eyelash, watching it rock back and forth gradually, like a feather.