Tangled(70)

She just glares back.

I must be losing my touch.

“We need to talk.”

There are only a few reasons why Delores Warren would want to talk to me at this point in my life. None of them are pleasant.

I motion toward my office. “Come on in.”

This is how it must feel to invite a vampire into your house.

I sit down behind my desk. She stands.

You ever watch Animal Planet? Women are kind of like a herd of elephants. They stick together for protection. And if one senses danger? They all stampede.

I need to play this carefully.

“What can I do for you, Delores?”

“Self-castration would be great. But I’ll settle for a flying leap off a bridge. I hear the Brooklyn is nice this time of year.”

Oh yeah—this is going to be fun.

“Besides that.”

She braces her hands on my desk and leans over, like a snake getting ready to strike. “You can stop fucking with my best friend’s head.”

Not a problem. Kate’s head isn’t the body part I’m looking to fuck at the moment. Think I should tell her that? Probably not.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about last week, when you treated her like a used condom. And now, all of a sudden, you’re all flowers and music and love notes.”

Heard about those, did she? That’s a good sign.

“So I’m thinking you’re either a split personality—caused by the raging syphilis coursing through your bloodstream—or you’ve got an itch for a good challenge. In either case, move along, jerk-off. Kate isn’t interested.”

I’m not into challenges. When Kate blew me off that first night at REM, did I chase her? No, I went with the sure thing. The easy out.

Or in that particular case—the double play.

“Let’s not bullshit each other here. We both know Kate is very interested. You wouldn’t be so eager to rip into me if she wasn’t. As for the rest of your concerns, I don’t do head games. And there’s a line of women around the block willing to scratch any itch I can think of. This isn’t about getting laid.”

I lean forward on my desk. And my tone is straightforward and persuasive, like she’s a client on the fence. One I need to sway to my side. “I’ll admit, my feelings for Kate caught me off guard and at first, I handled things badly. That’s why I’m doing all this—to show her that I care about her.”

“You care about your dick.”

Can’t really argue with that.

She sits down across from me. “Kate and I are like sisters. Closer even. She’s not a one-night-stand kind of girl—she never was. She’s a relationship kind. It’s very important to me that she’s with someone who treats her right. A man.”

Couldn’t agree more. Most guys would sacrifice a limb for some juicy girl-on-girl action. It’s a turn-on—big time. But when it comes to Kate? I don’t plan on sharing. With either sex.

“Last time I checked, that’s what I was.”

“No. You’re a dog. She needs a good man. A nice man.”

Good guys are boring. You need a little bad to keep things fun. And nice guys? Nice guys have something to hide.

Jeffrey Dahmer’s neighbors thought he was a nice guy. Until they found those heads in his freezer.

She crosses her arms, and her voice turns triumphant. Gloating. “And I know someone who’s perfect for her. He works in my lab. He’s smart. He’s funny. His name is Bert.”

Bert?

Is she fucking kidding me? What kind of sick son of a bitch names his kid Bert in this day and age? That’s just cruel.

“He’ll show Kate a good time. I plan on setting them up this weekend.”

And I plan on handcuffing myself to Kate’s ankle and eating the key. Let’s see what kind of good time Bert can show Kate when she’s dragging me around behind her like a Siamese twin.

“I have a better idea. How about we double. You and Matthew, me and Kate. We’ll hang out. It’ll give me the chance to show you how perfect Kate and I are for each other.”

“Okay, now you sound like a stalker. You had your chance, you fucked up, get over it. Pick some other number out of your little black book and leave Kate alone.”

I stand up. “Contrary to what you think you know, I’m not some serial scumbag. I don’t lead women on—I don’t need to. You want me to tell Kate I’m sorry? I have. You want a guarantee that I’ll never hurt her again? I can write you one, and I’ll sign it in blood if it makes you happy. But don’t ask me to leave her alone, because I won’t. I can’t.”

She doesn’t move. Her face is as still and hard as a pissed-off statue. And my argument is making about as much of a dent as a goddamn toothpick.