Tamed

“I think you’re being rather childish about . . .” Rosaline stops short when she sees Dee—but doesn’t seem even a little bothered. “Well, this is awkward.”

I grind my teeth. “I told you to get dressed.”

“I thought you were being coy. I didn’t think you were serious.”

I turn my back on her and face Delores. “Dee . . .”

Half a dozen emotions swirl in her eyes—shock, surprise, hurt, betrayal, anger, humiliation. Faith and trust are nowhere to be found.

But she doesn’t run.

And for just one moment, I think I might have gotten through to her. That she’ll remember my promises—think of my actions—over the last several days and she’ll come to the inevitable conclusion that I’m not a cheating dickwad.

I’ll give you a second to guess what she does next. Just to keep things interesting.

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She slaps me. Hard. Straight across the face.

Slap.

Then she runs out the door like a bat out of hell.

“Goddamn it!”

I want to go after her—I will—but first I have some exterminating to do.

With an oblivious smile, Rosaline says, “Now, where were we?”

“I was just about to toss your ass out the door. Still am. I don’t want to resume anything with you, Rosaline. We’re done. Don’t try to speak to me at parties. If you see me on the street? Turn around and walk the other f**king way. If you ever pull something like this again, or try to interfere in my life? I’ll make damn sure your husband and every society acquaintance you have learns that you’re a conniving, cold-hearted, two-faced bitch. Understand?”

Her confidence evaporates and her expression turns wounded. But it only lasts a second. Then her eyes ice over. Angry, but controlled. Like a rat hell-bent on survival, even if it means chewing off her own leg. “Very well.”

I give her a final glare as I walk out the door. “Don’t be here when I get back.”

By the time I catch the next elevator and make it down to the lobby, Dee is nowhere in sight. I jog out to the sidewalk and search through the sea of busy New Yorkers until I spot her blond head retreating down the block.

And that’s when it starts to rain. It’s pelting and icy, like a giant sky-wide showerhead turned on cold full blast.

Thanks a lot, God. Way to cut me a f**king break.

I weave between pedestrians—trying my best not to get an eye gouged out by the flurry of umbrellas along the way. When I catch up to Dee, I grab her arm, spin her around, and yell, “Would you stop running! I told you not to freak out!”

She motions back toward my building and shouts, “How am I supposed to not freak out when you’ve got a naked girl in your apartment?”

“Because I’m not up there with her! I’m down here—probably contracting pneumonia—chasing the f**k after you!”

“Why?”

And it’s then that I realize I’ve asked Dee to trust me—to believe that I’m different from the ass**les of her past—without really giving her a reason to. Any guy can show a girl a good time—thoughtful presents, fun dates—but that doesn’t mean he’s honest. He could just be putting up a convincing front. Shielding an ulterior motive or a player persona.

To prove you’re not hiding anything, sometimes you have to empty your pockets, open your bag, submit to a pat down. Even if it’s uncomfortable or embarrassing. Trust has to be earned . . . sometimes by stripping yourself bare.

“We dated for two years in college. I wanted to marry her—and I thought she wanted the same thing. But she didn’t. She was cheating on me the whole time with an older, richer guy, and I was too f**king blind to see it. She dumped me when he got her pregnant. She broke my f**king heart . . . and . . . and now, I’m so glad she did. Because if not . . . I never would have met you.”

Delores looks surprised. Then sympathetic—but lingering doubt is there too.

“She’s so beautiful.”

I gaze at Dee’s wet, matted hair, her mascara-smeared face, her blue tinged-from-the-cold lips. Then I shake my head.

“Not to me.”

She takes in my words, and after a moment gives me a small smile. I hold out my hand. “Can we please go back inside now?”

She takes it. “Okay.”

We walk quickly back to my building. As we get close, I see Rosaline step out of the lobby door—wearing dark sunglasses despite the weather, an impeccably belted trench coat, with her hair pulled back into a low, neat knot. Her driver holds an umbrella over her head as she walks to the open door of the limo. I don’t bother to watch her drive away—I’m just relieved that she does.

Back in my apartment, Dee wraps her arms around herself, but that doesn’t stop her teeth from chattering. We strip out of our wet, cold clothes, and I fill the double-wide Jacuzzi with water, just short of scalding. Although few things are better than a splashing, slippery screw in a bathtub, that’s not what this is about. I’m not going to get all corny and say I just want to “hold” her—I want much more than that.

Just . . . not right now.

I relax against the back of the tub, my arms on the edges, with Dee’s head resting on my chest, her body laid out beside me, turned toward mine. I close my eyes, enjoying the feel of the hot water as it loosens my muscles and warms our skin. The mirror-fogged room is quiet, peaceful—both of us content just to be.