Attitude

Attitude

by

EC Sheedy

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Copyright © 2013 by Edna Sheedy. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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Chapter 1

Precariously high heels, hip-rider miniskirt, white satin tube top—more Band-Aid than cover-up—and humongous gold hoops in one set of her three pierces per ear.

Hmm...

Lipstick, red enough, bold enough, slick enough, to make the cover of
Hustler
magazine.

Ginger twisted, assessed, then smacked her backside. The skirt fit like sausage casing.

Perfect.

She tossed her long honey-red hair in the manner of a high-blooded mare and roughly pinned up one side, left the other to fall on her bare shoulder. Straightening enough for her top to lift and display the diamond glittering in her navel, she was battle ready.

Almost.

She scanned the mishmash of jars, bottles, and brushes littering her bathroom counter and chose a scent that smelled suspiciously like sex in a bottle. She drenched herself in it.

Done.

She grabbed a sweater, her outsized black tote, and headed for the door full stride.

She knew exactly where to find him.

Hand on the knob, she paused, closed her mocha-shadowed eyelids. Too hot, too hyped, she took a calming breath. If she didn't get control, and keep it, tonight would be no fun at all. She'd ruin everything. Foreplay—lingering, edgy anticipation—that's what this was about.

He'd taught her all about that. Oh, yes...

One private and wicked grin, and she flounced out the door.

Tonight it was her turn to play teacher, and she intended to enjoy the class.

She couldn't wait.

* * *

Ginger knew he—along with every other man in the room—had spotted her the second she stepped into the exclusive restaurant. An audience. Just what she wanted. To hold it, she placed a hand on her hip, swept the room with a bold smile. Finally, she settled her gaze on the darkly handsome man seated at the best table in the room.

And his date.

Perfect.

He looked up and their gazes locked. She was too far away to see if he so much as blanched—
the bastard!
—but she was pretty sure his hand shook the tiniest bit when he lifted his wineglass to his mouth.

Red wine.
Excellent!

Resisting the urge to paw the ground a la a charging bull, she handed her sweater to the maitre d' as if it were ermine, and sashayed across the room.

She heard a whistle from a nearby table, ignored it. Ginger had learned to tune out whistles at the age of thirteen, if she hadn't she'd be deaf as stone.

She stopped at his table.

"Hey, Tony," she said, trying her best to purr like a month-old tiger. "Fancy meeting you here."

"Hey, baby." He tossed his napkin on the table, leaned back in his chair, and gave her a smoldering once over. The guy was cool as winter glass—and handsome as midnight sin.
Damn!
Her stomach lurched. Lust or rage, she wasn't sure, but she'd bet on rage.

"Going to introduce us?" She slanted a look toward his blond, beautiful, and obviously bewildered dinner companion.

He gave her the white-hot smile that had attracted her to him in the first place. The man might be a bastard, but he had great teeth. "Ginger, honey, do you really think that would be smart?"

"Probably not." She picked up his wineglass, took a sip. "But then
smart
isn't exactly what I've been these last few months. I was too preoccupied with this—" She lifted the wineglass, smiled, and poured it on his crotch.

"Jes—Ginger!"

Before he could get to his feet, she dumped his girlfriend's fettuccini Alfredo over his head.

"But I got smart real fast when I found out about the wife and two kids you've got tucked away across the Canadian border."

He jumped to his feet, sputtered, and wiped impotently at the creamy mess on his face with his napkin. The blonde marbelized where she sat. "You dumb—" he started.

"—bitch?" Ginger finished sweetly. She picked a strand of fettuccini off his chin, while making sure her voice carried throughout the posh restaurant. "Better a bitch, lover boy, than a scum-encrusted bottom-feeding cheat like you."

She strode off, turned back once to give him and the rest of the room a saccharine smile. "Oh, and did I tell you we're through?"

* * *

"At Darios! You didn't!" Tracy stared at Ginger, wide-eyed.

"I did. And it felt good, woman—
real
good." Ginger leaned her head back on the sofa, closed her eyes, and hit the replay button. Warm all over, that's how she felt.

She'd wasted six months of her life on Tony Flora—until his wife called and filled her in on his amorous adventures, Ginger being but one in a string. She felt like dirt about the unhappiness she'd caused the soon-to-be ex Mrs. Flora and her kids. Ginger had made her share of dating mistakes—but until now, being suckered by a married man hadn't been among them.

"Man, would I have loved to have been there." Tracy took a sip of her coffee. "Pure Ginger, live and uncensored."

Ginger's smug smile slipped a bit. "Yeah, pure Ginger," she echoed and tried to quell the uneasy feeling the description was apt, but not complimentary.

Tracy tilted her head. "You're not having second thoughts are you? The guy was a worm."

"That's the problem, Trace. He was a worm, and I fell for him. Doesn't say much for my judgment."

"We all make mistakes."

"True. I just happen to make a few million more than the rest of my sex." She got up from the sofa, tugged down her miniskirt, glumly confused. "What am I, anyway? Some shallow, incomplete woman, doomed to fall for losers and brainless hunks? Some kind of idiot girl?"