Tamed (17 page)

Then Sunday morning rolls around.

I’m awakened by whispered arguing—that raspy, not at all quiet sound that’s as annoying as frigging fingernails on a chalkboard.

“No—Mom, he’s sleeping. God, would you just stop! I hate when you do this! Fine—I’ll wake him up. Fine!”

Hands poke and push at my shoulder.

I tell myself it’s just a dream.

“Matthew. Matthew—wake up, my mother wants to talk to you.”

My eyes open. And I see Delores isn’t fucking with me—she holds out her cell phone.

Parents love me—always have. But, my first interaction with them is not usually over the telephone while I’m in bed with their daughter at six o’clock in the goddamn morning.

It’s a little off-putting.

I whisper roughly, “I don’t want to talk to your mother.”

“Yeah, well, join the club. But she’ll keep calling—just get it over with so we can go back to sleep.”

“No,” I hiss. “I’m naked. I don’t want to talk to your mother butt-ass naked.”

She rolls her eyes. “It’s a fucking telephone, not Skype—get over it.” She pushes the phone at me.

“No.”

“Yes.”

Then she actually presses the phone to my face so I’ve got no choice but to take it. My voice comes out forced—unwillingly respectful—like a class of grade school kids giving their teacher a group greeting.

“Hi, Ms. Warren.”

Her voice is clipped—strong. And I wonder if she has any military training in her background. “Good morning, Mr. Fisher. I am told that you are having relations with my daughter—please confirm or deny.”

I look at Delores incredulously.

She just mouths, “I’m sorry.”

I clear my throat. “Well . . . um . . . not at the moment.”

She harrumphs. “I realize that Delores Sunshine is an adult and can make her own decisions. But given the state of the
world today, I would appreciate it if you would indulge me by answering a few questions to ease the mind of a concerned single mother?”

I cover the mouthpiece with my hand. And smirk. “Your middle name is Sunshine?”

Dee hides her face in the pillow.

My attention goes back to Ms. Warren. “Fire away.”

She clears her throat. “Have you ever been arrested or convicted of a crime?”

“No.”

“Have you ever been treated for a mental disorder?”

“No.” But I’m starting to suspect Ms. Warren has.

“Are you gainfully employed?”

“Yes.”

“Do you live in a structure that does not have wheels attached to it?”

“Yes.”

“Have you fathered any children that you are aware of?”

It feels like I’m being interviewed by the scariest life-insurance company ever.

“No—no children—aware of or otherwise.”

“Do you practice safe sex with my daughter?”

And that concludes the trivia portion of our game show . . . thanks for playing.

I sit up a little straighter in bed. “Here’s the deal, Ms. Warren—I think your daughter’s awesome. I treat her with respect, I care about her, I make sure she has a wonderful time whenever we’re together.” Delores watches me with warm, adoring eyes. “But frankly, the answers to these questions are none of your goddamn business. That’s between Dee and me—only.”

Ms. Warren grunts. Then she says, “Well, it was nice speaking
with you, Matthew. Hand the phone to my daughter, please.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I pass it over to Dee.

“Okay, Mom. Yes. I love you too. Good-bye.” She ends the call with a sigh.

Then she lays her head on my chest, wraps her arms and legs around me—and squeezes tightly. I kiss the top of her head and run my hand up and down her spine.

“Please don’t hold her insanity against me,” she pleads.

I chuckle. “You haven’t met my parents yet. Like Ferris Bueller said, every family has weirdness in it.”

“Well . . . the good news is, she likes you. You’re welcome to stay in the bunker.”

“I . . . I don’t know what that means.”

Dee closes her eyes and explains. “A few ex-boyfriends back, Amelia dated a guy that was a survivalist. He built an underground shelter in our backyard. He didn’t last, but the bunker has. She keeps it fully stocked, and the people closest to her are invited to hide out there, when, according to her—inevitably—the government tries to enslave the populace and take her guns away.”

The hum of Dee’s voice is just about to lull me back to sleep . . . when her words finally register.

I pick my head up. “Wait. Your mother has
guns
?”

Monday night, I walk into my apartment and throw my keys down on the front hall table. And right away, something feels . . . off.

The air feels different. It’s like a sixth sense when you live alone—you can just tell when someone has been in your place.

Or if they’re still there.

Nothing in the living room is disturbed. The same goes for the kitchen and dining room, which I scan as I walk down the hall toward the closed bedroom door. I open it and walk in.

And there, laid out in the middle of my bed, in a pale pink lace teddy with matching garters and stockings is . . . Rosaline.

For a lot of guys, this is a fantasy come to life. Right up there next to a hot, horny chick showing up at your door in a trench coat with nothing on underneath.

But for me? Fantastic fantasy—wrong girl.

Her dark hair falls over my pillow in shiny waves. Her blue eyes gaze at me while her red lips stretch into an inviting smile. “Hello, Matthew.”

“How the
fuck
did you get in here?” She doesn’t acknowledge the shocked disdain in my tone. Or maybe she doesn’t hear it.

Her ruby smile stays perfectly in place. “I told your doorman I was an old friend. After a little persuasion, he let me in. You really should complain to the manager. After what you paid for this place, the security is appalling. Although, I suspect at the moment, you’re quite pleased about that.”

She trails her hand down her stomach, teasing the thin fabric of her panties. Although my eyes are tempted to follow her hand, I keep them trained on her face. “And you’d be wrong about that.”

She rises from the bed and stands in front of me, eyes downcast, hands folded—the perfect picture of sexy vulnerability. “I was
wrong
to leave things with you the way I did. Seeing you again has made me realize how much I’ve missed you. I was hoping, now that I’m back in the city, you’d give me a second chance.”

I’m not going to lie. Hearing her say that is a rush. My ego
does a fist pump. Isn’t that what every jilted lover craves? To hear the former object of their affection say that they were wrong? Beg and plead to be taken back?

“You’re leaving Julian?” I ask, stupefied.

She giggles. “Leaving him? Of course not, silly. If I leave, I get nothing—the prenup was very specific about that. But that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy my own . . . distractions. You and I can enjoy them together. Frequently.”

A few weeks ago I may have taken her up on the offer. Screwing Rosaline was always a spectacular event. And I’m a
guy.
Regular sex without attachment is the pot of gold at the end of the frigging rainbow. Something all of us dream about finding but don’t really believe exists.

But here—now—not even my dick is interested. Which is really saying something considering she’s almost naked.

Rosaline steps forward and moves to put her arms around my neck. But I grasp her forearms and hold her at arm’s length. “Get dressed.”

She looks genuinely surprised. Confused.

But before I can elaborate, there’s a knock on my door. And Delores’s squawking, singing voice drifts down the hallway. “How ya call ya loverboy? Come ’ere, loverboy . . .”

Motherfucker.

This is bad. Like building a house on an ancient Indian burial ground whose bodies are reawakened and really pissed off kind of frigging bad.

I walk away from Rosaline and make my way to the door, going over my options. I could stash Rosaline in a closet or under the bed, but if Dee finds her, I’ll look guilty. I could try to rush Delores away from the scene of the crime, but if she ever finds out why, I’ll look really fucking guilty.

The only viable choice is to lay it on the line—tell Delores the truth—appeal to her trusting nature and God-given faith in the honesty of her fellow man.

Yeah—you’re right—I’m totally screwed.

I open the door. Delores holds a
Dirty Dancing
DVD up for me to see as she dances in place. “This is the perfect movie for us! I’m sure you haven’t seen it yet—since your testosterone-drenched eyeballs have been too busy watching action movies and war porn. But lucky for you, I own the director’s cut with extended scenes. We can reenact the ‘lift’ scene. I also do a hot cha-cha.”

I slide out into the hall before she’s done talking and close the door behind me. That’s when she notices the look on my face and stops dancing. “What’s wrong?”

I put my hands on her shoulders and say, “I need you
not
to freak out.”

Of course saying that is just going to make her start to freak out sooner.
Stupid
.

“Why would I freak out?”

I try to do better. “You have to trust me, Delores. I swear it’s not what it looks like.”

That’s not any better, is it?
Shit
.

Her apprehensive tawny eyes shift from my face, to the door behind me, and back again. She doesn’t assure or agree, but demands, “Open the door, Matthew.”

Might as well just get it over with.

I open the door and Delores marches in ahead of me. Whatever she was bracing herself for, she doesn’t find it. She looks around the living room. “What are you . . .”

It’s then that Rosaline comes striding down the hall—still covered in garters and lace.

Because if I didn’t have bad luck? I’d have no luck at all.

“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.

. . .

. . .

. . .

. . .

. . .

. . .

. . .

. . .

. . .

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 fucking 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.