Screwed
Page 16
“So has he stopped touching your ass and acting like it’s an accident?”
“No, but he does it less often. Although he’s started dropping all these passive-aggressive comments, like ‘Where’s the funeral, har de har?’ or ‘Oh, you looked so sweet before, what happened?’ Or my personal favorite, ‘You don’t need to dress like a nun, sweetheart. You should enjoy that amazing figure while it lasts.’ So I consider it a mini victory.”
“What a douchebag.” Roxy rolls her eyes. “I’ve had gross customers before, but I knew what I was getting into when I started working at Kitty Queen’s. You didn’t bust your hump in college just to put up with some old perv. And strip joints have a bouncer who can step in if someone gets too rowdy. At your job, you’re on your own. Worse than on your own, actually, since the problem is with the guy who’s supposed to protect you. Not that I haven’t had a few handsy bosses before . . .”
When she first told me she was a stripper, I barely batted an eyelash. Once you meet her, it seems the most obvious profession in the world for her. She’s outgoing, gorgeous, and confident, with just a hint of being a wild child. The only thing that surprised me was that she didn’t use a more subdued euphemism, like dancer or exotic entertainer or something. Then again, there’s nothing subdued about Roxy.
I swallow my mouthful of wine. It isn’t great—not far from the realm of two-buck Chuck—but it’s loosened me up just fine. “Sometimes I think you can never win with men,” I add.
“Words of goddamn wisdom.” Roxy gives a huff of acrid laughter, smoke pouring from her nose. It reminds me of the femme fatale from some noir film. Or a dragon wearing expensive lingerie.
Wow, I think I’m getting a little drunk. Maybe that’s why I suddenly feel the urge to talk about Hayden. “Sometimes they aren’t so bad, though.”
“You mean for decoration? Boys do make great accessories.” She nods, her chandelier earrings bouncing.
“No, I mean . . . I’ve been hanging out with Hayden, and he’s actually pretty cool. We do yoga together almost every morning now. And tomorrow, he’s going to a vegetarian restaurant with me, even though he’s clearly a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy.” I realize that a silly little smile is pulling at the corners of my mouth. It’s so odd. When I hang out with him, I have a mysterious sort of glow for the rest of the day. He makes me laugh, and heaven knows I could use a good laugh with the seriousness of my job.
“It’s great that he hasn’t screwed you over yet,” Roxy says, her tone abruptly tense. “But he’s still bad news. Ask any of the girls here.”
“He’s been a perfect gentleman so far.” Well, not perfect, but good enough for government work. “We’re just workout buddies.”
“You think he’s your friend? Sorry to burst your bubble, hon, but he doesn’t bother with women for anything other than the obvious. He’s working for a reward that starts with ‘p’ and ends with ‘ussy.’ Get out while you still can.”
Once again, I wonder where all this barely suppressed rage is coming from. But mostly I’m annoyed. Roxy is talking down to me like I’m some naive country girl who doesn’t know her ass from third base. I’ve met my share of shitty men, thank you very much, and I like to think I can see them coming by now. I’m old enough to make my own decisions and smart enough not to get in over my head. Plus, for once in my life, I want to do something really impractical—like own a convertible in Seattle. I want to say fuck it and just have fun.
“I know he’s a player,” I say, a little more testily than I intended. “I knew that when I started hanging out with him. A guy doesn’t have to be perfect if all I’m after is a casual friend. It’s not like we’re getting married—it’s just nice to have someone to eat with sometimes.”
That’s part of the reason why Hayden can be so refreshing. Neither of us has to be perfect. We don’t even have to act perfect. We aren’t putting on performances or evaluating each other. We can just enjoy the good parts of each other’s personalities and not bother stressing over the bad parts.
At the same time, though, a little voice in my head whispers, Maybe Roxy is right . I can’t help but remember how obviously Hayden was lying when he said that he had female friends. Both the truth and the fact that he lied about it are potential bad signs.
I try to ignore that nagging voice as I finish my point. “I’m not under the delusion that my magic vagina will cure his no-good womanizin’ ways. I just escaped Boyfriend Hell; I won’t go back to see if it’s frozen over since the last time I checked. I’m on a no-man diet until further notice. So if Hayden does try to get into my pants, I’ll tell him he’s barking up the wrong tree, and he can either stay one hundred percent platonic or fuck off.” I look up at Roxy with close attention. “Unless you’re trying to tell me to look out for roofies in my drink?”
“No, no . . . Hayden’s nothing like that.” She drops her cigarette butt and grinds it into a small blackened blotch with the pointed toe of her shoe. “He’s purely small-time. More than bad enough to make you feel sorry for yourself afterward, but not enough for anyone else to feel sorry for you.”
More and more questions are jostling into my head, so I choose one of the least nosy ones. “If he’s so horrible, then why do you live in his building?”
“No, but he does it less often. Although he’s started dropping all these passive-aggressive comments, like ‘Where’s the funeral, har de har?’ or ‘Oh, you looked so sweet before, what happened?’ Or my personal favorite, ‘You don’t need to dress like a nun, sweetheart. You should enjoy that amazing figure while it lasts.’ So I consider it a mini victory.”
“What a douchebag.” Roxy rolls her eyes. “I’ve had gross customers before, but I knew what I was getting into when I started working at Kitty Queen’s. You didn’t bust your hump in college just to put up with some old perv. And strip joints have a bouncer who can step in if someone gets too rowdy. At your job, you’re on your own. Worse than on your own, actually, since the problem is with the guy who’s supposed to protect you. Not that I haven’t had a few handsy bosses before . . .”
When she first told me she was a stripper, I barely batted an eyelash. Once you meet her, it seems the most obvious profession in the world for her. She’s outgoing, gorgeous, and confident, with just a hint of being a wild child. The only thing that surprised me was that she didn’t use a more subdued euphemism, like dancer or exotic entertainer or something. Then again, there’s nothing subdued about Roxy.
I swallow my mouthful of wine. It isn’t great—not far from the realm of two-buck Chuck—but it’s loosened me up just fine. “Sometimes I think you can never win with men,” I add.
“Words of goddamn wisdom.” Roxy gives a huff of acrid laughter, smoke pouring from her nose. It reminds me of the femme fatale from some noir film. Or a dragon wearing expensive lingerie.
Wow, I think I’m getting a little drunk. Maybe that’s why I suddenly feel the urge to talk about Hayden. “Sometimes they aren’t so bad, though.”
“You mean for decoration? Boys do make great accessories.” She nods, her chandelier earrings bouncing.
“No, I mean . . . I’ve been hanging out with Hayden, and he’s actually pretty cool. We do yoga together almost every morning now. And tomorrow, he’s going to a vegetarian restaurant with me, even though he’s clearly a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy.” I realize that a silly little smile is pulling at the corners of my mouth. It’s so odd. When I hang out with him, I have a mysterious sort of glow for the rest of the day. He makes me laugh, and heaven knows I could use a good laugh with the seriousness of my job.
“It’s great that he hasn’t screwed you over yet,” Roxy says, her tone abruptly tense. “But he’s still bad news. Ask any of the girls here.”
“He’s been a perfect gentleman so far.” Well, not perfect, but good enough for government work. “We’re just workout buddies.”
“You think he’s your friend? Sorry to burst your bubble, hon, but he doesn’t bother with women for anything other than the obvious. He’s working for a reward that starts with ‘p’ and ends with ‘ussy.’ Get out while you still can.”
Once again, I wonder where all this barely suppressed rage is coming from. But mostly I’m annoyed. Roxy is talking down to me like I’m some naive country girl who doesn’t know her ass from third base. I’ve met my share of shitty men, thank you very much, and I like to think I can see them coming by now. I’m old enough to make my own decisions and smart enough not to get in over my head. Plus, for once in my life, I want to do something really impractical—like own a convertible in Seattle. I want to say fuck it and just have fun.
“I know he’s a player,” I say, a little more testily than I intended. “I knew that when I started hanging out with him. A guy doesn’t have to be perfect if all I’m after is a casual friend. It’s not like we’re getting married—it’s just nice to have someone to eat with sometimes.”
That’s part of the reason why Hayden can be so refreshing. Neither of us has to be perfect. We don’t even have to act perfect. We aren’t putting on performances or evaluating each other. We can just enjoy the good parts of each other’s personalities and not bother stressing over the bad parts.
At the same time, though, a little voice in my head whispers, Maybe Roxy is right . I can’t help but remember how obviously Hayden was lying when he said that he had female friends. Both the truth and the fact that he lied about it are potential bad signs.
I try to ignore that nagging voice as I finish my point. “I’m not under the delusion that my magic vagina will cure his no-good womanizin’ ways. I just escaped Boyfriend Hell; I won’t go back to see if it’s frozen over since the last time I checked. I’m on a no-man diet until further notice. So if Hayden does try to get into my pants, I’ll tell him he’s barking up the wrong tree, and he can either stay one hundred percent platonic or fuck off.” I look up at Roxy with close attention. “Unless you’re trying to tell me to look out for roofies in my drink?”
“No, no . . . Hayden’s nothing like that.” She drops her cigarette butt and grinds it into a small blackened blotch with the pointed toe of her shoe. “He’s purely small-time. More than bad enough to make you feel sorry for yourself afterward, but not enough for anyone else to feel sorry for you.”
More and more questions are jostling into my head, so I choose one of the least nosy ones. “If he’s so horrible, then why do you live in his building?”
