Page 116 of Bad Attitude
Repurposing it for this appeals for all the right reasons.
There’s even a pair of heels that match.
I pull them on, standing before the mirror, twisting to check myself out.
It’s not very long, barely below my ass. But it covers everything…just.
Perfect.
Needless to say, I can’t wear this outfit on a bike. I’ll have to order an Uber, and beverydamn careful how I get in and out. It’s twenty minutes away, which leaves me just long enough to put on a touch of makeup—another thing I’m massively under practiced in.
But it’ll be worth it just to see Declan’s face when I knock on his door.
The Uber driver spends quite a lot of time lookingin his rearview mirror, and I check again that the sides of my coat are pulled carefully over one another, held by my belt. If he says anything, I’m going to punch him. The next time he looks back he gets a well-timed scowl, and decides to focus more on the road.
“Thanks,” I say sarcastically when he drops me off, giving him the finger instead of a tip. He got paid in fantasies anyway, but now I’m here, and there’s only one man that gets to unwrap me.
I stand in front of the keypad for his apartment block, my finger hovering over the call button for his apartment. Then on a whim, I punch insix, seven, eight, nineand the main door clicks open. I grin to myself. It’ll be much more effective to knock directly on his door.
The building’s quiet as I take the elevator up, for which I’m grateful. It’s one thing walking into Declan’s apartment dressed like this—undressedlike this. It’s quite another meeting a stranger on the way.
It’s the world’s slowest elevator. It has a mirror, cracked and dirty, and I can’t look at my reflection. It’s only now, this late, that doubts arrive. What am I thinking? This isn’t me at all.
But I shove them down. I’m here now. It’s either go through with it, or get an Uber back. And I don’t want another man’s eyes on me.
No, I’m committed. One minute, I’ll be in his apartment. Two minutes, I’ll be in his arms. Five minutes…
I’m already wet. The nakedness, the near-nudity, the anticipation on the ride over. Knowing what he’lldo when he sees me. It’s all adding to the excitement building within me, yet playing havoc with my nerves. This feelswrong.
What if he doesn’t want to see me? What if he’s not been around because he doesn’twantto be?
No, that’s fear talking. His text messages haven’t left any question that he’s interested. And I’m stronger than this. Normally, anyway. Why does sex rob me of my fire, my attitude, my confidence?
No more. I’m going to take what’s mine, starting with him. I stare right into the mirror, challenging myself. And my reflection stares back, giving me a determined nod.
When the doors finally slide open, Istrutdown the hallway, owning the moment. The doubts have gone, my excitement’s returned, and now it feelsright.
I count the doors carefully—wouldn’t want to get this one wrong—wondering how thick the walls are, and if his neighbors are ready for what they’re about to hear. But I don’t care. This is for me and him, two consenting adults, one pinning the other down and doing whatever the hell he likes.
Taking a breath, I raise a hand, and knock twice.
That’s when I hear the voice. It’s not his, it’s a woman’s.
He has awomanin his apartment.
I’m still standing there, stunned, shocked, and with my world crashing around my ears, when Declan Hale opens the door.
I stare at him, suddenly lightheaded, the blood literally draining from my face. She’s standing justpast him. Immediately, I notice the similarity to me. She’s slim like me, two inches shorter, a few years older. A lean and flat stomach hinted at beneath a strappy crop top, paired with blue jeans. While I’m here practically naked, ready to offer myself. She has dark hair, almost the same shade as mine.
“Blonds, or brunettes?”
“Brunettes, definitely. Darker is so much more fun, don’t you agree?”
It seems Declan has a type. Not blond, after all. I wonder if the woman in Thousand Oaks knows. How many women does he have?
Stupid question when he looks the way he does. Dozens.Hundreds.
It’s obvious that he lied to me. Two years four months? As if.
