Page 7 of Bulletproof

“Do you?”

“Mr.—”

“Do you?” I could do this all day.

He took a breath, threw up his hands, and gestured for me to go ahead.

“Okay, so the coolest thing about driving is that if you make an ass of yourself at one light—stall out, roll too far into the intersection, miss the turn light until somebody honks at you, whatever—I mean, it doesn’t matter ’cause by the time you get to the next light, you’re with a whole new group of drivers who don’t know you from Adam. You’re new. You’re just another asshole in a car who’s drivin’ along, just like them. I love that. It’s like a do-over at each red light. I wish all of life were like that.”

He was just staring at me.

“Don’t you?” I waggled my eyebrows at him.

His eyes, which were really a lovely shade of sky blue, were fixed on mine.

“So, let’s have a do-over. I’m sorry for insulting your complete lack of interest in your own home, and you will forgive my blunt analysis of your colossal failure. How’s that sound?”

His mouth was open, but nothing came out.

I looked over at Michelle. “I tried.”

She was just staring at me.

Gina Bailey, the only other counselor in the group I was in, knew better than to let me talk to clients. Michelle, apparently, had not gotten the memo. And I had tried to make myself scarce. It wasn’t my fault that the man was following me around.

I had to try and fix it. “Lemme ask you a serious question,” I said, rounding on Hayes Fisher. “Do you or do you not want somebody special in your life?”

“What?”

“You say that word a lot,” I pointed out. “Maybe stop.”

“I––”

“Isn’t the point of all this for you to show off to everyone that you’re a catch?”

“The point of this is to⁠—”

“It’s to find someone to marry, yeah? I mean, instead of going out and dating and doing the hard work yourself, you’re going through us, through a service, and we’re gonna throw a huge party, where you’ll have a chance to show off your new digs and your money and where there will be several available women who are ready to settle down and become wives and mothers. Am I right?”

He was at a loss—that much was obvious.

“So, suck up your pride about me telling you that this place looks like crap—which it does, by the way—and let us do our jobs without the hassle of listening to you moan and groan about how the crack den here ain’t so bad.”

“I’m sorry?”

I let my voice drop low. “Oh, you should be.”

“Crack den?”

I shrugged. “It’s gross.”

“I—”

“Are we all gonna get along? Yes or no? ’Cause I don’t wanna send Wade out here if you’re gonna give him crap. He’s sensitive.”

“He’s sens⁠—”

“And a pompous ass, but that will work to your benefit because all he’ll want is what’s best for you.”