But he nods, his attention slowly returning to the waffles swimming in a sea of syrup. “I’d like to meet her.”
“Soon,” I promise. “It’s early days. I don’t want to scare her off.”
He flashes me the bird, but we’re back on terra firma. There has to be a way to fix this. Without, you know, actually settling down and paying a trip to the drive-through Elvis wedding chapel on the Strip. Sure, one of the club girls would be happy to pretend to be my steady girlfriend, but I don’t think that’s what my old man has in mind.
I’ll just have to improvise.
Harper’s face flashes through my head.
As I fix my own plate of waffles—my old man’s onto something there and he’s definitely getting a waffle-maker for Christmas—I wonder how an investment banker would feel about becoming a biker’s pretend girlfriend. I wonder, too, how long she’s spent thinking about my booty call offer. Which was 100 percent fucking genuine. I just need to close the deal. Make her see that I’m the perfect guy to scratch all her itches and give her a little under-the-table loving to help her get over the Douche and on with her life. I’m not boyfriend material, but I’m the Santa Claus of fucking orgasms.
You think she’s more likely to kick me in the balls?
Good thing I’ve always loved a challenge.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Harper
WORK IS CRAZY. I stay late each night, retreating back to my Bellagio room with a Subway sandwich or a bag of Mickey D’s. It’s not even tax season when people get super-concerned about their finances. Yeah, I know they’re just looking for a sweet investment to pull in money hand over fist and simultaneously score them some big-ass deduction with the IRS, but their fees keep me employed. And since I only get one chance to make my numbers and impress my bosses, I’m flat-out.
It’s not until Thursday night that I return to my old place. Not worrying about Bing is a challenge, but it’s not like Mark won’t feed him. Plus, even if Mark did forget, Bing would just make Mark’s life hell until my ex served up the Fancy Feast. It’s no worse than leaving Bing with the cat sitter for company, even if Bing sulks for a week after I’ve been gone.
Step one in my Break, Enter, Retrieve plan? Getting through the front door. I’ve banked on Mark’s pathological unwillingness to do any household task that he can outsource, and sure enough, he hasn’t gotten around to getting a locksmith in. My key still works. There’s also no sign of Mark as I open the front door. I breathe a sigh of relief and move on to the second step in the plan. Retrieve. Bing likes to hide under our bed, so I scoot up the stairs, cat carrier in hand.
I push the door to the master bedroom open slowly, not wanting to scare Bing. This is a well-executed plan step. The cat doesn’t startle.
Hell, no.
I’m the one who freezes in place, peering through the stupid, cracked door.
Turns out, Mark’s home after all.
He’s eagerly eating out some hussy while she swallows his dick. No. Check that. The woman contorting herself all over my ex is one of Mark’s coworkers. The one he used to text and call so often because she had a lousy home situation and lousier husband. They shared a couple of projects. Went out on a few work dinners. Do you hear that sound? It’s my rose-colored glasses splintering into a thousand pieces. Fuck me for not recognizing a lie when I heard it. That, or sixty-nine is the new prescription drug for lousy relationships.
The porno moans start up as they round into the home stretch. With each up-and-down, Mark’s new friend is practically nose to whiskers with Bing. Bing’s eighteen pounds of brown-and-white Siamese love, and he could probably smother that bitch if he sat on her face. Or go to town on Mark’s favorite body part. Maybe if I look away, these new-to-me bloodthirsty urges will subside.
Or not.
Mark’s replaced me already.
The logical part of my brain (the part not running the odds of a murder conviction if I kill them both now) suggests this might not be the first time Mark’s hooked up with his new girl. There’s certainly an unprecedented degree of familiarity happening in that bed. Mark’s dress pants are unbuckled and shoved down his thighs. Her panties are yanked to the side as if she’s so fucking amazing that Mark couldn’t wait to undress her. Or maybe he’s lazy. God knows, he’s never put this much effort into our bedroom time.
The happy twosome shifts and I retreat because I can’t handle a close-up of competitor beaver right now. It’s not that I want Mark back (especially now I’ve seen firsthand where he’s stuck his dick and his mouth), but I feel like the loser in a race I didn’t realize I was running. Before I abandon the field to the lucky winner, however, I whip out my phone and snap a couple of pictures. This is immature, but fuck it.
I keep it together as I park my car in the Bellagio’s parking garage. I don’t break down in the elevator up to my room, and I don’t cry the entire, endless length of the hallway. Mark sucks. He’s a stupid, cheating, lying bastard and I’m so much better off without him.
Screw him.
No, wait. He’s already got that well in hand. Or mouth.
Not only is the hussy’s beaver now burned into my brain, but I still don’t have my cat. I miss Bing, but what if he decides to cozy up to the new body in the bed? What if my cat falls in love with her, too?
I strip down to my panties and shimmy into my Kate Spade sleepshirt. Yes, I’m a big believer in brand loyalty. The shirt is black and has cute little white cuffs that make it the comfortable version of one of the
