Extraits

walked right to my desk, eyes on me, hand to his back pocket and he said, “Do me a favor, babe. I’m starved. Go out and get me a sandwich.”

I stared up at him as he pulled out his wallet, opened it, yanked out some bills and tossed them on the desk in front of me. He was shoving the wallet in his back pocket when my throat unclogged but that itch in my palm intensified.

He hadn’t said word one to me after barging into my place and pretending to be a decent guy. Four and a half days later, he strolls in and tells me to get him a sandwich?

“Pardon?” I whispered.

“A sandwich. Roast beef and swiss. Get me a bag a chips and a pop while you’re at it. Don’t care where you go.”

“Pardon?” I repeated and his eyes narrowed.

“A sandwich, Red. Roast beef and swiss, chips and a pop.” When I simply continued to stare at him and said not a word, he added, “Jesus, you want me to write it down?”

Turn on the TV,” he semi-repeated.

I stared at him then turned my head to look at my TV then I looked back at him.

“I don’t have TV.”

His brows knitted, his eyes went to the TV then came back to me.

Then he asked, “So what’s in the corner? A piece of modern art?”

I smiled at him because he was being kind of funny and answered, “No, I mean, I don’t have cable and I only get one channel, PBS, and it comes in fuzzy.”

He studied me then slowly asked, “You don’t have cable?”

“I don’t watch TV,” I told him.

“You don’t watch TV,” he repeated.

“No. I only use the TV to watch movies.”

“You don’t watch TV,” he said again.

“No, I don’t watch TV.”

“You drink tea, do yoga and don’t watch TV,” he stated.

“Yep,” I answered.

“Jesus,”

don’t eat pizza after yoga. Pizza defeats the purpose of yoga. I’m going to have a cup of rejuvenating green tea and, probably, a salad.”

Tack stared up at me. Then he asked, “Say again?”

“I’m going to have a cup of rejuvenating green tea and a salad and I’m going to do both when you’re done with your pizza and beer and you’re gone.”

“Green tea?”

“Rejuvenating green tea,” I corrected.

“Christ, that sounds shit.”

His eyes traveled the length of me and as they were doing this, he cut me off again. “Jesus, what the f*ck you got on?”

I looked down at my yoga clothes then back at him. “I just got back from yoga.”

His eyes took their time sliding back up my body before they locked on mine. “You finish that Employee Handbook, you make that,” he tipped his head to me, “the dress code.”

“I’m not wearing yoga clothes to work, Tack.”

Um… could you not sit on my desk?” I requested.

“No,” he replied.

“I asked nice,” I told him.

“Answer’s still no,” he told me.

Those are your notes?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he answered.

“I can’t read Sanskrit, Tack.”

“It ain’t written in Sanskrit, Red.”

“You have worse penmanship than a doctor,” I informed him.

“I can read it,” he informed me.

“Of course you can, you know what it says. To me, it’s a bunch of scratches and squiggles and since I don’t know anything about car and bike parts, I couldn’t guess very accurately. So you need to take some time and write out the changes…” I paused and concluded with emphasis, “Legibly.”

Yeah, and I changed my mind about your clothes and the donuts too. Bring whatever you want for the boys. Wear whatever you want. Especially those tight skirts that remind me how great your ass feels and those sex kitten shoes that make me want to feel their heels digging in my back.”

Ohmigod! Could he be more of a jerk?

“You can’t talk to me like that,” I informed him bitingly.

“I can’t?” he asked.

“No. It’s sexual harassment.”

Shit,” he muttered and twisted his torso to look back at me. “You bring in those donuts?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“Why not is not an answer to why, Red,” Tack returned, his whole body moving now to face me again.

“The guys like donuts,” I told him.

“So?”

You think, Red, right now, I put my hands and mouth on you in about two minutes you wouldn’t be pantin’ to be flat on your back, legs wide open in my bed?”

At his words, I forgot how scary he was and hissed, “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m right,” he fired back.

“Touch me, you bought yourself a lawsuit,” I retorted acidly.

“You are so full of shit,” he returned.

“Try me,” I invited hostilely though I didn’t want him to. Not that I thought he was right, but because he was a jerk. A huge jerk. And I’d just decided I’d rather be touched by any man currently residing on death row before I wanted Tack to touch me again.

Do you know my name?”

“What?” he asked back.

“My name,” I stated. “I told you my name Saturday night and I know I did so don’t tell me I didn’t.” And I did. I absolutely, totally told him my name. In fact, I’d done it at least three times when he kept calling me “Red”.

“You’re shittin’ me,” he said again.

“Stop saying I’m shitting you. I’m not. What’s my name?” I demanded to know.

“Babe, who cares? We don’t need names,” was his unbelievable answer.

“Ohmigod,” I whispered. “You’re a jerk.”

“Red –”

“Totally a jerk.” I kept whispering and he crossed his arms on his chest.

“Two choices, Red, give me your number, get your ass in your car, get outta here and wait for my call or just get your ass in your car and get outta here. You got five seconds.”

“I’m not getting in my car,” I told him. “I’m waiting for Eloise to come and show me the ropes then I’m going to work.”

“You are not gonna work here,” he returned.

“I am,” I shot back.

“No, you aren’t.”

“I am.”

“Babe, not gonna say it again, you aren’t.