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I’m just surprised she hasn’t tried to dive tackle me or something. Then again, violence is only really her thing if it’s in the bedroom.
What the fuck was I thinking coming here?
“Dane!” she yells behind me, and I turn around.
She’s sitting on the ledge of the building, her legs spread. She doesn’t have to move her skirt for it to be apparent that she’s not wearing any underwear.
“Your brain can tell you whatever it wants to, but you know your dick is going to miss me,” she says, playing with herself—I don’t know how else to describe it—aggressively.
The present moment is easily on my list of top five ridiculous things I’ve ever witnessed with my own two eyes. Even for that short a list, this is remarkably near the top.
“Get off the ledge,” I tell her as calmly as I can, witnessing someone actually going crazy before my very eyes. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”
“What? Do you think I’m going to jump?” she screams at me as I open the door to the roof.
I really want to kick the cinderblock she used to prop the door open, but I resist the urge.
“I have too much to fucking live for!” she screams.
It’s not until I hear the clatter of Wrigley’s stilettos on the hard ground of the roof that my resistance fails, and as soon as I’m completely inside the door, I knock the cinderblock over.
A second later, she’s pounding on the door, and I’m actually starting to feel sorry for her. It had been a terrifying, if somewhat silly, spectacle, but I haven’t exactly been treating her very well.
On the other hand, I’m pretty sure that if I were to open the door now, she’d come through with balled fists, and I have no illusion about which one of us would win a physical confrontation.
When it comes to betting on a fight, always, always, always put your money on the one who’s not going to pull any punches.
I may be a dick, but I’d never raise my hand to a woman. I’m a dick, not a coward.
That said, I’m also certain that Wrigley doesn’t have a no-assault rule, so to ease my conscience and keep my eyeballs and spleen from ending up in Wrigley’s shadow box, I find the burly maintenance guy and tell him, “I think someone’s stuck on the roof. I’ve been hearing all this pounding and scratching up there. You should probably check it out.”
The man knows me. He’s caught Wrigley and I having sex enough times in enough places around the building to know exactly who I am, exactly who’s on the roof, and exactly how I know.
“I might give it a minute to let her cool down,” he says.
Fortunately, he also seems to understand exactly why I’m not willing to go up there and let her in, myself.
This isn’t a shining moment for me.
All things considered, it really couldn’t have gone much worse.
I’ve added to the torment I’ve already levied on this woman, and no, it doesn’t matter if she was crazy when I got here, that doesn’t mean it’s magically okay for me to toy with her.
I feel bad about it, but I can’t deny my feelings either.
This is the first time in my life that I can actually say that I’m in love with someone and have no ulterior motive in mind. It’s not Wrigley.
If I’d ever told Wrigley that I loved her, she probably would have put a foot in my crotch.
Still, as I hear the woman screaming expletives as I step out onto the street, I can’t help but feel that I might have gone about this in a much healthier way.
Not much I can do about it now.
* * *
When I get back to the apartment, Leila’s already home. That’s the good news. The bad news is that that asshole who was trying to suck the lips off her face is sitting on the couch.
“Hey, you,” Leila says as I close the door behind me. “How’d it go?”
