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“What happened last night was that we had dinner in front of Buckingham Fountain. Wolfgang Puck is really nice in person. Rob Meagher likes to look at my tits. And then I went home with Dillon and Emmet and fucked the hell out of both of them.”
I hear her sputter on the other end of the line, but it is getting hard to care. I really, really want to shower. I feel myself being a little bit stickier than I normally would like.
“USA Today was stupid selection,” I continue. I’m on a roll now. “HuffPo was a good one, even though Melody has a stink of desperation on her. The way I figure it, you've got two more chances before the merger. You should get the New York Times since they’re actually interested in Riordan Publishing, and I've already spoken to Perez Hilton. That'll be all it takes.”
“Don't you presume to tell me —”
“No,” I interrupt her. “Don't you presume to tell me. I might be your pawn, Hannah, but I'm not your bitch.”
I hear her voice again, but it's too late. I'm already putting the phone on the counter, swiping left to disconnect the call. I feel crests of irritation coming at me like ocean waves, but now I’m on a mission. I'm about to take a shower and wash those all away, and spend the rest of the day feeling pretty damn good.
Chapter 34
Dillon
After I knock on the door three or four times it finally opens. Bella glares at me, then pokes her head outside, looking up and down the street furtively.
“Are you on the run? Looking for cops?”
“Just get inside!” she scowls, grabbing me by the arm and slamming the heavy wooden door behind me. The deadbolt turns with a heavy click.
Immediately she turns around and darts down the hallway. I’m not sure if she expects me to follow her or not, so I take a second to look around. It's the standard Chicago Greystone building: elegant entryway, stairs to the second floor on my left. Formal parlor on my right, with pocket doors and wide wood molding.
She's furnished it in a nice, simple mid-century modern style. There’s a vintage turquoise sofa and glass topped coffee table. A colorful abstract painting hangs over the fireplace and I cut across the room to look at it. It’s not signed, which makes me wonder if she did it. Maybe she has some artistic talent in their there too, in addition to her wordsmithing and her…
Hm. Well, let's just say she's very talented.
“I love your house!” I call out, polite as ever. People don't appreciate how fucking polite I am.
She reappears in a brightly framed doorway at the back of the house, where I presume there's a kitchen. The room between us is the dining room, with a spotless oval table and a beautiful Bohemian crystal chandelier.
“I mean, I love Chicago architecture. Classic.”
Her eyebrows arch. “Did you come here for an architectural tour?”
“You bet I did,” I parry. “Let’s start in the bedroom.”
She comes into the parlor, carrying two mugs and hands me one. I sniff at it. It's some kind of tea.
“Well, have a seat, I guess,” she mumbles, pulling herself onto a leather armchair and tucking her slender heels underneath her. Her knees are dimpled and firm, just teasing me with that dark void between them.
“Are those your pajamas?” I smirk as I take my place on the wide sofa that could easily accommodate both of us. Lying down.
She shrugs one shoulder. “It's my writing uniform. I didn't realize anybody would be coming over to judge me.”
“I'm not judging you. Just curious. You’re a curious creature,” I answer, sipping carefully at the tea. It's good. Yerba mate, if I'm not mistaken.
“Then why did you come over? Without texting or calling or sending me an email or sky writer or anything?”
“Gee… I would've thought that since our steamy bits have been all up inside each other I didn't have to write you a telegram in order to see your pretty face anymore,” I quip.
“Well, you do.”
I look her over. She's tense. I suppose she means it. But I’m disappointed, and I let it show.
“Well, okay. I will.”
“Good.”
