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Trouble. That’s what Lola Turner is. It’s written all over her.
“Then you should fuck her,” I say, picking up a pink cupcake out of the box on the table, trying to avoid her eyes. I want this conversation to end as soon as humanly possible.
The cupcake looks like Lola in food form. Sweet and pink and definitely holding the potential to rot your fucking teeth out.
See? Trouble.
That’s all I see when I look at her.
She might be sweet smiles with a thick ass and confections everyone is raving about, but I see it in her eyes. There’s trouble in them. And I don’t want any reason to get caught up in it.
“Maybe I will,” Hattie says, snatching the cupcake out of my fingers.
Frustration and anger roll through me.
It’s because she stole your food. Definitely not because of the thought of Hattie fucking the hot baker next door.
“I don’t think you’re her type, Hat.” Now, why did I say that? Why do I care what type Lola is? Why do I assume even to know that information?
“Oh, do you know a lot about her type, Coleman?” Her smile grows, red lips thinning around white teeth.
“Fuck off.”
“Ohhh, testy. Why so testy?” Goddammit. I knew this would happen. I took the bait, and now I’m going down.
“She’s annoying,” I say.
I told Hattie about the first time we met, coming downstairs because I thought we were being robbed, and she knows about me meeting her in the hall last night, cookies in hand.
I conveniently left out that I might have been more of a douche than necessary.
“Last night she was standing in the hall in tiny pajamas holding cookies, waiting for me. I hope she’s not one of those desperate chicks, trying to get into my pants.”
“Would that be so bad?” Part of me can’t think of a single thing worse than fucking the hot—no, not hot,annoying—baker next door. Another part of me . . .
“You don’t shit where you live, Hat,” I say.
“I’m suggesting youeat where you live,”Hattie says, her devious smile growing even more.
I throw a crumpled-up napkin, hitting her square in the forehead. “You’re fucked up.”
“And you need to get laid.”
“I’m busy.”
“You’re grumpy.” Not this shit again.
“I’m always grumpy, according to you.”
“Yeah, but you’re grumpier when you’re not getting pussy regularly.”
“Aren’t you all feminist, Hattie? Shouldn’t you be against my fucking women just to put me in a good mood?” She rolls her eyes.
“I’m Hattie-ist. If you banging the cute girl next door makes you less of a pain in my ass, I’ll take it. Also, I never said you just have to fuck and chuck her. You’re notthatmuch of a scumbag.”
“But I’m a scumbag?”
“I mean, if the shoe fits, babe.” She stares at me, but it’s not the same look as before. It’s her reading me, trying to decode me, to understand whatever she decides I’m not saying out loud. “Why don’t you like her?”
