Arrogant Bastard - Julie Capulet Page 0,8

Let’s take our drinks back to the room.”

I don’t bother telling her that traveling in a private jet isn’t tiring at all. Neither is getting driven around by chauffeurs. Any mention of private jets and limos to the women I date—if you could call it dating—is basically like waving a T-bone in front of a starving dog. They get even more clingy. The visions of two point five kids and summer houses by the lake (which I own several of) start flitting across their expressions.

She reaches to hold my hand but I slide it away before she notices my dodge. Usually I’d take the easy lay, but something about the color of the sunlight on the water tonight changes my mind. It’s so … beautiful. I have a brief and very unfamiliar urge not to engage in dirty deeds done dirt cheap, for once in my life. Maybe it’s the holiday weekend that’s messing with my head, but for a second I wonder what it would feel like to actually want to spend time with the person you’re with, instead of only being interested in fucking just for the sake of it.

Hell.

Where did that train wreck of thought come from?

And where’s my damn drink?

I’m relieved when Crystal’s phone rings. “It’s my boss. Gage, do you mind if I take this?”

“Go right ahead.”

She gets up from the table and wanders out to the deck to take the call.

I look past her, to the dazzling colors of the sky. That sunset really is something. The vibrant hues are melting over the horizon, lighting up the expanse of mirror-calm water and painting everything with surreal shades of bronze and gold.

The waitress reappears, delivering my drink. Her smile is professional but the look in her eyes is hot and determined. It’s not hard to decipher what she wants. The same thing they all want. She has mousy brown hair that’s been dyed with tints of pink. She thinks of herself as a rebel, willing to cross lines, but her insecurities override these tendencies. In bed she’d be submissive and grateful.

She leans closer, her voice breathy. “I would really love to meet up with you later, Mr. McCabe. My shift ends in twenty minutes and my apartment isn’t far from here. I’m such a huge fan. That article said you were single,” she adds, glancing towards Crystal. “And that you’re a playboy. Is that true?”

I don’t bother confirming or denying. I know all about the effect I have on women and this one’s no different. They’re biologically hard-wired to throw themselves at the rich, hot, buff alpha male. Someone who’s virile and loaded, who can provide for them and make all their dreams come true. Some glitch in the natural order of things means they see all that in me. They can’t help themselves but to climb over each other to get close to me. Most days I revel in that shit. Tonight—fuck knows why—I’m not feeling it. I’m having some sort of weird, sunset-warped mood swing I can’t explain.

I tip back my drink.

The waitress scribbles a phone number onto a cocktail napkin and slides it towards me.

Just then Crystal reappears. I grab the damn thing and jam it into my pocket, more to get rid of it than for any other reason.

Crystal glares at me. Then she glares at the waitress, who’s standing just a little too close to me, gazing at me with that starving-dog eagerness.

“Is that her phone number?” Crystal seethes.

The waitress’s eyes gleam at Crystal competitively. “I wanted to ask him for some investment advice, that’s all.”

Crystal picks up her glass of wine and throws the contents of it in my face.

“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter.

“How could you, you asshole!” Crystal shrieks at full volume, so that everyone in the bar turns to look. A woman in a cheap polyester suit strides over like she’s on wheels. She’s wearing a badge that says Duty Manager. “Are we having a problem here?” To Crystal. Like she’s the one who’s been wronged. But then the woman’s gaze slides back to me. She’s got to be pushing forty and that suit is doing her no favors. I see the second it happens, when her outrage is overridden by interest, which devolves quickly into lust. Jesus. I hate to sound ungrateful here but sometimes being irresistible to women is a goddamn curse.

I stand up and sling my bag over my shoulder. “No problem at all. I was just leaving. Happy Thanksgiving, ladies.”

I throw a