Yep. Totally an idiot.
My cell chirped on my desk, I picked it up, saw a text from Lanie, flipped it open and read it even though I knew what it was going to say.
Did you give notice yet?
This was the same text she sent six times a day, every day, since Tuesday when I realized that I’d been an idiot with Tack (again) and I’d shared this knowledge with her. She went from thinking he was a jerk to actively hating him. This was not surprising. This was what best friends did. Before Elliott, I’d done the same thing with numerous boyfriends of Lanie’s.
No, I texted back.
Five seconds later, I received, I’ll pay for your yoga classes until you get a new job.
Yesterday, she started an incentive strategy. We were up to once a month facials at her favorite salon, weekly invitations to Takeaway Thursday at her and Elliott’s place and now yoga classes.
I’ve applied three places. Give it time. I sent back.
Is he there today? She returned.
He was. He was currently in the garage working on that kickass red car I noticed no one touched but him. He was also currently avoiding me or forgetting I existed. It was nearly two in the afternoon. I’d heard him roar in at nine forty-five (I’d heard it and like the idiot I was, whenever I heard any bike roar in for the past four and half days, I’d looked), he’d sauntered into the garage and I hadn’t seen him since.
Yes, he’s here. I told Lanie.
I’m emailing you your letter of resignation now. You just have to print it, sign it and give it to him. Easy. Lanie replied.
She’d written my letter of resignation. Totally Lanie. I smiled at the phone. Then the door to the garage opened, I looked up and Tack stood there.
Damn.
I felt my smile fade and my throat clog at the same time my palm itched to find something to throw at him.
He 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?”
My stare turned into a glare and I snapped, “No, handsome, you wrote it down, I wouldn’t be able to read it and I’m not getting you a sandwich. I have things to do. If you’re hungry, jump on your bike and go get your own damned sandwich.”
Then I turned to the computer and opened up my e-mail in order to find Lanie’s resignation letter because I was done with Ride Custom Cars and Bikes but mostly because I was done with Tack, the big, fat jerk.
“Say again?” I heard Tack growl.
“You heard me,” I bit out and clicked on Lanie’s e-mail.
“Babe, look at me.”
“Kiss my ass,” I replied, double clicking on Lanie’s attachment and ignoring the sparking, scary biker dude vibe that was suddenly saturating the room.
“Red, look… at… me.”
I looked at him, or, more accurately, glared at him.