“Who?” Alexandra inquires.
Drew gestures with his wineglass. “Curly haired brunette, in the blue dress near the bar.”
Lexi’s head bobs until she spots the lady in question. “That’s . . . Alyson Bradford.”
Drew shrugs. “She’ll always be Squeaky to me.”
“Why do you call her Squeaky?”
Mentally I shake my head. Because Alexandra should’ve known better.
“She squeaks when she comes.”
“What?”
Casually, Drew explains, “Like a dog’s chew toy.” He holds up his hand, opening and closing it. “Squeak, squeak, squeak, squeeeeeak. At least she did when we were seventeen, but I don’t think that’s a condition she’d outgrow.”
“How do you know that?” Alexandra asks, expectedly grossed out. “When did you have sex with Alyson Bradford?”
Drew looks to the ceiling, recalling the event. “Um . . . junior year. It was in the dark days following our loss to St. Bartholomew’s in the playoffs. I wouldn’t say she was my rock bottom, but she was close.”
Lexi turns away. “Eck . . . forget it, I don’t want to know.”
If it’s one thing The Bitch can’t stomach, it’s detailed stories of her brother’s sex-capades.
Which is precisely why Drew says, “She also does this nasty thing with her tongue . . .”
Alexandra clasps her eyes shut. “All right! You know what? Fine—if you want to go that badly, then go. If you want to leave me in my hour of need . . .”
She never should have given him an out.
Drew smiles brightly, puts his glass on the tray of a passing waiter, and kisses her cheek. “You’re the best sister ever. Bye.” Then he asks me, “Are you coming or what?”
I’ve never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth, or in this case, an escape route. “Super party, Lex. See ya.” Then I follow Drew to the door. And if you look to the far side of the ballroom, you’ll see Rosaline—following me with her eyes.
Chapter 6
After leaving the fund-raiser, Drew and I head out to a bar. He ends up going home with a leggy, black-haired lawyer looking for some sexual healing to ease the pain of a courtroom defeat. I nurse a beer and spot a few prospects, but none that motivate me to make an effort. On the walk home, I’m tempted to break the Three-Day Rule and call Delores.
What’s that? You don’t know what the Three-Day Rule is? Listen and learn. Three days is the perfect amount of time to wait before calling a woman after you’ve seen her. I don’t care what category she’s in. Whether you’ve banged her or not, you don’t dial her number until the third day. It’s not about head games or having the upper hand—it’s about keeping her interest. Getting her to think about you. Day one, she’s probably reminiscing about the last time she saw you. Day two she’s hoping you’re going to call and wondering if you had as good a time as she did. On day three—the magic day—she’s just about given up hope that her phone is going to ring. She’s questioning what went wrong, did she misread your signals, then—bam—your call swoops in and makes her day.
I’ve thought about Dee at random times throughout the day—always with a smile. Her straightforward, wise-ass humor, the way she danced . . . her nipple piercing. But, my phone stays securely in my pocket—because the three-day statute should never be broken.
Saturday night rolls around and it’s business as usual. I meet up with Jack and Drew at the opening of the newest hot spot. It’s a large club, a renovated warehouse in the heart of the meatpacking district. It’s crowded—wall-to-wall bodies with barely any elbow room and a line around the corner. We’re sharing a booth with five gorgeous Dutch cruise ship passengers. Amsterdam is wild—it’s the modern-day Sodom and Gomorrah. Women from Amsterdam who’ve been at sea for three weeks could be hard to keep up with—even for us.
I squeeze my way through the throng of people to the bar. I lean forward and try to catch the bartender’s eye. A minute later, I’m shoved deliberately from behind. I glance over my shoulder and see a short, Snooki-sized redhead with heavy lids, swaying in her high-heeled brown boots. She points her finger at me and slurs loudly, “I know you. You’re the guy I slept with two weeks ago, the one with the motorcycle.”
I thought she looked familiar. And her name is trendy, androgynous—Ricki or Remy . . .
Her equally petite but clearly more sober friend puts an arm around her. “Come on, Riley, forget him.”
Riley. So close.
Riley pouts sloppily. “You never called. Prick.”
I’m just gonna put this out there: I’m all for equal opportunity hookups. A woman shouldn’t be thought any less of because she wants to get her freak on as frequently as a guy—no name-calling, no slut-shaming. On the other hand, girls need to stop playing the victim card. If I tell you I’m interested in one night only—why am I suddenly an ass**le when that’s all it turns out to be? Listen to what a guy says. Don’t assume that there’s some hidden meaning behind his actions. Real life is not chick-lit or a romantic comedy; you shouldn’t expect it to be.
Still, it leaves a bad taste in my mouth when a girl feels used. “Don’t be like that, babe. We had a good time—neither one of us wanted more. I never said I was going to call.”
My words fall on deaf ears. Riley’s eyes look to my right and she warns, “Watch out for this one, sister—he’s a player.”