Sigh.
I’d tell you all about it but, honestly, it’s kind of a long story. And I don’t think Officer McCuffMeAnytimeYouPlease was messing around when he saidmake it quickand stalked away to file a report without even bothering to give me a goodfrisking.
My brown eyes dart a glance down the dingy fluorescent-lit hallway and, to my great amusement, I find he’s watching me with disapproval behind the smeared plexiglass pane separating me from freedom. Judging by his expression, I have a feeling even my infamous puppy-dog look won’t get me out of this one — his brows are pulled together and there’s a muscle jumping in his cheek as his frosty stare sweeps from my strawberry blonde waist-length waves to the perfect shimmery pink polish coating each one of my fingernails. I can’t help but notice he seems personally offended by myoutfit.
Normally, a man giving me crap for my fashion choices would inspire several choice expletives; however, seeing as I’m currently dressed in a ridiculously skimpy French maid uniform that just barely covers my curves, complete with garters, enough cleavage to shock a priest, and a pair of patent black leather pumps that lend an extra four inches to my height… I suppose I can’t really blame him for judging me. Alittle.
Who the hell gets arrested looking likePlumette?
The officer’s lingering eyes take special note of the frilly white apron cinched tight around my waist, but it’s the thigh-high stockings that really seem to do him in. When he spots the sheer black lace, his eyes go from tepid pools of displeasure to pure, polar ice-caps that would freeze a lesser woman where shestood.
He probably thinks he’sintimidating.
Hell, heshouldbeintimidating.
Little does he know, intimidating ismytype.
You see I, Delilah Sinclair — better known as “Lila” to those who learned my name the normal way, rather than reading it off the thin plastic license in my favorite leather Kate Spade wallet as their partner smacked metal cuffs a bit too aggressively around my wrists and shoved me into the backseat of a squad car — have always found an undeniable thrill in chasing men who don’twantme.
The stiff-upper-lips.
The commitment-phobes.
Thebadboys.
The ones a smarter girl would take one look at, turn on her sensible shoes, and run from, full-tilt. Do not stop, do not pass go, do not rack up two hundred dollars in credit card debt at your favorite outlet store, even though they’re having a trulyincrediblesale.
The thing is, I don’t evenownsensible shoes. And if you see me running, well, you should probably start running too, because it means something scary is most likely chasing me. (That, or Marc Jacobs just released his newsummerline.)
I can’t apologizeforit.
Iwon’tapologizeforit.
These days, everyone is so afraid of being politically incorrect or posting something offensive online or accidentally saying something uncouth in casual conversation, most times it’s safer not to say anything at all. We edit ourselves within an inch of our lives, every day, every damnconversation, just to please people we’ll probably never see again. Hardly anyone says what they feel, or actually owns up to their honest-to-godopinions.
Not me,though.
My friends describe me asblunt, which I’m pretty positive is just their way of calling me an asshole in the nicest possible terms. They’re right, though. I say what I feel. I do what I say. I leap before I look and think about the consequences on the way down, just before I hit theground.
Splat.
I don’t believe in all these boring, bullshit standards of propriety in modern society that dictate everything from first date etiquette to thank you card procedures. Which probably explains why, when I see a man wholivesby the rules, who runs his life with unwavering restraint… Well, let’s just say, that oldopposites attractsaying became a cliché for areason.
I don’t do it to be cruel. I do it because it’s addictive. There’s something about a challenge that excites me. The more disinterested a man appears at first glance, the more I seem to want him. In my book,unattainableis the ultimate formofsexy.
Give me a tight-laced man with a stern-set mouth any day… I’ll drive him wild, just to prove I can. Tie his orderly little life right up in knots, until he’s so tangled up in me he can’t even recall what it was like before I melted his cool-blooded calm into an inferno ofchaos.
Before you say it — yes, I’m perfectly aware a therapist would have a field day with me. Whatever. He’d sit there for a two-hundred-dollar-an-hour session, trying to diagnose me; I’d sit there, refusing to take things seriously, probably trying to seduce him. Hell, if he was cute enough, there’s a significant chance I’d get him full-frontal on his leather recliner before my time was up, exploring alternate limits of the termdoctor-patientconfidentiality…
Sorry. What was Isaying?
Oh,right.
I generally make a point to pick men who are allergic to relationships. Theplayers— not only to beat them at their own game, but so I can teach them a few new rules of engagement along the way. And let me tell you… I’malwaystheMVP.
The only problem with this, of course, is when I inevitably attain the unattainable… catch the uncatchable… snag and shag the guy all the other girls couldn’t even get close enough to brush with the tips of their French-manicured fingers, until he’d bend over backwards just to makemehis…
Well, that thrill I waschasing?