The battle of devastatio.., p.4
Dirty Savage Player (House of Cards Book 2), page 4
“I am, actually,” I say sarcastically. “How do you spell narcissistic again?”
Ryan reaches for Waffle, trying to pet her. She hisses at him and darts away in a tiny black blur.
“That cat hates men,” Ryan grumbles.
“Not all of them. Waffle is just good at distinguishing between nice guys and heartless heathens.”
“Nice guys are overrated. She’ll learn that eventually,” Ryan says as he plops down on the couch next to me.
“She’s just asserting her boundaries,” I add pointedly, glaring at the millimeters of space between us I would like to widen.
Oblivious, he grabs my coffee from the table and takes a sip. “Well, my boundaries don’t involve claws.” He makes a face at the taste of my coffee and sets it down. “Or being judged by a puny menace every time I walk into the living room.”
“Same,” I say brightly. “And yet you are.”
He smirks, and because he has no respect for personal space, he leans over to peer at my screen. The warm, musky scent of his cologne mingles with the scent from my morning coffee.
Fuck, I hate that Ryan smells good. Men who are rotten on the inside should smell like it, as a warning to women everywhere.
I reach up to shut my laptop, but Ryan’s too quick. He snatches it out of my hands and reads off the screen.
“Hey, that’s mine!” I grab his arm, trying to yank my computer back. His bare skin feels too hot as my arm grazes against it.
He transfers the laptop to his other hand, forcing me to practically dive across his lap for it. My fingers barely graze the metal before Ryan grabs my shirt, pulling me down so my face is shoved against the sofa and my body is draped over his legs like I’m a bad girl he’s about to spank.
“What the fuck, Ryan!” I squeal into the fabric. “Let me go!”
“What the fuck indeed. The 12 dates of Christmas? What is this, the Hallmark movie from hell?”
He lets go of my shirt and I roll off his lap, landing unceremoniously on my butt. I only miss hitting my head on the coffee table by pure chance. With the tiny amount of dignity I’m able to muster, I climb back to my feet.
“It’s for work. An article I’m writing,” I explain primly.
Ryan frowns, a furrow forming between his thick brows. “Wait, what do you mean? You’re not really going to date twelve guys, are you?”
“Yes. Yes, I am.” I take advantage of his distraction to pluck my laptop out of his hand. “Otherwise, it would be the 12 platonic hang-outs of Christmas.”
His frown deepens. There are lines around his mouth that I’ve never seen before. “That’s insane. Where are you even going to find guys who’d agree to do this?”
Ouch. Of course, Ryan can find a new girl to bring home every night, but he doesn’t think I can find a guy to go on a single date with me.
For some stupid reason, my eyes sting, warning me that tears are en route. What the hell? Ryan hasn’t been able to make me cry since I was fourteen, and those were very unique circumstances. After that, I swore he’d never make a fool of me again, and I’ve been avoiding him ever since. I painstakingly figured out a specific routine to stop any tears in their tracks.
First, I wiggle my toes to ground myself. Then I clench my fists and dig my nails hard into my palms, telling myself that I’m the only one who gets to hurt me. I haven’t actually had to do this routine in years, since I usually manage to get away with seeing Ryan twice a year—at Christmas and on Mom’s birthday. When I wiggle my toes, it feels weird and awkward.
“I’ll have you know, my first date is tomorrow night,” I lie, convincingly I think. “Hot cocoa tasting down at Terrace.”
Ryan runs his fingers through his hair. “New rule, then. You can’t bring any of these dates back to the apartment.”
My mouth falls open. “What? Why? You have women over here all the time. It’s not fair!”
“It’s my apartment. I get to decide who I let in here.”
“But we agreed, we each get four rules. You can’t just—”
“I can, actually.” Ryan’s frown is gone, replaced by a wide smirk. He puts his hands behind his head, stretching out his arms to make his triceps bulge. “I’m the only one who can invite people into the apartment I own.”
“Let’s see what the referee has to say about this.” I yank my phone out of my pocket, ready to call Cat when Ryan chuckles.
“Cat can say whatever she wants. She’ll be overruled by actual tenant laws. My house, my rules.”
“Why do you even care?” I spit. “It’s not like I would even let my dates talk to you.”
Ryan props his feet up on the coffee table, taking up more space, reminding me that this is his place—for better or for worse. “You can kiss whatever freak agreed to go out with you goodbye in the lobby.”
Then, just to piss me off even more, he grabs my coffee mug and drinks it.
Asshole.
“Now, I better not hear about you bringing anyone home tonight,” he says smugly. “I’m off to a poker tournament in San Diego, so I won’t be back to chaperone you till late tomorrow.”
“Can’t freaking wait,” I spit. “Have fun. Stay forever.”
I stomp back to my bedroom, leaving Ryan gloating on the couch.
Waffle has made herself at home on the bed, cleaning her paws far away from Ryan. Smart girl. I lie down next to her and open Keepr. Before this, I’ve always met guys in person, at parties or at bars. Unfortunately, I’m in a time crunch, which means I’ll have to turn to the apps for efficiency's sake. It’s the only way I’ll find twelve guys to hit my quota
Except there are only eight messages in my inbox. That can’t be right. Aren’t I supposed to get like a hundred matches right away? That’s what all my friends have said.
I click back to the bio I wrote last night to review it. My top pic is a black-and-white photo of me holding a cup of coffee. My one-sentence summary is cute, but professional. All my answers to the prompts show off my quirky sense of humor or reveal something about me.
My heart sinks as I’m struck with a horrifying realization. What if Ryan’s right? What if I can’t find a single guy to go out with me?
I shake my head quickly. No, I refuse to believe that Ryan is right about anything. Millions of people live in Toronto. At least twelve of them must want to go out with me.
I just hope I don’t have to lower my standards.
4
PIPPA
“Ialready ordered for you.”
Any hope I had for this date going well dies painfully the second Jesse utters that sentence. Presumption is one of my number-one pet peeves.
My smile tightens. “You did? What did you order?”
Jesse grins. “Etherium had a legit killer day, so we have to drink some champers to celebrate, bro.”
“Oh.” Now I can’t even pretend to smile. I hate champagne. I know, I know—champagne is like chocolate and puppies, and everyone is supposed to love it. Not me. It’s too acidic and has way too many bubbles. I occasionally drink it for Cat’s sake, since it’s her absolute favorite, but I would never order it for myself.
Not to mention, we were supposed to be drinking hot chocolate. It’s the only Christmasy thing about this whole date. Otherwise, it’s just a normal dinner at Terrace Steakhouse. The restaurant downstairs from our apartment is nice and all—in fact, there are couples sitting all around us on dates that seem to be going much better—but it’s no different than any other time I came here with Cat and Nate.
Jesse doesn’t seem to notice my disappointment. He’s far too busy scrolling his phone.
“Yo, hold up,” he says. “BTC just jumped, so I have to unload some shit. BTC is Bitcoin, by the way.”
Oh, god. This date is going from bad to worse, and fast.
I guess I can’t be that surprised. Jesse is definitely not my type, with his chinos and tech bro fleece zip-up. The app said his favorite book was Freakonomics, for fuck’s sake. He has about as much imagination as a physics textbook.
What Jesse does have going for him is being the best of my eight matches. Sure, he looks like the preppy villain in an 80s movie, but at least he didn’t proudly show off a wall full of hunting knives in his profile. A douchebag, I can handle. I don’t have the cardio to fight off a serial killer.
Our server approaches with a champagne bucket. He sets it next to the table, pulls out the bottle, and uncorks it for us. Even though I definitely don’t want it, I still smile politely when he pours me a glass. “Thank you.”
Jesse doesn’t bother thanking the server. He does lean over when the guy walks away though to whisper, “That’s grim. Stuck working this shitty job cause he won’t go in on the market. Way to fumble the bag. But whatever. Somebody’s got to flip the burgers, right?”
Jesus Christ. I’m really starting to regret turning down the hunting knives dude. I pull out my own phone and type up a message to Cat under the table.
Pippa
SOS. I’m on a date at Terrace with an evil techbro. Come downstairs and save me.
Before I can even press send, another text pops up.
Ryan
Dickface McCrypto is staring at your tits.
Wait, how does Ryan know I’m out with a tech bro? I whip my head around, scanning the restaurant for his messy dark hair. Unless he’s developed some serious psychic powers, he must be watching me from somewhere.
I practically fall out of my seat when I spot him barely six feet away from me. His lean frame leans against the bar, his brown eyes sparkling as he watches me. For a second, my heart hammers in my chest. I’m suddenly aware how the cool air feels against the upper swell of my breasts, exposed by the low sweetheart neckline of my black shirt.
How long has he been watching me?
My eyes shift back to Jesse, who is, yes, looking right at my tits. I put my hands on my neck, blocking the view with my forearms.
“So, uh, you’re in finance?” I ask. Not that I’m exactly excited to hear about Jesse’s job, but I need to distract myself from my stalker stepbrother.
“Crypto trading,” Jesse says. “You ever think about getting in the game?”
“Uh, I have a 401k at work.”
“Legit.” Jesse nods. “When you decide to upgrade, I’ll tell you exactly where to put your coin.”
“Uh, thanks. And I work as a writer at Belladonna Magazine.”
Of course, his eyes glaze over the second I start talking about myself. “Uh-huh,” he mumbles. “Yeah, one second.”
He turns back to his phone, which has been sitting face-up on the table since he got here. He’s not even pretending to pay attention to me. I guess I’m one to talk, because my own phone lights up with a text from Ryan.
Ryan
Your date is riveting. Get him to tell you more about his coin.
Pippa
Aren’t you supposed to be in San Diego right now? Great city. Far, far away.
Ryan
Tournament was last night. I won, obviously. Slept in late and came back just in time to watch this natural disaster.
Sorry, autocorrect. By “natural disaster” I meant “date.”
Pippa
Stop staring at us, stalker.
Ryan
But I can’t turn away. This is a trainwreck.
“Just checking on my portfolio,” Jesse says, his eyes glued to his phone. “We got some movement in the Asian markets. Nothing I can’t handle. My coin wallet is legit. I didn’t want to put that in my profile, because it attracts the wrong kind of women.”
“Oh, I don’t believe women would be attracted to your money,” I say through gritted teeth. I doubt women are attracted to anything about this man.
“Don’t be stupid. Everyone’s attracted to money.” Jesse grabs the champagne bottle out of the ice and refills his glass. He apparently hasn’t noticed that I haven’t even touched mine.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Ryan gesticulating wildly. He’s pointing at my phone, mouthing for me to check it. Jesse doesn’t notice, because, of course, he’s back to checking Bitcoin prices.
Ryan
Need some help getting away from Dickface?
Pippa
I’m handling it.
Ryan
And I’m going to hurl if he says legit one more time.
Jesse finishes his second glass of champagne and pulls out the bottle to refill it again. Without even looking at me he says, “This champers is legit. You want a refill?”
My eyes go straight to Ryan, who makes a gagging motion at the bar. I can’t help it—a laugh bubbles up in my throat. I have to slap my hand over my mouth to stop it from coming out. I make an unladylike grunting noise that quickly evolves into a low chortle.
Jesse’s eyes narrow. “Bro, are you laughing at me?”
I try to think of something very serious so I won’t giggle. Famine. Earthquakes. Global warming.
Ryan rolls his eyes back in his head and slumps in his barstool like he’s dead. Now, I can’t hold back the laugh. It bursts out of me like lava from a volcano.
“You’re making fun of me.” Jesse scowls at me. “What’s your problem, huh?”
“The problem is all yours, my friend.” Ryan slaps his hand on Jesse’s shoulder. Apparently, he’s decided to come over to save me, whether I asked for it or not. “Maybe if you spent a little less time riding crypto waves and a little more time listening to women, you wouldn’t be so shitty at it.”
“Is this your fucking boyfriend?” Jesse demands, slamming his hand on the table.
I shake my head. “No, he’s my stepbrother.”
“Welcome to the family, bro,” Ryan says, grinning. “Can I call you bro, or do you prefer Broseph?”
Jesse throws his cloth napkin on the floor and pushes out of his seat. “You know what? Fuck this. You just lost out on your meal ticket, lady. Champers is on you.”
He stomps away, and I can hear him muttering under his breath, “Legit unbelievable.”
Ryan's eyes meet mine, and we both start laughing so hard, my stomach hurts.
“You shouldn’t have interrupted,” I say as soon as I can catch my breath.
“Couldn’t help myself. That’s the most entertainment I’ve had in weeks. Hey!” Ryan calls back to the bartender. “Put their shit on my tab.”
I reach for my purse. “Oh, you don’t have to do that.”
Ryan ignores me and slides into Jesse’s seat. “That was crazy. Is Bro-Magnon over there really the best you can do?”
My chest gets tight, and heat rises in my cheeks. Because the humiliating answer is yes, I wasn’t able to find anyone better than Jesse. My whole journey into the apps was a flop.
“He didn’t seem so bad online,” I grumble.
Ryan presses his thumb against the tiny dimple in his chin, the way he does when he’s really amused. “You’re kidding. Bro wore loafers with white gym socks to a date. He screams so bad. It’s oozing out of his pores. Either you have the world’s worst taste in men, or you didn’t vet this dude at all.”
“I vetted him enough to make sure he wasn’t a serial killer.”
“Wow. The bar is on the floor, Pips. It’s sinking down into the basement.”
I throw up my hands. “Fine. He wasn’t my first choice. I kind of knew he was going to be a douche, but I’m on a deadline for this article. I had to go out with somebody, and since I didn’t get as many matches as I thought I would, I picked the best of the worst.”
Ryan raises his brows. “I refuse to believe that Dickface McCrypto was top of the pile. What, was it just him versus a hundred aspiring Soundcloud rappers?”
“More like him versus seven Gollums asking for nudes.” I shudder.
“What do you mean, seven?”
My whole body tenses. Fuck. I didn’t mean to admit out loud how few guys swiped right on me. I basically handed Ryan all the ammunition he could ask for to drag me down.
“Seriously, Pips. Tell me you didn’t get seven matches.”
My face heats, and I stare at the table, refusing to meet his eyes. “Eight. I got eight, counting Bitprick.”
“That has to be wrong. You should’ve gotten way more.”
My eyes snap up so hard, I’m lucky they didn’t pop out. “Wait, did you really just say something nice to me? You didn’t even do that when I broke my arm sophomore year.”
Ryan rolls his eyes. “I’m just saying, men are horny bastards. We’ll strip down for almost any woman who’s willing to give us a second glance. You might not be Miss Universe, but you’re not a troll. You should have gotten dozens of messages.”
I shrug. “Maybe the algorithm isn’t working right?”
“Nu-uh. These apps are designed to get you hooked. If you just signed up for the first time, it should be flooding you with matches to try and get you addicted to the attention. It’s has to be your profile. Show me.”
“Over my dead body.”
He raises a brow. “That would be a bonus.”
“I’m not showing you my profile. Your opinions are about as valuable as a clump of dirt.”
“Au contraire, stepsis. If I’m an expert about one thing, it’s poker, followed very closely by how to hook up with people. Some people would beg for my advice on their profiles.”
“Some people are morons.”
“Come on, you know I’m right. You have to find eleven more guys to date for this article, yeah? Well, they’re all going to suck as much as Ballface the Brogrammer if you don’t get someone in to do damage control.”
I let out a long breath. Loathe as I am to admit it, he’s right. My profile isn’t working, and I have eleven miserable nights ahead if I can’t turn this around.
