him another chance? Maybe you two just got off on the wrong foot last night. He’s a little rough around the edges, true, but beneath the surface, he’s a sweet guy.”
“Really?”
“A marshmallow,” I assured her. “You just have to get past the hard shell.”
“He picked his teeth with a razor blade.”
“You can’t blame a guy for good hygiene. Come on, give it one more try. I promise you won’t regret it.”
“And if I do?” She sounded hesitant.
“I’ll reimburse your profile fee.”
“I didn’t pay a profile fee.”
Oh, yeah. “A free spa trip,” I blurted, thinking of my monthly spray tan appointment with Dirkst (next Wednesday, six p.m.). The man had the fastest gun in New York. He also had a twin brother. “Two full hours with the one and only Devin. He gives the most magnificent Swedish massage.”
“A massage?”
“Not just any massage. A Devin massage. You know what they say about a man with big hands?”
“That he has a big penis?”
That, too. Those thin white spa pants left little to the imagination.
I shook away the sudden image. “I’m talking about his grasp. Guys with big hands usually have strong fingers. They can go after those deep muscles like nobody’s business.”
“I have been under a lot of stress lately,” she said after a long silence. “A massage might be just the thing to take the edge off.”
I rotated my head and listened to the snap, crackle and pop of my own muscles. Maybe I needed a visit with Devin and his gonzo feelers myself.
“So you’ll give Vinnie another chance?” I persisted.
“Did I mention the hair on his shoulders?”
“I’ll throw in a pedicure.”
“One more date, but that’s it.”
“Monday night,” I told her. “I’ll call with the details.”
Twelve
A fter I hung up with Carmen, I headed up Lexington and quickly outlined a plan of action before I dialed casa di Balducci.
“Just tell me where and when,” he said when he picked up the phone on the second ring. “And I’m there.”
“Dead End Dating. One hour.”
I know, I know. I was definitely digging my own grave by not setting up the date for tonight, but if I wanted to make this work, I couldn’t send Vinnie back into play without softening him up a bit first.
A few minutes and another coffee spill later, I pushed through the front door of DED to find Evie sitting behind her desk.
While I didn’t require her to work on Saturdays, she usually stopped by in the afternoons to get organized for the upcoming Monday. That, and for the occasional client who couldn’t spare the time to stop by during the week.
“New client?” I set the paper cup on the corner of her desk. Shoving my hand deep into my bag, I retrieved a wet wipe to mop at my coffee-drizzled skin.
“Just lining up a few matches for Monday. Is that for me?” She snatched up the coffee before I could say “No, it’s for me. I didn’t know you would be here,” and downed half the scalding liquid in one swallow. “Man, I fucking needed that.”
Time. Out.
Since when did Evie go around using the f-word? Sure, I did it myself, but only in extreme circumstances—when I burned myself with the curling iron or someone cut in front of me at the Starbucks or when Killer took a dump inside my favorite suede boot.
But in normal, everyday conversation? Try never.
I eyed her and noted her pale complexion. “Is everything okay?”
“You bet.” She downed the other half of the coffee, wadded up the cup, and slam-dunked it into the nearest trash can before turning back to her computer.
The hair on the back of my neck prickled and something niggled at my gut.
I know, I know. She was a grown woman. If she wanted to say f-this and f-that, who was I to say anything about it? I terrorized poor, unsuspecting humans and drank their blood for Damien’s sake.
All right, so I bought the stuff already bottled from my favorite deli. The point was, I wasn’t one to be waving my finger at someone
“Really?”
“A marshmallow,” I assured her. “You just have to get past the hard shell.”
“He picked his teeth with a razor blade.”
“You can’t blame a guy for good hygiene. Come on, give it one more try. I promise you won’t regret it.”
“And if I do?” She sounded hesitant.
“I’ll reimburse your profile fee.”
“I didn’t pay a profile fee.”
Oh, yeah. “A free spa trip,” I blurted, thinking of my monthly spray tan appointment with Dirkst (next Wednesday, six p.m.). The man had the fastest gun in New York. He also had a twin brother. “Two full hours with the one and only Devin. He gives the most magnificent Swedish massage.”
“A massage?”
“Not just any massage. A Devin massage. You know what they say about a man with big hands?”
“That he has a big penis?”
That, too. Those thin white spa pants left little to the imagination.
I shook away the sudden image. “I’m talking about his grasp. Guys with big hands usually have strong fingers. They can go after those deep muscles like nobody’s business.”
“I have been under a lot of stress lately,” she said after a long silence. “A massage might be just the thing to take the edge off.”
I rotated my head and listened to the snap, crackle and pop of my own muscles. Maybe I needed a visit with Devin and his gonzo feelers myself.
“So you’ll give Vinnie another chance?” I persisted.
“Did I mention the hair on his shoulders?”
“I’ll throw in a pedicure.”
“One more date, but that’s it.”
“Monday night,” I told her. “I’ll call with the details.”
Twelve
A fter I hung up with Carmen, I headed up Lexington and quickly outlined a plan of action before I dialed casa di Balducci.
“Just tell me where and when,” he said when he picked up the phone on the second ring. “And I’m there.”
“Dead End Dating. One hour.”
I know, I know. I was definitely digging my own grave by not setting up the date for tonight, but if I wanted to make this work, I couldn’t send Vinnie back into play without softening him up a bit first.
A few minutes and another coffee spill later, I pushed through the front door of DED to find Evie sitting behind her desk.
While I didn’t require her to work on Saturdays, she usually stopped by in the afternoons to get organized for the upcoming Monday. That, and for the occasional client who couldn’t spare the time to stop by during the week.
“New client?” I set the paper cup on the corner of her desk. Shoving my hand deep into my bag, I retrieved a wet wipe to mop at my coffee-drizzled skin.
“Just lining up a few matches for Monday. Is that for me?” She snatched up the coffee before I could say “No, it’s for me. I didn’t know you would be here,” and downed half the scalding liquid in one swallow. “Man, I fucking needed that.”
Time. Out.
Since when did Evie go around using the f-word? Sure, I did it myself, but only in extreme circumstances—when I burned myself with the curling iron or someone cut in front of me at the Starbucks or when Killer took a dump inside my favorite suede boot.
But in normal, everyday conversation? Try never.
I eyed her and noted her pale complexion. “Is everything okay?”
“You bet.” She downed the other half of the coffee, wadded up the cup, and slam-dunked it into the nearest trash can before turning back to her computer.
The hair on the back of my neck prickled and something niggled at my gut.
I know, I know. She was a grown woman. If she wanted to say f-this and f-that, who was I to say anything about it? I terrorized poor, unsuspecting humans and drank their blood for Damien’s sake.
All right, so I bought the stuff already bottled from my favorite deli. The point was, I wasn’t one to be waving my finger at someone
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