“Thanks, Dash,” I said quietly. This time my voice was just as sweet as his had been earlier. It embarrassed me, and I imagined my face turning three different shades of red. “I would like that very much.” Understatement of the year.
“Quinton was right,” he breathed out.
“About what?” I asked, surprised by the sudden topic change.
“We’re all fucked when it comes to you,” he said as someone knocked loudly on the front door.
Chapter Fifteen
Dash had been right about his client who showed up. She made a big deal about only wanting to work with Quinton. Then, when Dash told her that under no circumstances would Quinton see her, she told him she wanted Damien. Personally, I didn’t get it, Damien didn’t seem like the friendliest choice either. And, why was he better than Dash?
She didn’t give any explanations as to why, she simply demanded. If she couldn’t have Quinton, then she wanted Damien. End of story for her.
And Dash gave into her demands. I wanted to tell her to get the hell out, but it wasn’t my house and she wasn’t my client or guest. She was Dash’s client and, with a firm frown in place, he left me alone with her to go phone Damien and see if he could come over immediately to take care of her. The immediately had been another one of her demands because her time was precious, and she didn’t need Dash wasting anymore of it.
After spending all of two minutes in her presence, I decided I hated her guts.
And, did I mention, Dash left me alone with her? Not his smartest move, but I couldn’t blame him for escaping her. I wished I could have escaped with him.
She pulled out a chair at the dining room table and sat down with a graceful flourish. She plopped her mammoth sized designer purse on the table in front of her.
I leaned against the wall by the entryway to the living room and I did it awkwardly. I was going to wring Dash’s neck for putting me in this position.
“So,” she said conversationally as she flipped her long strawberry blonde hair over her slender shoulders. “Who are you and why are you here? They don’t usually have guests when I come over.”
I didn’t like the way she’d said that. So I didn’t respond with an answer. Instead, I crossed my arms over my chest and laid my head back against the wall. If Dash wanted me to be nice to her he probably shouldn’t have left me alone with her.
“What, are you mute?” she huffed. “No wonder Quinton won’t come over here, what with you being here and all. Who could blame him?”
“I’m not mute,” I told her honestly. And then I kept right on going with the honesty. I tried to bite my tongue, but it didn’t seem to be working so well for me lately. “I’m not mute, I simply have no desire to hold down a conversation with someone who is, clearly, an asshole.”
She stared at me a moment, looking completely dumbstruck before giving an enraged shriek and pushing to her feet. The chair flew back, clattering to the floor in a heap.
I should have kept my mouth shut.
“What did you say to me?” She screeched.
I winced at the horrible, high voice that came out of her mouth. I seriously hoped I never sounded like that in my whole life.
“Answer me, you little bitch,” she screamed. Thankfully, this time her voice wasn’t as high as it had been before.
Pounding footsteps were coming from behind me. Dash was running to get here. He was going to strangle me. This wasn’t a very good way to convince him to like me, by enraging his client.
“I’m sorry,” I said in a rush, in an attempt to smooth things over before Dash got here.
“How dare you call me an asshole,” she seethed.
I shrugged. To hell with her. I had tried being nice and apologized. What more did she want from me?
“What the fuck is going on in here?” Quinton asked from the doorway.
He stood in the doorway, not a foot away from me. Dash stood next to him. Both stared at me in what looked like sick fascination.
“I think I’m ready to go home now,” I told them in a quiet, embarrassed voice.
“Oh, no you don’t,” the woman raged at me. Her small hands were clenched into tight fists at her sides. Her extremely vulgar cleavage heaved up and down with every enraged breath she took in. She looked about two seconds away from tackling me to the ground and trying to rip my hair out after she clawed up my face. “You owe me an apology, you little brat.”
The urge to flee, to run and hide from her and this situation was strong. When fight or flight hit the scene I had always chosen option number two and ran whenever I could. The person who took option number two and ran was no longer the person who I wanted to be. No more running like a scared little rabbit for me.