Page 80 of Mayhem and Minnie

I’m sleep-deprived, annoyed, but too invested to stop. That would describe my current condition. And it’s all her fault.

Minnie.

That little heathen who thinks to control me with her attention—or lack thereof. That slip of a girl can hold a fucking mean grudge. In turn, that only calls to my obsessive side more, making me want to get to her, find out what goes on inside her head—what makes her tick.

And I will do that.

Once she decides to start talking to me again.

Fucking hell. I’m the most pathetic bastard in existence.

I groan aloud as I pull the glass toward me.

I’m a sad excuse for a man, much less for one who considers himself to be at least of above-average intelligence.

Nowadays, though? A dog might beat me on an IQ test. It’s that dire.

“Damn you,” I mutter as I bring the glass to my lips to take a sip. “Damn you, Minnie!”

The liquid barely touches my tongue when a man in his forties slides into the seat next to me. His hair is gelled and combed back in a slick style meant to make him appear younger—it fails. He’s wearing a dark navy two-piece suit that has seen better days, which is surprising considering the fact he’s wearing a genuine Rolex on his wrist.

“Women trouble?” he inquires in a lazy voice.

I put my glass down and narrow my eyes at him.

Did I allow him to talk to me?

Do I seem like I need his advice? He’d more likely benefit from someone pointing out that hair gel doesn’t replace old-school shampoo and clean hair.

I wrinkle my nose in distaste. I don’t suppose he’s that well acquainted with shampoo and soap, and the obnoxious perfume he’s wearing does little to mask that.

“I can relate, man.” The man releases a long sigh as he continues. With a hand gesture, he asks for a glass of the same I’m having. “Women are more trouble than they’re worth.”

Again, why is he talking to me?

Do I look fucking approachable? I doubt it. I spent years training my facial muscles to exemplify the male equivalent of a resting bitch face, which I have come to call resting brooding face—see, even the acronym is the same.

The concept is simple. One glare and people scramble from my vicinity.

Not this man, apparently.

“That’s why I always say, get them while you can.”

I raise a brow. I still have not made one sound of acknowledgment and this man goes on as if we’re long-lost friends.

Does he have a death wish?

“They think they’re too good for us. They send us signals and then they complain when we respond to them…”

I flatten my lips as I turn to stare at him.

“What are you talking about?”

“What’s the name of your girl?” he asks.

I glare at him.

Instead of scrambling away, he reaches inside his coat and takes out a business card, which he slides in front of me.

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