Page 102 of Catfish

I'd say it was great to see him again, but it isn't. I've had my fill of the week with the opposite sex.

Wade Lockwood—he's the last one I'd want to see out of the bunch. I'd rather punch Grant in the balls and tell Chase to go fly a kite during a lightning storm with a metal rod at the end.

“You’re a busy woman, Miss Shelton.” It’s the confidence in his tone, the way his words coast from his lips that makes my body involuntarily buzz.

Instead, I shrug him and his words away. "Girl's gotta eat."

He takes a step closer to me, making me have to crane my neck a tad. Then there’s that damn cologne he’s wearing again, wrapping around me as if to keep me glued to his ongoing perusal of me.

"What are you doing here?" I blurt, brain cells burning by the second as I inhale his leather, citrus scent of man.

It's intoxicating and makes me want to climb his ass like a tree—like the aroused woman I am who needs to have sex and stop thinking about having basic sex with the man standing in front of me.

Because that would be stupid as all hell.

The man probably has missionary intercourse, kisses your forehead when done, and goes off to write another law on how to torture the citizens of Connecticut by raising taxes.

Not that I know what he stands for or is trying to do; I'm just an asshole that wants him to go bother someone else.

“Showing my face to society for about an hour before I can go home,” he consents. “I see you have whiskey at this party.”

“Only because it was requested by my client,” I reply. “Too bad you weren’t here ten minutes earlier, you wouldn’t have missed the strippers.”

His face remains blank. “And I would need strippers for…”

I wave a dismissive hand in the air. Almost forgot he doesn’t know what a joke is. “Nevermind.”

"That would've been awkward if they were for Senator White."

“Why?”

Wade still holds his poker face. “Because he’s gay.”

My eyes widen. “What?” I know I spoke with a woman who addressed herself as Mrs. White earlier.

“Unless they were male strippers,” Wade alludes. I slowly shake my head and peer out into the room where the party is proceeding.

I’m not sure what I’m looking for, it sure as hell won’t be a gaydar sign pointing Mr. White out.

“Not your job to know everyone,” Wade proceeds. “Only what people want for their events and such.”

"But you, on the other hand, do," I note, looking back at him. I'm not convicting him, I get why he would need to. His credibility is on the line, a career, whether it was shady or honest—I'm not sure—that he had to build up took time.

He’s relatable in that regard.

"I do," he deadpans. His blue eyes stay locked on me, but I can feel the heat it eludes trailing down my body. My black cocktail dress sticks to my skin, making me want to tug at it.

I can see how he got elected because, with his picture hanging up everywhere, I bet women didn’t have to think hard at the polls. Bet they didn’t know that he’s a droning robot without an inkling of personality other than anal asshole.

“It was nice seeing you again, Miss Shelton. Have a good night.” I give him a nod as he turns on his heels to walk the other way.

My fingertips go to one of my temples, massaging the last five minutes out of my head.

I can't help but notice I'm stressed. I've been trying to shove it away, but my body is reminding me that it's starting to reach its limit. It's beginning to pile up, and now my mind and body are starting to speak up, warning me to stop shelving it.

I need to give myself more credit. I’m busting my ass night and day. I barely eat when I know I need to, but the days go by so quickly. It’s not healthy, it’s not normal. Granted though, what in this world is? I knew what I was getting myself into.

"Miss Shelton." Glancing back up from the floor, Wade stands a few feet away in front of the doorway to the party.

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