Page 61 of By A Thread
“She does when I get them fired from their jobs at pizza places in the Village.”
Harry hooted in amusement. “Oh, this is good.”
“Nothing is good. There’s no story. There’s no anything.”
“Brother, the last time I saw sparks flying like that was when my father-in-law tried to microwave leftovers in tinfoil. You’re either in deep denial, or you’re trying to lie to my face right now.”
“There’s nothing there. Nothing has happened or will happen. We just get under each other’s skin,” I insisted.
“When’s the last time a woman got under your skin?” he asked.
The server returned with our drinks, and I reached for mine with desperation.
The answer was never, and Harry knew it.
“The main requirement for me to be interested in a woman is that she doesn’t annoy the shit out of me.”
“There’s a fine line between annoyance and ‘damn, I really want to get that naked,’” he pointed out. “When I met Delaney, I spent fifty percent of the time wanting to murder her and fifty percent of the time wanting to get in her pants.”
Delaney was Harry’s wife. She was an attorney known for aggressive cross-examinations. They met at a bar and had spent the entire evening arguing over wine and football. Ten years and two kids later, they still considered a good argument to be the best kind of foreplay.
“Not all of us are as fucked up as you two,” I said.
He ignored me. “I can’t wait to tell Delaney that Dominic Russo finally met someone who bugs the shit out of him.”
“You bug the shit out of me.”
“Yeah, but I’m already taken. Is she?”
“Who?”
“Don’t play me, Russo.”
“She’s single,” I admitted.
“What a coincidence. So are you.”
“Not happening. Besides the fact that she’s annoying, has no professionalism, and pisses me off every time I see her, I don’t date employees.”
“Maybe you should look into changing that policy. Because she’s definitely interested in you.”
Was she? Or was she interested in what Dominic Russo represented?
It wouldn’t be the first time a woman had been more interested in my name or family connections. After all, she’d already gotten a job out of just knowing me.
“Don’t make me send you the middle finger selfie again,” I told him.
21
Ally
Wednesdays weren’t the best bar shifts for making cash, but they were better than nothing. Plus I’d managed to finish up a design project for a client—a series of Facebook graphics for a product launch—betweenLabeland my shift at Rooster’s.
The invoice was sent, and my tip jar was half-full. My first paycheck fromLabelwas slated for next week, and Dad had been discharged back to the nursing home this morning.
Things were moving in the right direction.
“Have a good night, guys,” I called after two patrons who had warmed barstools for two hours, arguing seventeenth century literature and flirting with me.
