Page 47 of You're so Bad

“Tonight?!”

He swallows, his arms flexing slightly, as if he wants to create a cage with them to keep Bean safe. “I’m too irresponsible to have a cat. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. Bianca could have hurled her across the room.”

Oh.He’s thinking about Gidget and whatever happened to her. It tugs at my heart to see this big, tattooed man cradling a kitten and fretting about her.

“It’s time to give her to me, Leonard,” I say firmly.

He delicately detaches Bean and the decimated pompom and hands her over.

I put her and the pompom—she deserves to have a little fun—into the crate, earning myself a bite and a yowl before I get her zipped up. He doesn’t say anything as he gets into the car, but I hand Bean in to him, and he takes her with that same gentleness.

I feel an uncharacteristic urge to comfort him. Uncharacteristic with him, to be clear.

I slide behind the wheel and start the drive back to his place.

“You didn’t know Bianca was going to throw her,” I say.

“Does that woman look like an animal lover to you?” he asks with a wry look.

I laugh, so clearly I am terrible at comforting people.

“Sorry, sorry.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head moodily. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I wanted to help you, but I fucked everything up.”

“You didn’t mess anything up. Bean seems incredibly happy when she’s destroying things. This is probably the best day of her life. I mean, don’t let that give you a big head, she’s probably only sixty days old, so she’s not working with a great sample size, but still…”

I glance over slightly, and he’s smiling, or at least half smiling—the other side of his face is hidden from me—so at least I’ve said something right.

“Look at you, trying to be nice to me. I must be coming off as really pathetic.”

“A bit,” I admit, “but I like seeing you this way.”

He makes a sound that’s half snort and half laughter. “I’ll bet.”

“I like seeing you let your guard down. It’s always up.”

It’s only as I’m saying it that I realize it’s true. Most people’s walls look like walls. His look more like Jell-o studded with Taco Bell roll-ups and Beavis and Butthead posters, but it’s stronger than it looks. Stronger than any concrete. I’d like to reach inside and tug him out.

“And yours?” he asks, giving me a sidelong look I feel everywhere. My whole body wakes up this time. It’s pure lust, but that doesn’t mean it’s not powerful.

It’s just…it’s been so long. So incredibly, pathetically long since a man has touched me with anything like need. I don’t want to be needed for my mind or personality, even, or at least that’s how I feel right now. I want him to touch me like he did in my dream—to fuck me in a way that’s not tender or gentle but powered by raw, coursing need.

I need that eleven out of ten sex.

I need to feel like I’m alive.

I swallow. “You’re right, of course.”

“Whaddya say you let your wall down for a moment so we’re square?” he asks, because of course everything is transactional with him.

With you, too, a voice in my head says.

“Maybe,” I hedge. “What do you want to know?”

“Why a tiger like you would want a man like him. Constance got it right with the whole milk toast thing. The guy’s like a whole gallon soaked a loaf of white bread. Knock-off Wonder Bread at that.”

Surprised laughter snorts through my nose. “The word’s not milk toast, it’s milquetoast.” I spell it out.

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