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“Perfectly predictable.”
    I had to get out of that over-sexed, over-confident caveman’s house, before I could do something I’d regret later. 
    Because when he’d suggested I take my clothes off, I was more than half tempted to do it, just for shock value.
    Because when he’d call m e a cock-tease, I’d wanted to prove him wrong. 
    And because now that he was pressed against me, I wanted to strip him bare and fuck him and his shitty attitude sideways.
    “I have to leave,” I gasped.
    He smirked and let me go. “Thought so.”
    I banged down the stairs.  I was angry at him.  I was really angry at myself.  And I was really, really at my newfound libido.
    I paused in the parking lot to shoot his obnoxiously parked truck a dirty look.  Then I slammed it with a solid kick and turned to give the finger to what I hoped was the right window. 
    “Take that, dipshit,” I muttered.
    I got one moment of satisfaction.  Then I got soaking wet.
    “What the fuck!” I sputtered from underneath the stream of water pouring down on my head.
    “Sorry,” hollered the king of all assholes from a patio above me. “I was aiming for my truck. Someone told me it was dirty.”
    “Like hell you were!” I yelled back.
    “Just look at it this way…Now you’re clean and cool.”
    I glared up at him, pulled out my cell phone and yelled back, “And now I really am going to call the police!”
    He held a bucket out menacingly. “I’m assuming that means you’ve got a good replacement plan on that fancy phone of yours. Oh, and that you’re hoping our parking lot camera didn’t catch you shit-kicking my truck.”
    Goddamn him.  Why did he always seem to have the upper hand?
    I decided to take what little dignity I had left and hightail it out of there.  After all, I knew where he lived, and even though my formerly perfect self had never needed to exact revenge before, I was pretty sure it was the kind of thing that could only get better with planning.
    I sho ved my phone back into my purse and climbed into Danny’s car. 
    By the time I reached the apartment I shared with Shelby, I was shivering so badly that I almost couldn’t unlock the door.
    My friend gasped when she caught sight of me.
    “What happened?”
    “The coffee shop was out of frappes,” I muttered.
    “What?”
    My teeth started to chatter. “I d-d-don’t feel very well.”
    Shelby brought her hand up to my forehead. “You’re burning up!”
    “Sh-sh-shelby?”
    “Yes?”
    “What’s your favorite ice cream?”
    “Vanilla. Why?”
    “N-n-no reason. I need to go to bed.”
    “Let me run you a bath first. I think you have a fever.”
    And there – if I wanted it - was the excuse I needed for my recent, out of character behavior.
    But I didn’t want an excuse.
    Instead, I wanted to use the fever to feed my dreams of a blonde Sasquatch ravaging my body.

 
    CUTTER
     
    I’m the first to admit that appearances can be deceiving.  My own was a case in point.  I had all the hallmarks of a hard luck life, when in fact, I’d dived into that life head first.  You’d never know that I’d experienced the greener grass for the first eighteen or so years of my life.  You’d never know that just five years ago, I’d been the one wishing I could sway a jury to my opinion while wearing an over-priced suit. 
    I’m not going to lie and say that trading in the tie for a t-shirt turned me into one of those guys your eyes slide over in a room.  I still stood out.  Which suited me just fine.  Mostly.
    I had no interest in fitting into that too-tight mold any longer.  And I was happy to feel like I was about to prove my father wrong.  I didn’t need the suit.  I didn’t need the high-priced education.  I didn’t need the girl with the faker-than-fake lifestyle.  I didn’t need her hot self and her perky tits clogging up my brain.
    Faking it toppe d my very short list of shit I won’t do, shit I won’t tolerate, and shit that’s just that