Chanel No. 5 flew through air and hit the wall with a magnificent crash. I ducked as shards of glass flew past my head. The heavy, too-sweet scent of perfume filled our chic, Upper West Side penthouse.

“Bastard! You pathetic excuse for a man! Ruin, infeliz, cabron, no tien las cajones…”

Karissa’s elegantly accented English devolved into a series of nasty Spanish invectives. I don’t speak Spanish well, but spend two years with Karissa, and you learn real quick what hijo de puta means.

“Babe,” I said. I knew I was baiting a bear, but a guy’s got to stand up for himself, “What did you expect me to do?”

“DO!?” Even angry, Karissa was gorgeous: a runway model with legs for days, caramel skin, and thick, dark hair that curled in perfect waves down her back. She had the face of an angel and the mouth of a sailor. When we’d first met, that had been a helluva turn-on. “I expected you to show up! It was the Victoria Secret after party! It was my shot to get them to pay attention!”

Oh fuck. This shit again? It was Karissa’s dream to walk in the Victoria Secret fashion show. She had this idea that if she attended their after party with me on her arm, they’d sign her up on the spot. She thought that because I’m now teammates with Dash Barnes, star quarterback of the New England Patriots (whose wife is a Victoria’s Secret Angel), I could somehow get us into the after party. I tried real hard not to roll my eyes. Okay. I didn’t try that hard.

“Babe,” I held up a placating hand. “I just signed the contract with the Pats. I had to go to the press conference.”

Karissa screamed, a guttural bellow of rage that, to be honest, would have turned me on back in the early days of our relationship, when I’d thought of her temper as “fits of fiery passion” (instead of as fits of flat-out crazy).

“You’re so selfish! It’s all about you! You, you, all the time…” I lost the rest as Spanish overwhelmed English. “What about my contracts!? What about my shows!? What about my press!?” She switched back to English and turned her back on me, looking for more things to throw.

It had been like this with Karissa for the last few months. I’d been busy trying to get signed in the off season and had seen her a few times. But those few times we’d gone out together had ended in such violent and public brawls that we’d made the headlines.

“And don’t think I didn’t see your stupid press conference!” she said suddenly, whirling on me, holding a large, plaster bust in her hand. “You and that blond reporter. You practically had your tongue down her blouse!”

“’Riss,” I objected. “My tongue was fully in my mouth the whole time…”

Another bellow of rage, and the plaster bust went flying at my head. Her aim was better this time, and though I ducked, it managed to graze my ear. What the fuck!? She’d just tried to give me a fucking concussion? I had to take a few deep breaths so as not to launch up and throttle her. My mother hadn’t raised an animal. You don’t touch a woman in violence, even if she’s trying to brain you with plaster busts of Hugo Chavez.

“Is that what your puta mother taught you? You just go around and stick it in whatever bimbo catches your fancy! Well, go ahead!” she snarled at me. “Go ahead. Go see other women. I’m not moving to that icebox hole-of-a-city Boston.”

She stormed to the other side of the room, and I stood up slowly, anger giving way to exhaustion. It didn’t really matter how beautiful she was; I didn’t want her to come to Boston with me. We’d been bad for months, but to accuse me of infidelity, to nearly give me a concussion...I was beginning to suspect that Karissa loved drama more than she actually loved me.

“You know, babe,” I said slowly. “I think that’s a good idea. I don’t think you should come to Boston. In fact, I think I’m done with all of this.” I gestured at the shattered glass, at the dark perfume stain on the white wall, at the plaster, and at the pillow cushions littering the floor. “I think it’s over between us.”

I should have expected the quick change in emotion, but I nearly fell over when she burst into tears, ran across the room, and threw herself against me. I hate crying. I hate it. During my parents’ divorce, they’d spent the better part of two years crying. Tears always brought me back there. But Karissa’s sobs were loud and dry. As she buried her face into my neck, she raked her long, manicured nails lightly down the sides of my face. “Oh, mi vida, mi vida,” she cooed between sobs. “Oh love, oh no, my love. You can’t leave me. I love you…”

She pressed her body against mine, her lush lips brushing frantically against my throat. “You need me,” she urged, her breasts brushing against my chest. “You need me, and I need you…” Her hand snaked down my torso and slid up under my t-shirt, caressing my flat stomach, the hard ridges of my abdominals. Then she reached to undo my belt. “You need me,” she whispered hotly, her mouth straining upward to catch mine.

Karissa had always been able to turn me on, and even now, I was getting hard, my dick remembering all the wild times we’d had together. I took a breath. It was best to let cooler heads prevail. I was now absolutely certain that Karissa Kruise and I did not belong together. I reached down and grabbed her wrist. “Stop,” I said and took a step away from her. I looked down and saw her growing angry again. Shit, she was volatile.

“We’re finished,” I said as firmly as I could. “And I’m leaving.”