“Tomorrow. You. Me. Sunday Brunch. Say the word, and I’ll be eating more than just food.” He dipped his chin down to exhibit his emerald eyes, a sinister expression on his face. No question marks with this guy. Brat, the bitter thought crossed my mind. He is going to have a threesome in a few minutes, and he’s standing here hitting on his ex-girlfriend’s sister. They can hear everything, too. Why are they still here?

I ignored his less-than-stellar advance on me, warning him about something else entirely. “If you light that thing in the elevator,” I pointed at his blunt, “I swear I will sneak into your apartment tonight and pour hot wax all over your groin.”

Jessica Rabbit gasped. Petite Brunette shrieked. Well, they would be in the fire line if that happened.

“Geez, get some chill.” The brunette waved a hand at me, ready to explode. “Like, creepy much?”

I paid no attention to the woman with the crayon makeup. Instead, I simply stared at the red numbers above the elevator’s door, indicating that I was getting closer and closer to a bath, wine, and Portlandia.

“Answer me.” Dean ignored the girls he was about to pork, returning his glazy eyes to mine. “Brunch?” Hiccup. “Or we can just skip the whole thing and fuck?”

Hopeless romantic, I know, but sadly, it was still a no for me.

In all honesty, I wasn’t just turned off by how he tried to drag me into his bed, but also by his poor timing. It had been three weeks since Darren packed his things and moved out of the apartment we had shared for six months—we had been together for nine months, after a short stint I had with a greasy monkey, metal music enthusiast named Hal. Dean hadn’t wasted any time trying to accommodate the casual rebound position. The fact that Dean was essentially my landlord and that I only paid him a hundred bucks a month for legal reasons didn’t make it easier to reject him. He co-owned my apartment with Vicious, Jaime, and Trent, and while I knew he wouldn’t kick me out—Vicious would never let him—I also knew I had to play nice with him.

But the notion that he could possibly give me every STD listed on WebMD did make it easier to turn him down. A lot easier, actually.

The red numbers crept up on the display.

Third.

Fourth.

Fifth.

Come on, come on, come on.

“No,” I said flatly, when I realized he was still staring at me, waiting for my response.

“Why?” Another hiccup.

“Because you’re not my friend, and I don’t like you.”

“And why is that?” he pushed, smirking.

Because you broke my heart and I pieced it back together all wonky and wrong.

“Because you’re a hopeless manwhore.” I gave him reason number two on my ‘Why I Hate Dean’ list. That thing was long with a capital L.

Instead of feeling embarrassed or disheartened, Dean leaned in my direction again and pressed his index finger to my cheek with the hand that held the unlit blunt, his face cool and collected. He produced an eyelash he had picked from my face, his finger so close to my lips I saw the round pattern of its print swirling around my curly eyelash.

“Make a wish.” His voice was satin wrapping around my neck, squeezing softly.

Closing my eyes, I bit my lower lip. Then opened them. Then blew the eyelash, watching it rock back and forth gradually, like a feather.

“Don’t you want to know what I wished for?” My voice came out hoarse. He leaned into my body, his lips pressing against my cheek.

“Doesn’t matter what you wished for,” he slurred. “What matters is what you need. I have it, Rosie. And one day—we both know—I will give it to you. In spades.”

I was coming back from a six-hour stint volunteering at a small children’s hospital downtown, which I ran to right after finishing a full shift at the coffeehouse. I was tired, hungry, and my feet had blisters the size of my nose. I shouldn’t have felt a thousand little fingerlings swimming in my chest, but I did. I did and I hated that I did.

“Brunch,” he murmured into my face, his hot, stinking breath fanning my skin. “You’ve been living in my apartment for almost a year. It’s time to reevaluate your rent. My place. Tomorrow morning. Ready when you are, but you better be there. Capiche?”

I gulped, averting my gaze, and when I looked up again, the elevator door slid open. I leapt forward, practically sprinting out, pouring myself into the hallway, and fishing my keys from my backpack.

Space. I needed it. All of it. Now.

His laughter still carried to my door all the way from the twentieth floor, his penthouse, where he ended his journey for the night with two gorgeous women.

After I bathed, poured myself some wine, and had a healthy, balanced dinner consisting of Cheetos and an orange-colored dip with an unknown origin I’d found in the back of my fridge, I parked my ass on my couch and started flipping channels. Even though I wanted to watch Portlandia, because it made me feel a little more sophisticated than my dinner had suggested, I somehow got sucked into watching What to Expect When You’re Expecting.

Awful, and not just because it scored 22% on Rotten Tomatoes.

But because it made me think of Darren.

And thinking of Darren made me want to call and apologize to him once again.

I stared at the phone for long seconds, debating, mulling the scenario in my helplessly tired brain.

He’d pick up.

Try to tell me I made a terrible mistake.

That he doesn’t care. He still wants me anyway.

Only he does. He cares a lot.

And I’m not good enough.

Not for someone like him.

Another thing I should mention: despite my sarcastic nature and motor mouth, I was all bark and no bite. I wasn’t interested in ruining lives. I’d much rather save them. That was why I’d given up Darren.

Darren deserved a normal life, with a normal wife and an appropriate amount of kids to start a football team. He deserved long vacations and open-air activities outside the hospital walls. When he wasn’t working there, that is. In short—he deserved more than I could ever give him.

I tucked myself into bed, pressing my back against the headboard as I gaped at my bedroom door, willing it to open, pushed by a god of a man who was going to keep me warm for the night.

Dean Cole.

Jesus, I hated him. Now, more than ever. He wanted to reevaluate my rent. He couldn’t. I was dirt-poor as it was. Especially by Manhattan standards. Besides, he made in a day what I made in two years. Was it really necessary, or did he want to get back at me for not giving in to his advances?

Closing my eyes, I envisioned the world-class douchebag eating out Jessica Rabbit, who was straddling his chiseled, perfect face, while Petite Brunette sucked him off. Appalled, I snaked a hand into my already-damp panties, the crease between my eyebrows deepening, and coughed softly.

Dean Cole was probably the filthy kind. The type to flip Jessica Rabbit over a second after she came and pound her from behind, pulling at her scarlet hair.

I pushed my forefinger inside my sex, then the middle one, looking for that spot.

Disgusted, I imagined Petite Brunette being grabbed by the neck and thrown into position on her back when he was done with JR. Now he was screwing her, too, pinching her nipples. Hard.

I arched my back, revolted.

I moaned, repelled.

Then I came hard on my fingers, repulsed.

I hated everything about Dean Cole.

Everything…but him.

S-E-X.

That’s what it all boils down to, really.

The whole world is built on one, single, animalistic need. Our quest to look better, work out harder, become richer, and to chase things we don’t even need—a better car, more defined obliques, a promotion, a new haircut, whatever bullshit they try to sell us on ads.

All. Because. Of. Sex.

Every time a woman buys a perfume or a beauty product or a fucking dress.

Every time a man enslaves himself to ridiculous payments on a sports car that’s not half as fucking comfortable as the spacious Korean car he had a week ago and injects steroids in the locker room at a stuffy gym…They. Do. It. To. Get. Laid.

Even if they don’t know that. Even if they don’t agree with that. You bought that blouse and that Jeep and that new nose to become more fuckable. Science, baby. You don’t argue with that shit.

Same goes for art. Some of my favorite songs were about sex before I even knew I could do something with my dick that didn’t involve pissing my name in snow.

“Summer of ’69”? – Bryan Adams was nine. He’d clearly been singing about his favorite sexual position. “I Just Died in Your Arms” by Cutting Crew? – Talks about orgasms. “Ticket to Ride” by the Beatles? – Prostitutes. “Come On Eileen”? That cheery fucking song everyone dances to at weddings? Sexual coercion.

Sex was everywhere. And why shouldn’t it be? It’s fucking magnificent. I couldn’t get enough of it. I was good at it, too. Did I say good? Scratch that. Amazing. That’s the word I was going for. For practice makes perfect.

And God knows I’ve had a lot of practice.

Which reminded me—I needed to order another box of condoms. I had them specially made by a company called SayItWithaRubber. I didn’t just design the foil to have my name on it—hey, some chicks wanted to keep that as a souvenir, who was I to deny them?—and pick the colors (I liked red and purple. Yellow made my balls look a little pale. Not a good color for me…), but I was also picky about the type of rubber, thinness—0.0015mm, if you must know—and the sensitivity level.

“Morning, you,” one of the girls croaked, rising from her sleep. She pressed a fluttery kiss to the back of my neck. It always took me a few seconds to remember whom I spent the night with, but this morning was even worse, because I’d spent yesterday drinking like my mission was to liquefy my liver into rum.

“Did you sleep well?” the second chick droned.

My body was tilted to the side, toward the nightstand, as I scrolled down a long-ass text message written by my friend and business partner, Vicious. Most people wrote curt text messages to get their point across. This intense bastard made Siri his bitch and sent me the whole fucking Bible. Waking up to a message from him was the equivalent of waking up to a blowjob from a shark. And this was what he wrote: