Chapter 9 Madison
Madison
Oh, I’m definitely a troublemaker.
I can feel eyes on me as I lock up my apartment. I turn my head to confirm, catching Todd’s gaze on my ass just before his face falls into an unfriendly sneer.
Great. I just showered, but now I feel like I need to again.
“What’s with the clown makeup? Circus in town?” he sneers, smiling at his joke before he even finishes it.
I press my lips together, enjoying the feel of them sliding smoothly against each other from the vampy dark color I swiped on. If there’s one thing about me, it’s that I’m not going to leave the house without lipstick, and something tells me inked-up Peter liked my alternative look.
“Todd. Pleasure as always. I’d stay and chat, but… I don’t want to.” I flash him a smile, grab my keys from the door and turn to leave.
“Aw, didn’t like that one? I was going to compare you to a cheap whore, but let’s be real: no one would pay for that shit.”
I sigh dramatically.
I look good. I know I look good. My everything shower took me two hours—I’m shaved and waxed ‘stache to toe—and my hair and makeup took me just as long.
Artfully overlined lips. Cat eye sharp enough to kill a man.
My outfit? Flawless. This dress hugs me in all the right places but will only give him a flash of cleavage to leave him wanting more.
What can I say? Flick-the-Bean Peter is my whole damn type, and I’m trying to knock his socks and then all the rest of his clothes off.
“Like you could afford me.”
“Heard you got fired, so you must be pretty desperate.”
Fired? Figures Fred would spread that story. “Hmm. How’s it going in the SmarTech talent toilet? Get that big promotion yet?” My smile is saccharine. I didn’t need to work there long to know that no one at SmarTech respects him.
His brows snap down. “I’m putting in my time.”
“If that’s what you need to tell yourself.”
“At least it’s legal money,” he hisses. “Not that you people know shit about that. Fucking destroying this country. Does your family mow lawns or clean houses? It’s pathetic.”
Bile creeps up the back of my throat. There are few things I hate more than racism disguised as patriotism.
Usually Todd’s insults are juvenile jabs at my appearance.
I guess he decided to try a new tactic, since the fat jokes never bother me.
But he’s never stooped quite this low, and frankly, it makes me see red.
With a glare of my own, I step closer. I’m much shorter than him, and even though it means I have to tilt up my head, I don’t care—because he flinches ever-so-faintly at my fury.
“Know what I think is pathetic? Being so painfully mediocre that you’re not even good at being a bully.
Pathetic is expecting respect but giving none.
Pathetic is thinking a six-pack or pale skin makes you somehow better than me.
Because one day you won’t have that six-pack.
And with no personality to speak of or body to be proud of, you’ll just be a sad old white man, wondering why nobody loves you. ”
His glare turns hostile. “God, you are such a fucking bitch,” he seethes, hands shaking as they curl.
I glance down at his fist. If Todd ever let out that testosterone, it would probably be to hit a woman. He won’t now, but I wish he’d try it because I’d make him regret it so hard he’d never even think about doing it again.
But I know how false his bravado really is. I know he’s like a cornered animal, swiping out with his claws to find a soft part to hurt.
Good fucking luck. My body may be soft, but that’s the only part of me that is. I’m immune to his insults for the same reason he’s hurling them. I like myself; deep down he doesn’t like himself. And he’s a shitty person, so I genuinely don’t care about his approval.
To show him how little of a threat I think he is, I turn my back on him. “Yup,” I reply breezily, showing him my middle finger as the door swings behind me.
Hot frustration swirls in my gut, and I catch myself stomping down the front steps of the building before the impact starts aching in my shins.
I need to cool off—I don’t want to bring this energy to my date.
Walking there might help. Peter picked a restaurant a few blocks from me, and it’s a nice night for it.
Plus, then if I down a few margaritas to settle the nerves, I won’t have to worry about driving.
El Limon is a busy place on a Saturday night, and they won’t seat us until we’re both present, so I linger outside to shoot Peter a text. I guess I’m not fully calmed down from my encounter with Todd because I catch myself stewing that he’s late.
I tap out something snippy, then check the time on my phone. Okay, I need to take several chill pills. He’s only two minutes late.
Deleting the first text, I type out something much less antisocial. Before I’ve sent the message, I hear, “Madison!”
My head whips up, and I catch sight of him swinging his leg over his motorcycle.
Oh shit. On some level, I thought my memory had exaggerated his ridiculous handsomeness. Nope.
He’s all piercing gray eyes and perfectly proportioned features, with a body boasting enough muscle that it’s actually visible against the fabric of his henley and dark jeans.
Those perfect lips are quirked up into a smirk that makes the butterflies in my stomach explode in a flapping cloud of glitter and color.
Of course his hair is, like, artfully disheveled from the motorcycle helmet he’s locking under the seat. Of course he rides a motorcycle.
God, even his walk is attractive. He swaggers, unhurried, and holds himself tall with calm confidence. His jacket shifts, giving me flashes of the colorful wings at the base of his throat.
This man would have presence, even without the biker boots and leather jacket that make him look like a total badass. But it’s understated. He’s not the kind of guy who fills a room; he’s the kind who quietly owns it.
If he smells good, too, I might melt on the spot.
My head comes up and up, tilting further back to keep him in my line of sight as he approaches. I also forgot how tall he is. He must be over six feet because I’m in four-inch heels and he’s still half a foot above me.
He stops just in front of me. “Hello,” he says. That smirk would probably incinerate lesser panties.
Luckily, I’ve got my prettiest set on. I always wear pretty underwear whenever I need a confidence boost—my big-girl panties, if you will.
“Hi,” I reply, bracing myself for that weird, polite, nice to see you again hug. I understand the importance of breaking the touch barrier on a first date, but we’re still strangers and I don’t much like being touched by strangers.
He doesn’t make a move. That’s another point for Peter. “Do you want to go in?” he gestures, like I should go ahead of him.
My smile is wry. “Depends. Were you trying to be funny, or are you just really unoriginal, taking a Mexican girl to a Mexican restaurant for a first date?” I tease, but there’s an edge to my voice I didn’t mean for there to be.
Okay, maybe Todd’s insults affected me a little more than I thought. He put it in my head anyway. Best to get this out of the way—I won’t be disrespected or fetishized for my culture.
But Peter isn’t Todd. His eyes go wide, and faint splotches of pink sweep across his cheeks. Dios mio… is he blushing?
“No! No, of course not! I… erm…” he scrubs awkwardly at his jaw, oblivious to how the show of the spider tattoo on the back of his hand is completely at odds with the aw-shucks gesture.
“It was the top-rated restaurant near here. I only thought that since you walked to the café you’d appreciate something close, but of course we can go somewhere else. Anywhere you like.”
Between the blush and the earnest horror at the thought of unintentional racism, I think I might be a goner.
“I’m just kidding,” I grin as his shoulders slump in relief. “I could literally always go for a taco. And it was pretty thoughtful to find a place somewhere close to where we met, but how did you know I walked?”
“I might have watched you walk away,” he flirts, showing off a faint dimple in his cheek.
I smirk back, enjoying the feeling of his obvious appreciation. As I turn to head into the restaurant, I catch a whiff of his incredible scent. It’s very subtle, but once I realize it’s coming from him, my legs nearly buckle.
No Old Spice for Peter. He smells like hand soap and black tea, and somehow…
that crisp, faintly bitter edge like ozone from too many electronics in a small space.
It’s strange and energetic and clean… and somehow warm and cold at the same time.
It’s not just a scent, it’s a memory and a feeling—of being surrounded by computers, of feeling at peace, and knowing I’m about to make some lines of code my bitch.
Might as well call it Mad-nip. I’d be the only customer, but bottle that, and I’d buy 1,000. Goddamn, that shit is fresh.
“Careful, Peter,” I say, my voice coming out a little huskier now. “You’re giving away all your secrets.”
“Am I?” His grin is curious now.
I toss him a look over my shoulder. “Well, now I know offering to let me go ahead of you wasn’t about being polite—it was about the view.”
With a deep chuckle that I feel in my core, he shakes his head and reaches in front of me to get the door for me.
It brings him so close that I can feel the warmth of his body through our clothes.
“I’m fairly certain that’s always been the point of that particular polite gesture.
But with a view like this, can you blame a bloke? ”
I’m glad my back is to him and he can’t see my face as I react to that—I’m trying to play it cool, here, and my dopey grin would totally give me away. But that was one of the smoothest things I’ve ever heard. And in that accent, no less?
Somebody sedate me.