But then I remembered I was not that person anymore. No more pity for people that didn’t deserve it. No more sacrificing my time and money and energy for people that would just screw me over when they got what they wanted. This was the new me. The stronger me. The me that was soul sisters with Kelly Clarkson. The I-get-what-I-want-me! And right now, I seriously wanted this guy out of my life, or at the very least, out of my apartment.
“I’m not innocent,” I spat back with my arms crossed firmly against my chest and my hip jutting out. I realized that maybe that wasn’t my best defense but I pushed forward. “And I’m not doe-eyed!”
His face suddenly opened up in some shock and his lips twitched like he had to hold back a laugh. “I can’t believe this.” He rubbed two hands over his face in a sign of exhaustion and turned his back on me.
With his body more relaxed I saw him in a new light. He was less macho-Neanderthal in this posture and more holy-sexy-back-muscles-batman. Obviously the disaster that was my last boyfriend did a number on me if I was checking out the confused hit man pacing back and forth in my kitchen.
I mean, honestly, fantasizing about what his back could potentially look like under his thin t-shirt was seriously clinical, right? Maybe Tara wasn’t the only one that needed medical observation and group therapy.
“I think there has been some miscommunication,” I ventured, now that he appeared somewhat relaxed. “You think I am someone that owes you money, but I am not. Do I look like a drug addict to you?”
He swung his head back around to face me. “You think I’m a drug dealer?”
“Seven thousand dollars is a lot of money,” I sniffed.
“Yes, it is. And you think the only way to go that much in debt is by drugs?” His eyes widened in disbelief.
Now that he was even calmer, I noticed his face wasn’t necessarily menacing, but more chiseled and dignified. Actually when his dark eyes weren’t bugging out of his head in rage, he looked more like a Calvin Klein model than Tony Soprano. And his hands weren’t so much meaty as they were just large and connected to very defined arms. And okay, originally I was under the impression that his neck was the size of a redwood, but now that I was really paying attention it was more just a very strong, carved out piece of art, attached to an equally and artfully sculpted body.
To top it off, he had great hair. I just needed to admit that. He had amazing hair. Hair that I was instantly jealous of! Dark, rich coffee-colored hair that matched his eyes. Short on the sides, and just a little longer on top. It was stylish and trendy, not at all ex-military-renegade-private-security like I originally thought.
Wait a minute, I didn’t think I liked that he was attractive… more than attractive, hotter-than-hot attractive. When I finally took in the scruffy growth across his jaw that partially hid too-full lips, I wanted to roll my eyes. Who was this guy?
“Well, it’s one of the ways,” I huffed impatiently.
He cocked his head back, seemingly surprised with my answer. “I actually have no argument for that. You’re right, drugs are one way to go into that much debt.” I smirked at him, momentarily satisfied until I realized he was really a drug lord and he thought I was his client! A client that owed him money! “But that’s not why you owe me money. I’m not a drug dealer.”
Oh, whew. Sure, I knew that.
“Okay, are you a bill collector then? Because I don’t even have a credit card. Well, I have one credit card, but it’s for emergencies only and I’ve never used it. Besides, it only has like a fifteen hundred dollar limit on it. And it’s actually in my brother’s name.”
I grew more impatient the longer he stared at me. It was like all of the anger that propelled him into my apartment to begin with had evaporated somewhere between drug dealer and bill collector.
Now his chocolate eyes lit with amusement and his mouth did that annoying twitching thing again. “And my roommate gets calls from debt collectors all the time. Phone calls- have you heard of those? You seriously did not need to come all the way over here. I could have explained this to you over the phone.”
“I’m not a bill collector either.”
This time I could tell he was laughing at me. The corners of his eyes crinkled with humor and he held his hands up, palms out as if to stop me from guessing anymore. But I wasn’t finished. If he wasn’t a hit man, drug dealer or bill collector but wanted seven thousand dollars from me, that left only one option.
I gasped, “Oh, my gosh, is this about prostitution? Oh, my goodness, are you a pimp?” I shrieked and backed up three steps.
“What?” he burst out in a bark of confusion. “Are you into prostitution?”
“What? Me? Do I look like a prostitute?” I was back to being angry; I narrowed my eyes, cocked my hands on my hips, and scowled in a tight expression.
“Well, no, honestly. You look more like a missionary.” He shrugged a casual shoulder and let his eyes travel over me.
“A missionary!” I spit the word out like it burned me. I clutched at my gray infinity scarf that covered my black and white cowl-neck long sleeve tee. Okay, maybe it was a little conservative, but he seriously did not need to confuse modesty with missionary.
“Would you rather look like a prostitute?” He asked, his stupid dark brown eyes laughing at me.
“Why in the world would you think that?” I demanded. This conversation had the disorienting feel that we were going backward instead of forward; I started to feel dizzy from all the circles and the way his mouth quirked up when he tried not to laugh.
Wait, scratch that. I was only dizzy from the conversation!
“Listen, honesty, I don’t care what you are, I just want my money.” Some of his amusement faded and a wave of exhaustion flashed across his face.
“So this isn’t about prostitution?” I asked just to clarify. It was kind of important that this wasn’t about prostitution.
“If you’re not a prostitute and I’m not a pimp how in the hell could this be about prostitution?” he rumbled.