Better yet, she’d knock him unconscious, tie him up, smear canned tuna all over him and feed him to a herd of starving feral cats.
Shout! Or maybe she’d toss him into a mosh pit of violently vengeful women whom he’d spurned over the course of his career.
As the song got faster and sweatier and Wilton’s enthusiasm for her even more oppressive, she contemplated the virtues of alligators, pythons and piranha, any of which were readily available here in south Florida and would satisfy her bloodlust.
Finally, the song was over. She dodged Wilton’s determined attempt to slide a sweaty paw from her waist down to her ass, and thanked him for the dance. Then, through a series of dodges and feints, she lost him in the sea of people now filling up the room and made her way to Dev the Devil and her purse.
Her plate, she saw as she approached him, was a lost cause. It was littered with shrimp tails, quiche crumbs and flakes of spanakopita.
He waggled his eyebrows at her—for all the world like Belushi in Animal House—then popped the last corner of the only remaining savory Greek pastry into his mouth. He chewed, swallowed and smirked at her again. “Enjoy the dance?”
“I’d like my evening bag, please,” she said icily.
“Are you going to hit me with it?”
“I reserve the right.”
“Of course you do. So under the circumstances I think I’ll hang on to it for a while.”
“I’m not going to play juvenile games with you.”
“Excellent,” he said heartily. “Then can we move on to the adult ones? Triple X?”
She turned on her heel and walked away from him, toward a roving waiter. Somehow in three long strides, Dev got to the waiter first, commandeered a glass of wine and thrust it at her. “Drink?”
She ignored him and took a different glass off the waiter’s tray. Then she continued walking while the waiter gave a mock-shiver. “Brrrrr. That was cold,” she heard him say. “Why the hot girls so cold, man?”
“One of life’s mysteries,” Dev told him. Then, to her disbelief, he came up behind her again and touched her shoulder. “Don’t you want your purse?”
“Of course I do, but I won’t beg for it. I don’t beg for anything, Devon McKee, not ever, no matter how you like to delude yourself about last night.”
“Fine. Here.” He extended it to her. “By the way, I put my phone number inside.”
She snatched it from him and then hit him with it, hard, on the arm.
“Ow!”
“That’s for eating the food on my plate.” Then she hit him again, even harder.
“What the fu—”
“And that’s for making me dance with Wilton Grubman!” She glared at him.
He said nothing. He didn’t even laugh. He just evaluated her.
“What?” she yelled.
“Do you feel better, now?” Dev asked. There was actual concern in his eyes, and something appallingly like kindness in the curve of his mouth. It was horrible, unfair, the last straw. The convenient target of her hostility was being nice to her and that blew all her defenses.
“N-n-no!” And Kylie’s face crumpled despite her very best efforts on behalf of Grace Kelly poise. Forget the minor leakage in the supply closet—now the waterworks started in earnest and great, wracking sobs overtook her body.
This should have been her wedding. She’d held in her emotions for eight long months, and now they wouldn’t be denied.
“Oh, honey,” Dev said, and folded her into his arms. “Oh, my poor little psycho … it’s okay … whatever this is all about, it’s gonna be okay.”
His arms felt so good, so comforting, so right. How long had it been since a man had held her? The thought made her sob even harder as Dev walked her backward and to the left, and then backward again. She heard a ding and then they were inside an elevator.
“Not s’posed to be nice,” she howled into his jacket. “S’posed to be a d-d-d-dick.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Dev said, with just a quiver of humor in his voice. “I do my best.”
“S’posed to be a d-dick so I can yell at you!”
“I can see how my behavior frustrates you, then. I’m sorry.” He smoothed her hair, which disarmed her further, which produced more sobs, except they sounded like wild hog snorts on the inhale. Which was even more mortifying, if that were possible—which it wasn’t. But it was.
“So,” Dev said, his chest rumbling under her forehead. “Is it me in particular that you want to yell at … or will any old dick do?”
She only cried harder. He couldn’t possibly understand how painful the long months of withdrawal and rejection by Jack had been. How he’d changed under her very eyes from the man with whom she’d wanted to spend her life to a drug-addled internet-porn potato.
“I’m going out on a limb, here,” he continued, “but I’m going to guess that you’re very upset with some guy who isn’t here right now … so you decided to use me as a stand-in punching bag?”
“I’m sorry,” she wailed, punctuating the words with a great deal of mascara and—worse—snot. “I’m so sorry. You don’t deserve this.”
He actually kissed the top of her head. “If it makes you feel any better, sweetheart, I probably do. At least in terms of karma.”
She began to laugh, then, on top of the sobs, because she figured he was right, but that didn’t make her behavior any better.
She felt his hand cover hers, then take the purse back.
“I assume that you’re staying here in the hotel?”
She nodded, smearing more makeup onto his jacket.
“And that you have a key card to a room in here?”
She nodded again.
“If you’d care to tell me the number, then I can push the relevant elevator button and take you there.”
“Six-twelve,” she mumbled. “Thanks.”
He hit the button, keeping one arm still around her. She was amazed and grateful.
The elevator rose, thankfully without anyone else trying to get on. They stepped out onto the sixth floor and her room was only a few short steps away.
Dev slid her card into the slot on the door and opened it for her. “There you go.”
She stepped out of his arms, feeling suddenly bereft, and went inside.
“Can
