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“This is a terrible idea,” I say, ready to stand, but she reaches over and grabs my hand, her face going serious, but not in a joking way. “No, Theo, really. I want to help. I’ll stop being a brat.” The statement, that word . . . it does something I fervently ignore. Something I always fervently ignore. Because Katrina is a gorgeous woman. Katrina knows she’s a gorgeous woman. I’d be an idiot not to see it. I have noticed over the months she’s worked for me. Everyone in the office has. And the idea of Katrina being a brat to me scratches something in my brain that should never be
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ADHD will do that to you: a constant cycle of excited hyperfixation and the sudden drop as soon as that hit of dopamine is gone.
“We should do something!” she says, getting excited when I don’t argue her point. “Put fish in his office so it stinks and people think he has poor hygiene. Hack into his email and send nudes to people. Order him some kind of food he’s allergic to so his face blows up right before a big meeting. Or maybe—” I cut her off, my face a mask of horror and confusion. “Are you okay?” She looks at me like I’m the insane one in this room.
“She was rambling on about an idea she had for the gala last year, how to add a fundraising aspect, and I looked up at her, and she was smiling. I realized she was joking, picking on me, and . . . I don’t know. Something snapped. I looked up at her and it was like something had shifted and I needed her to be mine. The world stopped spinning for a moment; everything felt hot and cold at the same time.”
“You told me yourself you’d rather spend money on clothes than a safer apartment.” She continues to stare, then her looks turn catlike and for the first time, I see it. The nickname everyone else calls her, how it fits her perfectly. She is a cat. “What if I need more?” she asks, and I fight back a smile of my own, instead leaning forward to grab my wallet from my back pocket. I open it up and grab my personal credit card, putting it in her hand and curling her small fingers around the black plastic. “I got you stuck in this situation; you get whatever you need. Make it hurt, kitten.” I
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“Because I like you! I like you, Katrina, and that’s why I don’t want you getting hurt. You’re a good fucking person and a great fucking friend, and I like you. Am I so goddamned impersonal you can’t even see that?”
Men are not inherently programmed to decode every nuance of someone's body language and tone of voice and facial expressions, and it must be fucking nice.
“But what you didn’t anticipate is me. I’m as loyal as they come, and I’m fucking insane. Theo might want to play this clean and keep things good, but me? I'm happy to play in the mud with you. So before you try anything, before you try and fuck with my fiancé and his legacy, just know that if you go low, I’ll tunnel to the core of the fucking earth.”
Standing a few feet from Theo, I wait for him, watching his eyes roam every inch of my outfit, my hair, my makeup, the high stiletto shoes with a peep toe, red nails peeking through. An eternity passes, and soon, I start to feel self-conscious. “Is this . . . Is this okay?” I ask, fighting the urge to bite my lip because even though my lips are stained red (an alleged “kiss-proof” find from Abbie, my resident makeup guru), I don’t trust that kind of shit not to smudge or transfer to my teeth. He doesn’t speak still, instead staying leaned against the wall, ankles crossed at his shiny wing-tip
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