pressed pause and said, “Yo, I got a wife in San Juan.” Just like that, like it suddenly occurred to him.
Angela looked at him, said, “So you can divorce her, can’t you?”
“Naw, naw, it ain’t like that,” Tony said. “I got three kids too and they all comin’ over to live with me next week. Sorry ’bout that, yo.”
Angela couldn’t believe it. She’d spent all this time with this prick and let him do all that shit — tying her up, giving her a golden shower — then he says he has a fucking wife and kids! She literally became her mother, going at him like the very best of Irish women — clawing at his eyes, kneeing him in the balls, tearing out clumps of his hair. After she tore a bracelet off his hairy wrist, she took off and left him crying in front of the paused scene of Keifer Sutherland screaming at somebody. A couple of days later, Angela had the bracelet appraised. She expected it to be a fake and was stunned to discover it was white gold from Tiffany’s, worth a couple thousand bucks. It cost five dollars to have the clasp fixed and she wondered if maybe her luck was changing.
As it turned out, her luck was changing all right, but not necessarily for the better.
The first change was that Dillon arrived from Ireland and bought her a silver Claddagh ring and a bottle of Black Bushmills, “the cream of the barley,” he said. Dillon had that sly smile and those gross yet irresistible lips and said, “Mo croi, I’m stony.”
He had to translate, that she was “his very heart” and what girl could resist that shit? A few weeks later, after they decided to move in together, he said, “Trust me, allanna, and we’ll be in the clover.”
Then the second change came — she caught herpes. Dillon swore he didn’t have it, so she figured Spiros or Tony must’ve given it to her.
Then the third change: A job came to her out of nowhere. She’d applied for the position weeks ago and sick of would-be employers focusing on her shitty typing skills (she could only do twenty-four words a minutes with mistakes) and lack of experience (she’d never had an office job above receptionist), she decided, To hell with it, she’d get the job like she got men — with her body. She dressed for the interview in sheer black pantyhose, patent heels, and a killer short skirt.
Dillon, reading his Zen book, looked up at her, smiled, said, “That position for typing or fucking?”
She’d answered, “Either way, I’m good to go.”
Her appointment with Max Fisher, CEO of NetWorld, was for two o’clock and Angela arrived at the office half an hour early. The receptionist kept her waiting on the couch in the lobby for over an hour, and Angela got so pissed off she was about to leave. Then Max came into the lobby. Angela watched his gaze shift from her face down to her legs, then slowly back up again. When his eyes fixated on her bust, she thought, Gotcha.
She had.
During the interview, Max continued to eye her with his jaw hanging partly open. Angela thought Max was probably the most disgusting and pathetic guy she’d ever met. He was like some overgrown thirteen year old, with that picture of the blonde on the Porsche on the wall and the way he kept staring at her tits, with the tip of his tongue showing between his teeth. Angela said to herself, There’s no way in hell I’m working for this loser. Then Max offered her a salary of sixty-four thousand a year plus full health benefits and three weeks vacation.
On her first day, Angela could tell that Max was seriously into her. It was more than just staring at her all the time and flirting. A couple of times when they were alone in his office he put his hand on her leg and one time he said he had knots in his shoulders and asked her to give him a massage. She figured, What the hell? The man had money, money she wouldn’t get by blowing him off. Also, she liked the attention. Dillon hadn’t been around verymuch lately. He was always staying out late,
Angela looked at him, said, “So you can divorce her, can’t you?”
“Naw, naw, it ain’t like that,” Tony said. “I got three kids too and they all comin’ over to live with me next week. Sorry ’bout that, yo.”
Angela couldn’t believe it. She’d spent all this time with this prick and let him do all that shit — tying her up, giving her a golden shower — then he says he has a fucking wife and kids! She literally became her mother, going at him like the very best of Irish women — clawing at his eyes, kneeing him in the balls, tearing out clumps of his hair. After she tore a bracelet off his hairy wrist, she took off and left him crying in front of the paused scene of Keifer Sutherland screaming at somebody. A couple of days later, Angela had the bracelet appraised. She expected it to be a fake and was stunned to discover it was white gold from Tiffany’s, worth a couple thousand bucks. It cost five dollars to have the clasp fixed and she wondered if maybe her luck was changing.
As it turned out, her luck was changing all right, but not necessarily for the better.
The first change was that Dillon arrived from Ireland and bought her a silver Claddagh ring and a bottle of Black Bushmills, “the cream of the barley,” he said. Dillon had that sly smile and those gross yet irresistible lips and said, “Mo croi, I’m stony.”
He had to translate, that she was “his very heart” and what girl could resist that shit? A few weeks later, after they decided to move in together, he said, “Trust me, allanna, and we’ll be in the clover.”
Then the second change came — she caught herpes. Dillon swore he didn’t have it, so she figured Spiros or Tony must’ve given it to her.
Then the third change: A job came to her out of nowhere. She’d applied for the position weeks ago and sick of would-be employers focusing on her shitty typing skills (she could only do twenty-four words a minutes with mistakes) and lack of experience (she’d never had an office job above receptionist), she decided, To hell with it, she’d get the job like she got men — with her body. She dressed for the interview in sheer black pantyhose, patent heels, and a killer short skirt.
Dillon, reading his Zen book, looked up at her, smiled, said, “That position for typing or fucking?”
She’d answered, “Either way, I’m good to go.”
Her appointment with Max Fisher, CEO of NetWorld, was for two o’clock and Angela arrived at the office half an hour early. The receptionist kept her waiting on the couch in the lobby for over an hour, and Angela got so pissed off she was about to leave. Then Max came into the lobby. Angela watched his gaze shift from her face down to her legs, then slowly back up again. When his eyes fixated on her bust, she thought, Gotcha.
She had.
During the interview, Max continued to eye her with his jaw hanging partly open. Angela thought Max was probably the most disgusting and pathetic guy she’d ever met. He was like some overgrown thirteen year old, with that picture of the blonde on the Porsche on the wall and the way he kept staring at her tits, with the tip of his tongue showing between his teeth. Angela said to herself, There’s no way in hell I’m working for this loser. Then Max offered her a salary of sixty-four thousand a year plus full health benefits and three weeks vacation.
On her first day, Angela could tell that Max was seriously into her. It was more than just staring at her all the time and flirting. A couple of times when they were alone in his office he put his hand on her leg and one time he said he had knots in his shoulders and asked her to give him a massage. She figured, What the hell? The man had money, money she wouldn’t get by blowing him off. Also, she liked the attention. Dillon hadn’t been around verymuch lately. He was always staying out late,
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