And she was perfectly fine with that.

*

Tatum came to with a start the next morning, not quite sure where she was, at first. She squinted in the bright sunlight, held up a hand. There was an open window across from her. She moaned and almost pulled the covers up over her head, but a snort came from the pillow next to hers, and she stopped moving.

“Oh, jesus,” she groaned, bringing a hand to her head. Brad was snoring next to her.

She kind of remembered now. She had gone to an after-hours club with Rus and Brad. More drinks had flowed between them. Shots were taken. Tate was a pretty solid party girl. Under normal circumstances, she could handle her liquor and controlled substances very well, but last night had gotten a little wild, even for her. She could sort of remember stumbling up to Brad's apartment. Doing something naughty in the hallway outside his door.

There was something about going down on a guy in public that just drove her wild.

But it hadn't gotten a whole lot better from there on – a couple drinks, and Brad was pretty much done for the night. He'd passed out on the bed, right in the middle of Tate's striptease. Not confidence inspiring. But since she was already half naked, she just crawled in to the bed next to him and passed out, as well.

She was regretting that now. Brad tended to get clingy when she stayed the night. He wasn't her boyfriend. More of a stress reliever, really. She liked that, and wanted it to stay that way. But it had become more and more obvious that he didn't want it to stay that way.

Tate managed to slide out of the bed without waking him up. She tip toed around the room, collecting the clothing she'd tossed everywhere. She shimmied in to her tight white t-shirt and then hopped around, struggling more with the tight leather leggings.

“Now that's a sight I could get used to,” she heard Brad say from behind her. She glanced over her shoulder and laughed. She was bent over, struggling to get her foot through the pant leg. Her thong-clad ass was pointed straight at Brad.

“You could take a picture,” she offered, and then succeeded in getting her foot through. She got the other leg in no problem and yanked the leggings up over her hips.

“You'd really let me do that?” he asked. She shrugged, pulling on her boots.

“Maybe. Depends. Not with my face in the picture,” she said, grabbing her jacket off a chair.

“Why are you always in such a rush? I could use some help here,” he chuckled, gesturing to the tent that was happening in his sheets. Tate laughed out loud.

“Are you joking? You owe me one, after last night,” she pointed out, searching around for her purse.

“What are you talking about? I thought we had a great time,” he said. She gave him a Look.

“You had a great time, coming in my mouth after about two seconds, and then passing out. You have the the worst case of whiskey dick, of anyone I've ever met,” she informed him, and then spotted her purse, halfway under the bed. She crawled around, struggling to get to it.

“I could make up for it now,” he offered, his hand stroking his erection. She snorted.

“No thanks, that train has left the station. See you around!” she sang, dashing out of the room.

She stood on the corner down the street, waiting for Rus to come pick her up. She sipped at a coffee she had bought, playing on her phone. After about fifteen minutes, a beat up looking VW Beetle pulled up to the curb. She slid in to the passenger seat.

“So, was it amazing? Fireworks?” Rus asked. Tate chuckled, resting a booted foot against the dash.

“Pshaw, not hardly. I don't know why I keep trying with him. It used to be fun. Now it's just like ..., eh,” she replied, pushing her aviators higher up on her nose.

“You say that about every guy you're with, you know. Even back when you used to date. Now you don't even do that – just screw 'em and lose 'em. What kind of man does it take to satisfy the insatiable Tatum O'Shea?” Rus asked.

“If I'm 'the insatiable Tatum O'Shea', then by definition, I can't be satisfied,” Tate joked.

“No, seriously. What would it take? Perfect man. What do you want?” Rus pressed.

“I don't want a boyfriend. I've tried that, don't like it, over it. I like playing around,” Tate replied. Rus shrugged.

“Okay, so what would it take for a guy to be so good in bed, that you'd never want to leave it?” she changed the question.

Tate pressed her lips together and stared out the window, silent for a minute. It wasn't a line of questioning she liked too much. Made her think about the past, which she didn't like to do, at all.

“Someone a little domineering, someone who can handle my crazy, weird, personality. Someone who can make my eyes roll back in my head. Someone who can talk absolute filth to me, but still know where the line is, and even know when to step over it on occasion,” Tate started. “Someone who ..., will just let me be me, and be cool with it. Let me come and go.”

“Emphasis on the come?” Rus asked, and Tate burst out laughing.

“You have the maturity of a twelve year old. Let's get some tacos, I'm starving,” she groaned.

They sat outside, on top of a picnic table. Tate threw excess lettuce to some birds while Rus chattered on about her own guy problems. She was always looking for Mr. Right, and her current boyfriend wasn't stacking up. She was explaining how Vinny wouldn't know his way around her body even if she printed him a map, when Tate's phone went off. She glanced at the screen and then groaned before answering it.