Card Sharks Read Online Free PDF Page B

arrogant, the more obnoxious, the more confident, the more they believe. I should’ve been fired. I didn’t even shave for the interview.”
    â€œDid you interview with a woman?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œGay man?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œDamn. I’m impressed.”
    â€œThanks, Mare. Hey, the game’s started. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
    â€œÂ â€™Kay. Congrats again. Bye.”
    It clicked on the other end. Marianne hung up. How about that. Good for him. Of course, every time something really great happened to Donny, Marianne couldn’t help feeling a pang. A kind of jealous pang that when they were together—the whole damn time they’d been together—Donny hadn’t had anything great happen to him except her. Was that a horrible thing to think? Was it? She wasn’t the only one. There were lots of successful women who had given up on their men due to the ambition disconnect.
    She’d reached the point where she just knew she couldn’t be happy going to work knowing that her guy was sitting at home in a black leather jacket drinking a beer and laughing his ass off at Aqua Teen Hunger Force. Was that so wrong? Yes, yes, there were other things. So many other things. She wasn’t any bargain either. And Donny got fed up with what he called her self-obsession and her constant nagging for him to do something with himself. Fair enough. But Marianne was still a bit bitter, because on the other hand he’d always said how much she inspired him. How she was sort of his muse. But he never got off the couch and proved it—until they’d broken up.
    It had something to do with their breaking up that had been a catalyst for his sudden ambition and subsequent climb up the ladder in industry. If she thought about it, Donny’s swagger was perfect for the Hollywood game. But they didn’t know him like she knew him. She knew all his flaws, his insecurities, his habits, and the fact that even on the days when he wore an Armani suit to a meeting, underneath it there was a sometimes goofy guy who liked fast motorcycles, cartoons . . . and tax accountants.
    Marianne peered into the bag once more and pulled the costume out. Damn. Donny must have spent a fortune. Her eyes narrowed. . . . Unless it was used. She checked for a tag and saw that it was still attached. Strike that. Donny must have spent a fortune. She held it up to her body in front of the mirror. Grinning, she started stripping down so she could try it on.
    8:56 P . M .
    â€œHey, Donny. It’s Marianne. Whatcha doing?”
    â€œWatching television.”
    â€œWanna hang out?”
    â€œESPN highlights.”
    â€œOh, shit. Bad timing. Sorry.”
    â€œNo problem. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
    â€œOkay. Bye.” Click.
    Marianne drummed her fingertips against the desk and then picked up the phone again and dialed. “Hey, Donny. It’s Marianne. Wanna fuck?”
    â€œSee you in fifteen.” Click.
    â€œHe’ll be here in ten,” Marianne said, flashing a vixenish grin into the mirror.
    9:06 P . M .
    Marianne opened the door in full French-maid regalia to find Donny standing there with his arms folded against his chest.
    He looked her up; he looked her down. “I feel dirty,” he said. “I’m looking for someone who has experience straightening things up.”
    Marianne reached through the door, grabbed him by the collar, and pulled him inside. He took charge from there. It was nice to have someone else in charge. Donny was extremely good at it.And by the time they were finished and lying in a mixed-up sea of pillows, comforter, sheets, and each other on the floor next to the bed where they’d landed at the end, she’d almost convinced herself that this latest sexual episode had been a good idea.
    Donny ran his forearm across his sweaty forehead, his other arm tossed around Marianne’s shoulders.