I swallow my mouthful of wine. It isn’t great—not far from the realm of two-buck Chuck—but it’s loosened me up just fine. “Sometimes I think you can never win with men,” I add.

“Words of goddamn wisdom.” Roxy gives a huff of acrid laughter, smoke pouring from her nose. It reminds me of the femme fatale from some noir film. Or a dragon wearing expensive lingerie.

Wow, I think I’m getting a little drunk. Maybe that’s why I suddenly feel the urge to talk about Hayden. “Sometimes they aren’t so bad, though.”

“You mean for decoration? Boys do make great accessories.” She nods, her chandelier earrings bouncing.

“No, I mean . . . I’ve been hanging out with Hayden, and he’s actually pretty cool. We do yoga together almost every morning now. And tomorrow, he’s going to a vegetarian restaurant with me, even though he’s clearly a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy.” I realize that a silly little smile is pulling at the corners of my mouth. It’s so odd. When I hang out with him, I have a mysterious sort of glow for the rest of the day. He makes me laugh, and heaven knows I could use a good laugh with the seriousness of my job.

“It’s great that he hasn’t screwed you over yet,” Roxy says, her tone abruptly tense. “But he’s still bad news. Ask any of the girls here.”

“He’s been a perfect gentleman so far.” Well, not perfect, but good enough for government work. “We’re just workout buddies.”

“You think he’s your friend? Sorry to burst your bubble, hon, but he doesn’t bother with women for anything other than the obvious. He’s working for a reward that starts with ‘p’ and ends with ‘ussy.’ Get out while you still can.”

Once again, I wonder where all this barely suppressed rage is coming from. But mostly I’m annoyed. Roxy is talking down to me like I’m some naive country girl who doesn’t know her ass from third base. I’ve met my share of shitty men, thank you very much, and I like to think I can see them coming by now. I’m old enough to make my own decisions and smart enough not to get in over my head. Plus, for once in my life, I want to do something really impractical—like own a convertible in Seattle. I want to say fuck it and just have fun.

“I know he’s a player,” I say, a little more testily than I intended. “I knew that when I started hanging out with him. A guy doesn’t have to be perfect if all I’m after is a casual friend. It’s not like we’re getting married—it’s just nice to have someone to eat with sometimes.”

That’s part of the reason why Hayden can be so refreshing. Neither of us has to be perfect. We don’t even have to act perfect. We aren’t putting on performances or evaluating each other. We can just enjoy the good parts of each other’s personalities and not bother stressing over the bad parts.

At the same time, though, a little voice in my head whispers, Maybe Roxy is right. I can’t help but remember how obviously Hayden was lying when he said that he had female friends. Both the truth and the fact that he lied about it are potential bad signs.

I try to ignore that nagging voice as I finish my point. “I’m not under the delusion that my magic vagina will cure his no-good womanizin’ ways. I just escaped Boyfriend Hell; I won’t go back to see if it’s frozen over since the last time I checked. I’m on a no-man diet until further notice. So if Hayden does try to get into my pants, I’ll tell him he’s barking up the wrong tree, and he can either stay one hundred percent platonic or fuck off.” I look up at Roxy with close attention. “Unless you’re trying to tell me to look out for roofies in my drink?”

“No, no . . . Hayden’s nothing like that.” She drops her cigarette butt and grinds it into a small blackened blotch with the pointed toe of her shoe. “He’s purely small-time. More than bad enough to make you feel sorry for yourself afterward, but not enough for anyone else to feel sorry for you.”

More and more questions are jostling into my head, so I choose one of the least nosy ones. “If he’s so horrible, then why do you live in his building?”

Her fuchsia-painted lips tighten into a line. “I’d already lived here for years when Hayden bought it. The fact that he ended up being my landlord is total coincidence.”

“So move out and find a better place.”

An even harder edge enters the set of her mouth. Pure bitter stubbornness. “Why should I be punished for his B.S.? I was here first, and I’m not going anywhere when I didn’t do anything wrong. It’ll take a lot more than one annoying asshole to push me out of my own home.”

Okay, okay, I think, nodding at her a few times. Defensive much?

My impression of the real Hayden is nothing like what Roxy said when I first moved in. Sure, he’s a horn-dog and he seems kind of immature, but he’s fun, and I can’t deny his eye-candy appeal. I almost giggle when I remember him trying to get into the downward dog position. What harm could there be in just hanging out with him? Is his laid-back playfulness really nothing but a Jekyll-and-Hyde act, lulling me into a false sense of security? Or could Roxy just be overreacting?

When I asked Hayden for the dirt on him and Roxy, he flat-out refused to go into it, which just makes my imagination run wild. Is Roxy the villain of that story, I wonder, or is Hayden? I try to dismiss the thought. Real life is rarely so cut-and-dried.

But my curiosity about what relationship they had is still driving me nuts. Roxy is so insistent that Hayden doesn’t “do” friendships with women, so if they ever were friends, Hayden must have let his lust get in the way somehow.

Are they ex-lovers? For all I know, she could be his sister. I kind of hope so. For some reason, the thought of Hayden sleeping with this woman bothers me, even though his sex life is none of my business. Even though I shouldn’t care whether or not Roxy, with her inflatable boobs and pancake makeup and a beach body way nicer than mine, is his “type.” Because if she is, I most definitely am not—with my closet full of suits and no-nonsense bras and panties.

I put down my wineglass, shaking my head. What’s wrong with me? Just thinking of Roxy like that makes me feel like a huge bitch. She went out of her way to befriend the new girl on the block, came over here to share wine she bought with her own hard-earned money—which she probably had to pick out of her butt crack after a long night of dancing—and here I am being catty.

Other women are not the enemy, I remind myself. But I can’t shake this territorial feeling. Hearing her badmouth Hayden pisses me off, and not just because it implies that I’m too dumb to realize I’m walking into a trap.

Screw it. At the risk of opening a can of worms, I ask, “So, just what is your deal with Hayden, anyway? What happened to make you hate him so much?” If Hayden won’t satisfy my curiosity, maybe Roxy will be interested in dishing dirt. She certainly seems to have strong feelings in need of venting.

She goes very still, her hand halfway to tapping another cigarette out of its pack. I already regret my question a little; mixed in with Roxy’s expression of loathing, I catch a glimpse of something dark, like grief. Or maybe it’s shame.

Finally she mutters, “We used to date. Beyond that, let’s just say he made a mistake and tried to dump the consequences on me.”

So they were lovers. She must have been one of Hayden’s many one-night stands. Just another conquest. I sit back, taking a long drink of wine while I try to think of a response. Roxy’s vague answer hasn’t really cleared up anything, and I feel bad for asking her in the first place.

In the end, I can’t think of anything to say other than, “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

“Worry about yourself, sweetie . . . I’m just trying to protect you.” Roxy reaches out to squeeze my shoulder, careful not to jab me with her talons. Her dark, glitter-shadowed eyes are deadly serious. “I don’t want to see another girl get hurt by that tool. He’s a man-child and he’ll drag you down with him. He’s the center of the fucking universe—all that matters is what he wants, and to hell with everyone else. You’re a smart girl on your way to a great career. Don’t let him distract you. Don’t let him weasel in between you and what you want out of life. Don’t let him convince you that his shit is more important than yours. And he’ll try, believe me. He has a way of talking up into down and black into white. Women do what he wants while thinking it was all their own idea.”