Chapter 34 This is My Nightmare
THIS IS MY NIGHTMARE
The restaurant is deserted when the driver pulls up in front of the entrance.
There are only a couple of cars in the entire parking lot, and it looks dark inside the building.
There's even a sign on the door. I can't make out everything it says, but I can read the word 'CLOSED', which they've printed on the sign in a larger font.
"Are you sure this is the right place?" I ask Ambrose's driver. "It says it's closed."
"It's the right place, miss. Mr. De La Rosa had them close the restaurant to the public for your lunch."
Of course he did.
How thoughtful of him.
No distractions, just the two of us in an empty restaurant. We'll be able to hear every scrape of our cutlery over the plates. So intimate.
"Wow," I say, trying on a smile. "That's so…nice."
Now I really wish I brought one of those French ciggies I stole from Atticus. I'm going to need one after this.
"He should be there already," the driver explains as he steps out of the car. "We shouldn't keep him waiting."
It's amazing how fast time goes when something you don't want to do is right around the corner. Why can't it go that fast when you're waiting for a vacation or a concert for your favorite artist?
It feels like five minutes ago I was going over possible scenarios and responses with the guys in the back of the laundromat on Friday. Now, here we are.
I fix my jacket and step out of the car when Ambrose's driver opens the door for me. We decided not to do a bug for this meeting. With his increased caution, we agreed that until we know how far he'll take it, it's best not to give him something to find in case he decides to check.
The only item the guys agreed to let Atticus use is a tiny tracker. And it's hidden near the metal buckle on the strap of my boot, sewn into the interior fabric. Who knew Atty could be good with a needle and thread? I definitely didn't see that one coming.
It was no surprise that there was no trace of my tiny dick explosion on Friday, and not only that, but Atticus apparently didn't even complain about it to Elijah and Seven. They didn't seem to know anything about it.
I wonder if he'll be as chill about it when it's fifty pounds of dickfetti instead of two.
It's cute that he thought I was kidding.
I'd rather sacrifice groceries and drop five hundred dollars on a fuck ton of dicks. I can survive on ramen. I've done it before. And it'll be worth it to see his reaction to an explosion that big.
The restaurant doors open before I'm anywhere near them, the hostess's attempt to rush me, I suspect. And it works.
I hustle faster to the door and thank her for opening it for me, acting like I'm unbothered when she shuts it and locks it once I'm inside.
"May I take your coat?"
The restaurant is definitely upper class, but not in the in-your-face way that the restaurant in Ambrose's casino was. This is probably the best he could do in Boone, though.
I shrug out of my jacket and am led to the dining area, which is not just devoid of people, but also of tables.
He must've had the staff move a lot of them out of the round, windowed dining area, leaving one table next to the windows and a half-moon of vacant booths bordering the opposite side of the circle.
Ambrose stands when he sees me, and I lift my hand in a wave. "Hi."
"Hello."
His smile is wide as he rushes around the table to pull out my chair for me, the picture of the perfect gentleman. I'm glad he doesn't go in for a hug as I sit down, and he scoots me into the table.
"I hope this is all right," Ambrose says after he's seated opposite me, and I find myself wishing for the longer table from our last meeting. This one is so small he could reach across it with no effort at all. "It was the best Linette could arrange on short notice."
The hostess scuttles away, saying nothing, making this whole thing even more awkward.
Ambrose must see me staring after her, because he adds, "I've pre-ordered. I didn't want to be constantly disturbed during our meal. I hope you don't mind."
"Not at all," I reply, lifting the napkin from the table to drop into my lap.
When I do, I notice the man standing at the edge of the room in a dark suit.
"Ah, yes, that's my personal security. Never go anywhere far without them. Hope you understand. He won't be listening."
I don't like the idea of having an armed audience, but my mask doesn't falter. I've practiced every response. And in the mirror back at my apartment, I even ran through facial expressions and modulating my tone—with the silencer on, of course. I had to do something when I couldn't sleep last night.
I'd half hoped Seven would come back and fuck me out of my misery, but I asked him not to, and he had to go and respect my wishes.
This fall break couldn't have come at a more perfect time. I need sleep. And the kind of peace that only comes with having enough orgasms that my brain short-circuits and my body can't help but relax.
"Aurora?"
"Sorry." I shake my head. "This is all so…"
He looks at me sympathetically, and it's hard to imagine someone who can seem so kind is capable of acts so cruel. "I understand."
"And you don't have to worry about the restaurant or," I wave a hand around, "the service or whatever. I wouldn't know the difference. My idea of a nice dinner is a steak at Applebee's or a nice pasta from Olive Garden."
He looks horrified, and I laugh, so he laughs, too.
"Well, if you'll allow me, I'd love to ensure you never have to eat from a chain restaurant again."
I wince. "I don't know, the garlic breadsticks at Olive Garden are kind of phenomenal, and you can eat as many of them as you want. In fact, next time, we should go there. I'll show you."
His brows lower over his dark brown eyes. "So, there will be a next time?"
I lift a shoulder as a server silently brings out the first course and pours some white wine into our glasses. "I mean, I assumed—if you want there to be."
Did I push too far? Get too presumptuous?
The guys and I talked about gently suggesting future meetings and being open to that, but I sort of jumped the gun.
"No," he rushes to say. "No, that's…wonderful to hear. I want that as well. I'd really like to get to know you, Aurora."
"Me too." I smile shyly. "Is it weird?" I ask, lifting a small morsel of a thankfully simple-looking salad from the plate. "Calling me that?"
He takes a bite of his own salad and makes a face before wiping his mouth and setting down his fork. I don't know what he tastes that I don't because I'd inhale this salad if my stomach wasn't in knots. The dressing is to die for.
"I suppose it is," he says. "But it's a beautiful name nonetheless. How did you come by it?"
This is something I was meant to bring up, too. My name. In the note my mother left for me, she said to call me Aurora. But why would she do that? Why drop me in upstate New York with a new name?
…unless she was on the run.
That's Atticus's theory, and we have no way to prove it. Not yet. But we agreed I should ask, since the records that are discoverable from the time I was relinquished into foster care include a photocopy of that note. It would make sense for me to ask, and it would be strange if I didn't.
"It was a note," I explain. "From my mother. She left it with me at the fire station."
If he knows about it, I have to say he's a better actor than I thought, because the confusion and surprise on his face seems entirely genuine.
"That can't be. She was taken. You both were taken from me.
How could she have…" He trails off and a muscle tics above his brow.
"Well, I suppose we'll never know. Long before I began searching for you, I spent millions of dollars and an immeasurable amount of time trying to find her.
Trying to find you both. But I never did. "
"Until now," I correct, and the knot of tension releases in his forehead.
"Until now," he echoes, expression softening.
I take another bite of salad.
"So," he sips his wine, "you are open to the idea of getting to know one another, then?"
I finish chewing and swallow before I speak. "Yes."
He sets his glass down. "Good. That's very good."
We settle into a silence he may find easy, but within a minute, I'd rather throw myself from the window than endure another second of it.
"How was your business trip?" I ask, making conversation. This I wasn't supposed to ask, but Atty's not here to stop me, and the flicker of frustration that flits over his face makes me feel eons better.
"It proved a little less fruitful than intended," he admits. "A competitor in my field secured a deal on a contract I had my sights set on before I could make a better play for it."
It's been wild seeing all the press coverage of the theft at the Matisse. I didn't think we'd hear much about it over here, but every day more and more people seem to be talking about it. I don't have socials, but Maisie said it's all over her Instagram feed, too.
"Oh." I try not to look too smug. "That's too bad."
Ambrose sighs. "It's all part of the game, and I always have the last laugh."
Not this time, motherfucker.
"About my mom," I change the subject, "if it's too painful to talk about, you can tell me to shut it, but I'd love to know more about her."
Another Atticus-designated 'safe and expected' question.
His gaze drops to his virtually untouched salad. "I won't tell you to 'shut it', but," he says, clearing his throat. "It was a long time ago. I miss her—Christ, what I wouldn't give to see her again…but, time does heal all wounds, as they say. Let's see, what can I tell you…"
He mulls it over, with eyes cast toward the ceiling. "She was young when we met. Well, I suppose we both were, though she was nearly eight years younger. Lied to me about her age at first."