Chapter 20
“I’m not sure.” I hold a sundress up from my closet for Sunday and Daisy to judge. Both of them shake their heads, and it’s funny because they look so much alike at that moment.
“Where did you even get that?” Sunday scowls.
“What’s wrong with it?” I look down and hold it up to my shoulders.
“Rhea. It’s yellow.”
I look at the soft striped yellow and laugh. “Maybe my mom bought it?” I say, also confused.
“Who is this guy anyway?” Sunday asks, shooing me aside to raid my wardrobe.
“Miles Tenley,” I say as she hands me a dark burgundy top and continues to dig. “He works over at the station with Kaia.”
“Oh—the brunet with the pretty hazel eyes.” Sunday pulls my black denim jacket off the hanger. “Go casual, he’s probably just going to drive you across the city to a different bar.”
“True,” I say.
“Daisy, go get your stuff so I can take you to your mom’s.” Sunday looks over at her niece, who barely hears her with headphones in but nods and disappears. “Is this a take-all-my-clothes-off date or a serious, get-to-know-you date?”
“Get-to-know-you.” I pull off the dirty shirt I’m wearing and pull on the low-cut one that Sunday handed me. It hugs my stomach and looks nice under the leather jacket.
“Boring,” she says, smiling anyway. “If you need anything, call. I don’t trust any of those firefighters,” she winks.
“Kaia vouched for him, but honestly, I think she vouched for a quick fuck, so…” I laugh and shake out my hair so it’s less stiff. “The last three guys were dicks,” I sigh, tugging my jacket straight.
“The only men I trust are my brothers,” Sunday says, dead serious.
“How hard is it for a guy to be a decent human being?” I ask, and she snorts in disbelief.
“These?” Sunday holds up a pair of boots that would make me four inches taller, and I shake my head.
The last thing I need is to be taller than the guy on the first date; that’s asking for a disaster.
“You know the rules: if he doesn’t pass the vibe check, you get the hell out of there.
I give you full permission to fake a medical emergency on my behalf,” she presses her hand to her chest and gives me the sweetest smile.
“Oh yeah, so here’s the thing… You eat your burger weird, and oh my god, wow, my best friend just collapsed…I have to go!” I mock panic, and she hands me a pair of sneakers that are flat in absolute despair and laughter. “Thank you,” I say, and she steps back like she’s styled a mannequin.
My phone rings on the bed.
“That’s him. I should go.” I give her a peck on the cheek and shove my phone into my pocket.
“Debrief later,” she warns as I head toward the front door.
“Where are you going?” Brighton asks from the kitchen, eyes flicking between us.
“Reaper’s got a date,” Sunday says, leaning on the doorframe and waving me out. I clock the stern look on Brighton’s face, but he doesn’t say a word as I open it and leave. Miles is waiting in his truck, and the first red flag is that he doesn’t even look up when I open the passenger door myself.
“Hey,” he says, still staring at his phone. “Sorry. Work emergency.”
“Is the station on fire?” I joke, and he shakes his head like I’m serious. I decide silence is safer, and it’s another five minutes before he starts the engine and pulls from the curb.
“Kaia said you like Japanese food?” he says, cutting off a hatchback to force his way into the left lane.
“Love it,” I perk up a bit, pretending not to be terrified by his aggressive driving and the lack of music in the cab.
“So you've been to Japan?” he asks, driving through the next red light as it turns.
“No, never. I wish,” I say, and he scowls. He’s cute enough, with brown hair that’s cut close to his scalp and a light scruff around his jaw. His brows are heavy, and his lips have yet to leave the thin line they’re in.
“So you like western Japanese food,” he says in a tone, and finally looks over at me.
“There’s a place outside the city, in one of the smaller towns. A family moved from Japan—”
“Right,” he cuts me off. “Well, I got us a spot at that Indian restaurant over off Nineteenth Street.”
“Oh, I like Indian too,” I say, unsure why he even brought up the Japanese food topic if that isn’t what we’re doing, but I try to go with the flow.
The parking lot is busy when he pulls in, and he parks his truck over the line, taking up two spaces, causing me to sigh as he slams his door closed.
He’s halfway to the door before he remembers I exist and slows, because half of me expected him to open my side for me.
“Kaia didn’t say you were tall,” he says, his eyes raking down me like I’m a display. I should have seen that coming, because why would Kaia care, and why should he? But it’s always an issue. His brow furrows again.
If you continue to stare at me like an animal in a zoo, I will key your truck in front of you.
“Sorry?” I say instead, and he shrugs but opens the restaurant door for me.
Inside is just as busy as the parking lot.
The table is so small my knees wedge under it, and there’s dried gum stuck beneath the edge.
Miles puts his phone on the table, screen up, and it lights up, showing about thirteen messages all coming through as the waitress asks what we’d like to drink.
“I’ll have a beer, and she’ll take a glass of red,” he says before I can open my mouth.
Wine… How am I supposed to drink Satan's piss with a straight face?
He does the same thing when she comes back around to take our food order, and I’m two minutes from telling him that my entire family has died in a freak tsunami just to get away from him. I sip on the disgusting wine, just trying to get some liquor in my body, and watch as he rechecks his phone.
“So you work with Kaia?” I ask him, and he nods. “Have you always worked with her, or are you a new transfer?”
“New,” he says quickly. “You teach… drawing?” he asks.
“High school art.” I correct him and swallow down the entire rest of the glass in one gulp. He looks at the glass when I set it down on the table and smirks.
Shit, now you think I want to get drunk and have sex with you.
“Art was always my least favorite subject; I never really saw the point of it,” he confesses, and I’m not surprised.
“What was your favorite?”
“Gym,” he says quickly. “Played just about every sport I could,” he says.
“I play rugby,” I say.
“Oh yeah—fake football, with Kaia right?” Yes, with Kaia. Why don’t you ask her out on a date so I can watch her throat punch you?
“It’s not football,” I try to keep my cool, but dealing with a guy like this would require about ten more vodka shots and a lobotomy.
“You tackle and score touchdowns. It’s the same thing, only not as cool,” Miles scoffs.
“Tries,” I correct, and he narrows his eyes at me.
“Do you have any hobbies now?” I ask in a pathetic attempt to keep the conversation going.
The only way to get him to talk is to talk about him.
And this is exactly how the rest of the date goes: if he does ask me a question, he ignores the answer for his phone.
I learned he likes travelling but only to all-inclusive resorts on singles packages, and he doesn’t listen to music because it’s distracting.
Right, because God forbid something steals his attention from his phone.
At the end of the night, I pay for my meal, and the wine I never ordered before we end up back in the parking lot.
“Tonight was nice, but this isn’t going anywhere,” he says, still staring at his phone.
Oh, thank fuck he doesn’t want to have sex.
“You’re a little high maintenance for me, and frankly, Kaia made it seem like you were cool, but I don’t see it…
” He looks up at me, and his expression is blank, like he genuinely believes he’s letting me down easy.
I lick my bottom lip and hold on to the intense rage that bubbles up in my chest at his smug face.
“Do you think you could drop me off at home?” I ask politely.
“Actually, I’m heading the other way—party,” he says. “So call a cab. Let’s keep this parting clean of any drama.” He turns away from me, and I nod, an unimpressed scoff falling from my lips. “It was nice to meet you, Reanne.”
“Rhea,” I correct. He doesn’t even hear me.
I stand there staring at him as he pulls out of his double space, almost hitting the person behind him, and takes off out of the parking lot.
“Holy shit,” I laugh—so loud it turns into a near-cry.
I tug my phone out of my pocket to call Sunday and find it dead.
Only making the threat of tears worse. I literally only brought my phone…
If you didn’t have such a crippling fear of cab drivers from podcasts, you’d be fine right now, you big baby.
I turn back to the restaurant, wandering back inside and asking the busy girl behind the counter if I can use the phone.
She shrugs and sets it on the counter for me, but when I go to dial Sunday’s number, my brain blanks on the last four digits.
“Eight-four-one…” I mumble to myself, the need to cry getting worse, and then I remember that I shoved one of the Hollow business cards into the back of my phone last week when a cute paramedic wrote his number on it.
I was so fucking drunk…I should have called him for a date.
I dial the number and wait; it rings more than once, but someone answers, and through the noise of the loud bar, I hear him.
“This is the Hollow, Bright speaking,” he says.
“Brighton!” I blurt, relieved.
“Bright,” he says like he’s annoyed, but I can hear the smirk in his voice. “Why are you calling the bar Rhea? Aren’t you supposed to be on a date?”
“Yup. With an asshole. Can you find Sunday and get her to come to the Indian restaurant on nineteenth? Like ASAP?” I ask him, and he grumbles something.
“Stay put,” he says. The line goes dead.