Chapter 6 #2
She grunts in pain, reaching down to rub her ankle. It was an accident, I swear, and I'd apologize, but the way she's refusing to acknowledge it happened keeps my apology hovering in my throat.
Klein's gaze darts back-and-forth between me and Cecily. His brain is doing somersaults, cataloging our body posture and microfacial expressions. The guy is always taking inventory of people. Maybe he should retire from authoring and become a detective.
If I don't say something to Cecily in the next three and a half seconds, Klein is going to start asking questions.
I dip my head sideways, closer to Cecily, and open my mouth to speak. But just as I do, the server walks up and begins his spiel, and I'm awash with gratitude for the delay. Never in my life have I been so interested in the preparation of a whole branzino.
He starts the drink order with Paisley, moving on to Klein. When he asks me what I'd like to drink, I look left, to the human embodiment of the word loathing, and say the only drink that comes to mind. Just to mess with her. "A blueberry mojito, please."
Cecily's gaze sharpens. So worth it.
"And for you?" the server asks her.
"A Ballbuster," she says, lips forming the word innocently. It's the tiny, nearly imperceptible shake of her head that gives away the attitude lying beneath.
"That's not a drink," I grit, matching Cecily's attitude.
She leans closer to me. A lock of her long brown hair dips forward, tickling my forearm. She smells like she did that afternoon at Obstinate Daughter, like bourbon vanilla and something else, a scent I'm not familiar with. "Pretty sure it is a drink," she snaps, tapping the menu with intensity.
Ballbuster. Right there on the drink menu.
But I'll be damned if I acknowledge it out loud.
I stare down at her.
She glares up at me. We have a hateful conversation with our eyes.
Thanks for taking off in the middle of our date.
You're unbelievably rude, did you know that?
A sneer tugs at the corner of her mouth. "You have a lot of nerve, Dom-in-ic."
It's a murmur. A soft tone with serrated-edge words.
And I very much take umbrage with it. "A lot of nerve doing what? Breathing?"
I swivel my upper body enough so I can face her. A mistake, to be sure.
Disdainful pink pout. Shrewd chocolate brown eyes. Taut, carved cheekbones. She'd like to rip my head off. I'm not sure how I know this so certainly, but I do.
She runs a fingertip over her sweating glass of ice water. "Showing up here."
"Oh? I didn't realize you own Las Vegas."
"You know what? I'm not going to say any more to you. Wouldn't want to yammer and annoy you." She enunciates the last few words, adding to the confusion of this interaction.
"What are you—"
"Whose decision was this?" Paisley's yell breaks through my question. Two servers have arrived at our table, both carrying a tray loaded with shot glasses holding clear liquid.
"It was me!" A woman three seats down raises her hand. She has an accent, but I can't tell if it's Spanish or Portuguese.
"Paloma," Paisley says motherly, "you know this means you have to hold my hair later."
The woman, Paloma, wrinkles her nose. "Fat chance. Sounds like a job for your fiancé."
Klein nods and shrugs resolutely. "For better or worse."
Usually, I think his utter devotion to Paisley is something to aspire to, but right now I'm not feeling particularly charitable. "Might want to think twice about what you're getting yourself into."
Hurt flickers through Paisley's blue-green eyes, and I feel like a giant asshole. Klein kicks me under the table. Hard. Without a doubt, my shin will be bruised tomorrow. And I deserve it.
The shots are delivered to each of us, along with a lime wedge.
I'm not typically a shot guy. Under normal circumstances, I'd probably give the shot to somebody else, or only pretend to take it.
But today is not a normal day. And it's obvious I need to do something to dull my senses and curb this foul mood I'm in before I do or say anything else I don't mean.
And, as an ancillary benefit, maybe the injection of alcohol into my bloodstream will rubberize me enough that I won't feel the pierce of Cecily's poison-tipped dagger she's currently sending my way following my rude comment.
Two salt shakers make their way around the table, and I direct my face away from Cecily when it's her turn to swipe her tongue over her hand and pour the salt.
When everyone is ready, Paloma lifts her shot in the air. "To Paisley and Klein."
We repeat after her. I lick the salt, grimace at the burn of tequila, quickly quelling it with the tang of the lime.
That wasn't too bad.
It's not long after that my limbs feel a little looser. The tension in my neck melts. My molars stop grinding.
Our drinks are delivered, and our food orders are placed. Klein introduces me to everyone around the table. They all laugh at how I ended up wearing this awful shirt.
If I weren't feeling waves of hatred rolling off Cecily, I'd offer her a conciliatory clink of glasses.
I'd love to understand what it is she could possibly be angry with me about, but tonight isn't the right time.
Cecily isn't crazy, she must believe she's justified for the way she feels.
Or, maybe she is a few bricks shy of a load and I didn't notice because I was too busy appreciating how gorgeous she is.
Wait, I think I figured it out. Cecily likes drama.
Satisfaction rolls through me at my superior sleuthing skills, and I mentally pat myself on the back. I'm a no-drama guy, so if Cecily thrives on drama, I've dodged a bullet.
Those tequila shots were pretty good. We should have another one.
"Are you sure about that?" Klein asks.
Oh. I didn't realize I'd spoken out loud. "What say you, bride?" I ask Paisley, hoping she hears the apology in my tone.
She shrugs, grinning. "When in Vegas!"
The more we eat, the more we drink, the merrier we become.
Even Cecily, to my great shock, is not impervious to tequila. She laughs at a joke told by the person beside her, throwing back her head and swaying closer to me. Her shoulder brushes mine, sending a waft of her sweet scent my direction.
She doesn't speak to me for the rest of dinner, but her demeanor is softer. Looser. More like the woman I first met. I was captivated by her throaty laugh, her slow smile. She was like smoke curling up over a campfire.
What happened?
Maybe I should ask her and stop this angst fest. After months wondering, asking myself the same question over and over, I'm sick of my whiny ass.
We're paying the bill now, and there's no time to break into a conversation with her. But at least I'm no longer worried she'll stash a steak knife in her purse and stab me later.
Thank you, tequila.
We hit the next place, a club where we have a table and bottle service. I sit back, nursing a drink, pretending to look around but watching Cecily on the dance floor instead.
She's something else. Generous curves, hips that switch, beaming as she dances with Paisley and Paloma. Her shiny brown hair tumbles down her back, catching the pulsing light.
"What's going on with you and Cecily?" Klein yells in my ear.
I pause with my drink at my mouth. "Nothing. Why?"
Klein frowns. "Don't lie to me. I know you better than anybody."
"I don't think I made a good first impression. That's all."
"What? You?" Klein slaps my back, and my drink bounces against my lower lip. "You're a hell of a guy."
I love when Klein has too much to drink.
He becomes his cuddliest, softest, most emotional self.
I like to give him a lot of shit, but he's a hell of a guy, too.
I champion his work because it's my job and I believe in him, but it's a bonus knowing someone as good and hardworking as him is succeeding.
"Cecily is tough," I counter, shrugging as I set my drink on the table.
He nods. "I look at her with two parts awe, and one part fear."
Paisley materializes at the table, Cecily in tow. Behind them, Paloma dances by herself.
"Dance with me, Word Daddy," Paisley yells.
Sweat at her temple has captured a tendril of blonde hair, sticking it to her face.
Her eyes are bright, exhilarated. Klein grins like the lovesick fool he is, standing up.
He's stepping down from the area when he turns around, cups his hands around his mouth, and yells, "She's tough, but you're tougher. No muff is too tough for you, buddy!"
I close my eyes and shake my head. As if I could forget the shirt.
How many people commented on it on the walk over from the restaurant to the club?
Seven? Eight? Luckily, we found a boutique where I could buy clothes to satisfy the club's dress code, and send my other clothes up to my room. At long last, I'm presentable.
Paisley and Klein move away.
Cecily remains standing, backlit by the multicolor strobing lights. Music pounds in my limbs, vibrating my chest.
I shift right, making space. When she doesn't move, I busy my hands by making a drink for her. We've stuck with tequila. A smart choice, I'd wager.
Cecily settles beside me. I add a lime to her drink, turning so I can hand it to her. I lift my own, offering a cheers.
Her fingers brush mine when she takes her drink. Maybe it's the alcohol, but I swear her touch extends beyond my hand. I feel it everywhere.
I look up into her eyes, prepared to say cheers! but her expression stops me. Her brown eyes search mine, her teeth catching the side of her lower lip. She releases it, and opens her mouth. This is it. She's going to tell me why she ghosted me.
"Fuck you, Dominic."
Harsh words. Soft tone.
This woman.
"Right back at you, Cecily." I can't bring myself to retaliate with the same sentiment.
Nor can I ask why she hates me. Why she ghosted me.
I almost don't want to know. By not knowing, I can keep up this game.
If I know, I'll have to face it. And then we'll be in a much worse state, an alternative I cannot live with: apathy.
Hate is an extreme emotion, and I'm stupid enough to want an extreme emotion from this woman.
I've never been much of a masochist before now, but here I am. Welcoming the torment she deals.
Cecily drinks. I drink. We both drain our glasses.
"Do you dance, Dominic?" Cecily arches one eyebrow.
"I'm not half-bad."
"Well, then." Cecily slides her empty drink onto the table. "It's your lucky day, because I love to dance, and you're the only man in this place I'd let that close to me."
I point back at myself. "Me? Are you sure?"
She nods. "Dance with the devil you know, as they say."
"I'm the devil?"
At this point I no longer want to know her reason for leaving me high and dry on our date. I don't even care that she hates me. This woman spars with me on a level no one ever has. And I like it.
Her head tips sideways, considering me. "No. You're only smart enough to be Satan's errand boy."
Ouch.
Fuck, but I like it.
Without a word I stand, taking her hand and roughly hauling her up with me. She tumbles into my chest, catching herself against me. She looks up, quickly replacing that look of thrill with irritation. But I saw it.
Cecily might hate me, but she loves the way we tangle.
I spin without saying a word, winding us through the writhing bodies, finding a square of space. Turning to face her, I put a hand on the side of her head and bring my lips close to her ear. "Should I worry you'll produce a shiv from under that dress?"
I feel her head shake. "Now, Dom, where would I hide a shiv when I'm not wearing underwear?"
Blunt, unapologetic, and setting loose a torrent of vivid pictures in my imagination. How am I supposed to respond to that? How am I supposed to breathe normally after hearing her smart mouth say such a thing? The air between is hotter, heavier.
"Fair point," I croak, stepping back and trying but failing to look everywhere but at the borderline evil temptress beside me.
Cecily watches me with that half-daring, half-amused look that would, if the way I'm feeling now is any indication, drive me wild if we were together. Is she testing me, or just enjoying herself?
She shakes her head and laughs. She turns around, curves her body into mine, throws an arm in the air and palms the back of my neck. Her ass presses against me, hips gyrating, body undulating.
This woman will be the death of me.