Chapter Forty-Eight #2
From a distance, in pictures, he wasn't a bad looking guy, if maybe a bit showy, a little barrel-chested, big-boned, though not heavy.
Up close, under inferior lights, you could see the pockmarks on his jawline from a childhood outbreak he clearly couldn't help but to scratch at, the way that jawline was starting to sink a bit, undoubtedly leading to actual jowls in a decade or so.
He was also, unfortunately, prone to that disgusting accumulation of white stuff in the corners of his mouth that reminded me of one of my middle school French teacher.
Patting an apologetic hand to my proposed suitor's chest, I skirted out from behind him, lifting my chin, sliding in beside Emre, resting both arms on the table, angling my head over my shoulder at him.
"How about you make that two?" I suggested, watching as his gaze slid over my face, down to my chest that was, admittedly, pooling out the bodice of my dress, down my spine, over my barely-covered ass, down the thighs I both loved and hated for their strength—and therefore larger size.
"I think I can make that happen," he informed me, jerking his chin at the bartender who was waiting for instructions. "What's your name, beautiful?"
"Sara," I decided, figuring it was common and, therefore, believable.
I reached across my body with my left hand, all-too-aware that it made my boobs press together all the more, something he did not miss as he reached for my hand.
It took a lot of effort not to roll my eyes when instead of giving it the shake I intended, he brought it to his lips to press a kiss there.
"Emre."
"So, what am I drinking, Emre?" I asked, wrapping a hand around the already sweating glass of nondescript clear liquid.
"Raki," he told me, raising his glass to mine. "Serefe," he offered. To my raised brow, he smiled a bit. "To honor," he told me before throwing back half of his drink, prompting me to raise my own.
I wasn't exactly an alcoholic snob. In my prime, I would throw back just about anything you handed me. Sometimes even with a very obnoxious "woo." As much as my current pride hated to admit that.
But I had no idea what to expect from Raki, sipping it carefully, finding my mouth assaulted—not unpleasantly—by the unexpected taste of licorice. Like ouzo I had once tried at a Greek restaurant with my girlfriends.
Really, it was too easy.
To talk.
To schmooze.
To flirt.
With someone as gullible, so wholly unaware of his absolute averageness, his lack of finesse.
As expected, he talked about work. About it being top secret.
About how he wasn't even supposed to tell me that much.
As if he had said anything. As if I could infer from what he'd said that he was in the mob instead of, say, someone who pirated DVDs.
Both federal crimes, in most situations, but one infinitely more interesting than the other if you asked, well, anyone.
"It's getting loud!" he nearly shouted in my ear as the music took a turn from the off-putting, but tolerable bass-thumping hip-hop style music to the completely intolerable, ear-splitting noise—because I refused to call it music—known as EDM.
"There's a back room," he told me, pressing a hand into my lower back.
"We can talk," he added as if I was that stupid.
He wanted to do more than talk. But I had to pretend like I was into that.
There was no way to contact Barrett, to weigh the pros and cons of going to a secondary location.
I just had to make a decision.
I wasn't often afflicted with a complete and utter lack of confidence.
My mother and father had their own interpersonal issues, but they both managed to accomplish an incredibly difficult task.
In a culture built on tearing you down about how smart, funny, interesting, deep, cultured, traveled, beautiful, thin, curvy, well read, street smart, extroverted, or fierce you simply were not, they managed to produce a child who - for the most part—simply didn't give a shit about standards or opinions of others.
Because, as my father once sagely put it, "Anyone who tries to make you think a certain way about yourself is only doing it because they are trying to get you to pay for something they're selling. "
Maybe it was a little jaded, but it never failed to be anything but true as I grew up. Even industries built on raising you up first told you there was something wrong with you being anxious or overweight or not a natural meditator.
So thanks to the two of them, I always felt rather sure of myself and my decisions, pursuing them with relentlessness, a drive that came from somewhere deep in my soul.
Standing at that bar, teetering on sole-blistering heels in a dress I felt like I couldn't breathe in, I didn't quite feel myself.
Which had to be why my belly was wobbling, sloshing around like there was no food in there when I'd eaten enough to feed a family of five at my dinner at the food court with Barrett.
My skin felt itchy and foreign. The scent of my own perfume felt like it was choking me.
My pulse skittered around in my throat and wrists and temples.
But this was the only chance. To get it done. To move on. To close a long, ugly, painful chapter of my life. To see what the rest of the story had to hold.
"Yeah, I can barely hear myself think!" I shouted back, straightening, doing my best not to wince as the full weight of my body pressed down into the torture devices the store had the gall to call shoes.
Sexy party girls didn't wince when wearing their fuck-me shoes.
And I still had a part to play.
So I didn't stiffen as Emre's hand slipped low enough that he was no longer gently touching my lower back, but definitely copping a feel.
It's just an act. It's not my body; it's Sara the Party Girl's body.
But with each step down the dark, narrow hallway, I could feel the wobbly sensation in my belly intensifying.
"How much further?" I heard myself asking, detecting a small wobble in my voice. "My feet are killing me," I added as we walked past the fourth closed door, getting close to the exit.
Only one door left.
Yet Emre's footsteps didn't seem to be slowing down.
Then we walked right past it.
The only place left was the door.
Did he think he was taking me home with him? Then why say that crap about the back room?
"I, ah, why are we going out..." I started, raising my arm to fix my hair so that Barrett could hear me clearly.
I didn't get the rest of the word out.
"You stupid bitch. You didn't think we saw you out in your car night after night?"
The door flew open.
Men rushed in.
And all I knew was darkness.