14
“Kieran Alexander Found Smitten with New Partner at Luka Limited Event”
—W News
I SHOULDN’T HAVE sat down. I should have turned around and left. That’s what a sane person would have done. Instead, I was trying to compromise.
Don’t react. Don’t react. Don’t react.
I repeated it every time Aldridge shoved her heel into my foot. Did this woman have a reflex problem or an agenda to dig a hole through my shoe?
Accident or not, I did not give a shit. It still hurt like a—
“Who were you talking to?”
I flipped my gaze up, sliding my ring back on my finger.
She was sitting on my left, staring at me.
She always stared. Never gazed, never glanced.
Only looked straight forward, unabashed.
It was unnerving. The black makeup around her eyelashes made the color of her eyes bright like a cat’s.
I imagined people struggled to keep eye contact with her. She was infuriating like that.
The room was loud with people’s drunken chatter and the live music playing at the front of the room.
There must have been at least fifty people at our table, everyone seated shoulder to shoulder.
Most of them looked like models and actors; you could tell from the quality of their clothes and the relaxation in their wrists, holding their wineglasses.
This was a night for them to gossip. The producers and directors were quieter, focusing on networking, leaning over the table to discuss future projects and pesky budgets.
Aldridge stood out; she didn’t fit into either category.
While everyone appeared occupied, I didn’t miss how they granted us long stares. Many were inappropriately long, but most were quick—curious. It was obvious Aldridge noticed, because she hadn’t loosened her shoulders.
“Alexander,” she said, waving her hand once in front of my face.
“What?” I asked.
“The blonde with the purple eye shadow you were talking to before you sat down,” she explained. Leaning back, she tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear, waiting.
I reached forward for my wineglass, taking a sip. “A colleague,” I said after swallowing.
A scowl was tattooed on her face. She didn’t like my answer. If she leaned over with a butter knife, she could stab me under the table to show me how much she didn’t like it. I don’t think anyone would notice. The room was fairly dark.
“She’s pretty,” she said.
“That sounds like a jealous comment,” I hummed.
“No.”
“That was a quick no.”
“Because you talk to so many women, I’d be dead with envy if I were actually jealous.”
“God forbid I enjoy working with women.”
“Are you working with her?”
“No.”
“Point made.”
“No point was made—I had worked with her.”
“You can just say you were flirting with her. We’re not in a real relationship; it doesn’t bother me.”
“It actually does sound like it bothers you. She’s also not my type anyway.”
“A type? I didn’t think you had one of those. With a dating history like yours, I assumed you only required that they breathe in order for you to be interested.”
I shook my head. Not taking the bait.
“Fine, let’s hear it, what’s your type then?” she pushed.
“Women who actively kick me.” I smiled.
She eyed me, dissatisfied.
“Fine. Honesty. Honesty is what I want,” I said.
She paused, surprised. “You’re serious.”
I nodded. “Is honesty a dislikable trait?”
“Not at all. Just not what I would’ve expected you to say.”
I refrained from asking what she did expect. “What about you—your type?”
“I…” She granted the table a thoughtful stare before admitting, “I’m not sure anymore, but… I think honesty is a good answer. I think I’d like some honesty in the person I love too.”
“I didn’t know we were talking about love,” I responded, searching her eyes.
Those cat eyes flashed. “I guess love is the only type of romance I have experience in.”
Suddenly, I was aware of how much of her was near me. We were so close that I could see every color that made up her irises. The smell of vanilla on her lips was intense. Anyone looking would probably assume we were about to kiss.
“Mierda.” Her heel landed in my foot again.
“Sorry, I swear that was an accident! These heels are new and stiff so they catch on nothing,” she yelped, but I hardly heard her, because her hand was on my knee out of instinct, burning holes in the shape of her fingertips across my leg.
We both stared at the gesture until she pulled away, hand on metaphoric fire. (My knee was also on metaphoric fire.)
She cleared her throat. “Are you Spanish?” she asked, shifting topics.
My heart hiccupped in my chest. “No.”
“You swear quite a bit in Spanish.”
“Old habit. I had to learn it for a job.”
“What movie did you learn it for?” she asked, looking at me with speculation.
“Are you saying that you’ve seen my movies?” I asked, also shifting the topic. If she admitted to seeing one of them, I would never stop talking about it. I’d mail her movie posters and mention it in every interview for the next year to torture her.
She rolled her eyes, looking away. “God, no.”
“I don’t believe you,” I spoke, narrowing my gaze.
“I have no interest in watching movies with bad acting.”
“And yet I still flew to South Carolina to watch you play like a—”
My phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out and flipped it open. “Yes.”
“Should I clear the room and get you a body bag?” Nari asked.
“Excuse me?”
“So you can kill her, since that’s exactly how you’re looking at her,” she clarified.
I rolled my eyes. “Nari—”
“Nope, I don’t want to hear it. You’re going to stop looking at each other like that right now. Now get up.”
“What?”
“Get up.”
Pushing my seat back and straightening the end of my jacket, I stood. It triggered a domino effect of stares; Aldridge looked up at me, confused, along with everyone else at the table, wondering what the hell I was doing. “Now what?”
“Ask her to dance.”
“Not happen—”
“Kieran Alexander, do you want this to work or not? Because everyone at this table thinks you’re a flirt, so put those acting skills to good use, God damn it—”
“Fine,” I responded. Shutting the phone, I looked to Aldridge. “Dance with me.”
I wasn’t sure if it was the trick of the lamplight or if she actually jolted back with surprise. She scanned the pairs dancing, as well as those around the table watching us. She knew she had no choice.
“All right.” She nodded.
I offered my hand. Reluctantly, she took it, allowing me to guide her to the front of the room.
Her shoulders recoiled at the action, while every organ in my torso flipped upside down in defiance.
She squeezed my hand, trying to cut off my circulation as we walked.
My heart rate rose and rose and rose until I was squeezing hers back.
Once we were close enough to the music, I pulled her in with force, holding her waist with my unoccupied hand. The fabric on her hip was smooth, similar to the shine of her hair. She grunted in frustration and placed a hand on the back of my shoulder.
My chin was right above the bridge of her nose. If I looked down, I’d probably be greeted by the shape of her necklace. I could smell the rich lotion on her neck and the product in her hair. It was too much. It made me dizzy.
“I need you to drop the scornful look on your face or else this will be for nothing.” I spoke slowly as I lightly swayed us to the instrumental music.
She looked up at me and smiled just enough for me to see her teeth. “Better?” Her voice was threatening. “See, I can act,” she said, returning to looking past my shoulder.
I refrained from responding. It was safer that way. Instead, I strengthened my hand on her back to keep her facial expressions hidden.
“Was that a flip phone?” she spoke up.
“Yes.”
“You’re not going to explain why you have a flip phone?”
“You didn’t ask why. You asked if I had one,” I told her. I could hear her eye roll without dipping my head.
“Fine, why do you have a flip phone?”
“I only need to make phone calls. I receive hard copy scripts in the mail, and I’m not interested in reading tabloids or internet opinions.”
“It’s that simple?” she asked.
“That simple.”
“You never read what’s published about you?”
“Not if I can help it.”
She nodded in response.
I could be civil. I cleared my throat. “Who were you talking to earlier, on the phone?”
“My brother, Walt,” she said.
“Older brother?”
“By two years.”
“Are you close?”
“Very,” she said, leaving it at that. “You look surprised,” she thought aloud.
“I always had the impression that siblings found the older brother overbearing,” I responded, thinking of Mila refusing to speak to me for two weeks because I had “involved myself in her life” when I punched a kid who wouldn’t take her no for an answer.
“Oh, he’s definitely overbearing.” She laughed, her hand shifting toward my neck.
I struggled to listen the more her palm moved.
“The last time he called me was Wednesday at two in the morning to talk about our father’s financial choices.
That’s usually a cover-up to talk about something else, of course, because men are too insecure to just come out with what they actually want to say. ”
The idea of Aldridge listening to her brother in the middle of the night to appease him painted a picture I couldn’t draw. The end of her statement sounded like excess ramble that had nothing to do with Walt, though, and more to do with something else.
“Do you ever just avoid the calls?” I asked.
“Never. He may be a pain in my ass, but I love him.”
I turned my head just enough to see a small smile on her face. It was tucked away over my shoulder for no one to see, like a rusty locket pried open for the first time in years. Quietly staggering yet completely contained.
Maybe this was a test. One that persuaded me into vulnerability and gave her ammunition to use against me. But even then, I still felt compelled to ask her more, to unravel more strands of information about this woman I’ve hated for so long.
But when I twisted my gaze back to the sea of lamps and heads, I found cameras staring right back at me, reminding me of the purpose of this conversation in the first place.