Chapter 7 Bahrain #2
“Don’t blow smoke up my ass, Captain Thesaurus. What is it you don’t want me to see? It’s something time-pegged, if you can’t resist checking it.” With a squeak, I clasp my hands. “Oh my God… Are you on a dating site DMing with a girl? Lemme see.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Aww, c’mon,” I coax. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
“Nothing good starts that way.”
“Everything good starts that way.”
His slate-dark eyes flick to his watch, and after pinning me with a long look of consideration, he cracks the laptop open. I jump up and dash around to his chair, hip-checking his knees to force him to make room as I perch on a corner.
On the screen is something called , and there’s a picture of a boring-looking record with a plain white label. I reach for the track pad and Alexander gives the back of my hand the tiniest scolding pat before refreshing the page.
“Fuckin’ A!” I exclaim as I zero in. “Twenty-three thousand dollars? For a record?”
“A very rare John Coltrane test pressing.” He angles closer to the screen, long lashes dipping as he squints in disapproval. “Bugger all. Takahiro… why? Just let me bloody have it.” His fingers fly across the keyboard as he ups his bid by another grand.
“Who’s Takahiro?”
“A rival collector.”
“It soooo tracks that you’re one of those superior assholes who listen to jazz and collect rare vinyl. Could you get any snobbier?”
“Stunning. None taken.” He leans toward the screen again, and with his movement is a waft of a smoky-ambery cologne. He refreshes the page. “Forty seconds ’til close. I’ve got him on the ropes.”
I sit back to settle in for the end of the auction, leaning slightly on Alexander. “I dunno, dude. Jazz leaves me cold. It always sounds like Linus is about to explain the meaning of Christmas to Charlie Brown.”
“Little savage,” he says with an edge of affection.
“And the whole ‘Ooh, vinyl just sounds better’ thing—what horseshit! A bunch of hissing and popping isn’t an improvement. Digital is way smoother and more efficient.”
“Is a vibrator an ‘improvement’ over a partner?” he asks lightly.
I’m a brazen loudmouth, but I didn’t expect the comment, so I feel my chest and neck heat in a blush of surprise. “Uh, what the fuck?”
His pretty lips tilt in a gotcha smirk. “Plastic is smoother, and a motor is efficient, wouldn’t you say? A recording on vinyl is warmer and more real. Like human skin.”
Our eye contact holds for a few seconds; then with a small gasp he shifts his eyes to the screen, leaning in with a serious look and submitting a bold final bid with a three-thousand-dollar jump.
He seems to hold his breath, waiting, and upon next screen refresh, it’s confirmed that “A￡exandertheGr8” bagged a ridiculous piece of thirty-thousand-dollar plastic with four songs.
“Congrats, I guess?” I say. “You win at having more money than sense.”
“Such a brat,” he pronounces, rolling his eyes. “This is precisely why I didn’t want you to look. I don’t need the fuckin’ grief.”
A server appears with my food and bourbon.
I dart to my chair, eyes wide, tracking the server’s every move as items are placed on the table.
Alexander taps away at his keyboard, presumably addressing some auction-finalizing details.
After a moment he throws a glance at the food, which I’m staring at but not touching.
“Pre-race carb-loading?” he asks.
“I wish. I’m not actually allowed to have any of this. Have you eaten dinner yet?” I lift the top bun on the slider and pile on a few of the smaller onion rings. “I’m only taking a single bite and sip. Someone should eat the rest.”
“One bite?” A ghost of an impish smile. “I’d not have credited you with that level of discipline, my little hedonist.”
“Do you want my leftovers or not?” I pick up the slider. With the added onion rings, it’s too tall to properly fit it into my mouth, but fuck it, why be dainty?
My eyes never leaving Alexander’s, I indelicately cram the stack between my teeth and sink through layers of seasoned meat, fluffy bread, fried onions, and drippy sauce.
Holy fuck, it’s the best thing I’ve tasted since my mom’s cooking when I was visiting home.
An involuntary groan escapes me. My eyes close as I chew, setting the slider blindly onto the plate.
I keep them closed, meditating on the flavor and texture of this single precious bite as I work it around in my mouth. Too soon, it’s over. I swallow, then open my eyes while grabbing my napkin to wipe the grease off my lips.
The look on Alexander’s face says it all.
“I’d buy tickets to see that again,” he murmurs, his tone playfully gritty.
“What a perv.” I shove the plate an inch in his direction. “All yours, honeybee.”
He puts his laptop into the leather satchel, then reaches for a knife and fork.
With easy precision, he carves out a bite and pops it into his mouth, and…
dammit, I absolutely am watching him do it, and he’s enjoying every second of the attention.
I snap out of it, plucking up the dessert fork and gathering the cake toward me.
I rotate my plate, inspecting the best bite since I only get one, then stab into the middle, freeing a chunk with a ribbon of gooey-looking ganache down the center. I lift it slowly, again trying to make this a full experience—admiring the look and smell.
Alexander cuts an onion ring in half and forks it up. “This is quite good, and I was hungrier than I thought. Thank you.”
“No prob.” I bring the small, moist wedge of chocolate perfection closer to my face. “Okay, no talking. Don’t distract me—I’m almost there.”
We both realize how it sounds and dissolve into laughter.
“Let no one say I impeded your pleasure, Salvia officinalis,” he quips.
I insert the bite and smush cake against the roof of my mouth with my tongue so the ganache oozes out, then chew, leisurely.
He’s still watching. And part of me is very into it.
“You have gorgeous lips,” Alexander says, reaching across the table to break off a corner of the cake and put it into his mouth. He licks a frosting-smeared fingertip, quick and neat, but still sexy enough that I can’t help staring.
Dammit, I don’t want that to be as hot as it is.
I’m broadcasting signals like a horny SETI cruising for hot space alien action. My tongue darts out to touch a morsel of stray crumb on my upper lip.
Jesus, what am I doing? Flirting with this fuckwit just because he’s pretty and I haven’t gotten laid since January…
I break our blatant eyefuck and lift the tumbler of bourbon. “Well, here’s mud in your eye, Sandy.” I take a generous gulp. “I gotta get some sleep.”
“Bereft at the loss of your company, pet.”
“Oh, quit making fun of me.”
A small frown mars his brow, then evaporates. “I assure you, I’m not.”
Argh, why do I kinda want to keep hanging out with him?
My stomach sinks as I remember Priya’s furtive conversation with my brother.
I just know if I go back to the suite now and she’s awake, I’m going to start an argument.
I almost laugh as I think of how hilariously appalled she’d be if I went back to Alexander’s room with him.
She trusts him even less than I do. (Probably because she’s not swayed by this weird hormonal thing that’s happening to me, but whatever.)
I allow myself another tiny sip of the bourbon, then set it in front of Alexander. “Hey, wanna go to your room and do another video? Like, right now?”
I expect him to leer and say something cheeky, but his expression is… What is that? Gentle and sad and maybe a little hopeful. It passes, and he picks up the glass, tipping back the liquor in one smooth, open-throated shot, then fixing his gaze on mine.
Look at those damned eyes of his. I can only imagine the power they’d have if I really liked the guy. Fuuuuuuck, he has me rattled…
But then he gives me a slow smile, right back to his sly, flirty self.
“You’re on, Salvi. Lead the way.”