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“Do what?”
“Talk so formal all the time. I haven’t heard you use a single contraction since you opened your mouth. It’s odd.”
He laughs. To be fair, it’s more of a sarcastic huff, but it’s progress. “That is because you are American. Your language is…” He waves his hand in the air. “How do you say…? Unrefined.”
I have a feeling very few people stick around long enough to push this guy’s buttons. However, I’m finding the harder I push, the more chinks in his armor I cause.
So I raise my arm and flag down a passing cocktail waitress. “Ginger!”
She doesn’t hesitate to change her course and arrive at our table, partly out of friendship, but mostly out of fear. I may be young, but I have access to the guillotine.
“Bring my friend a…” Pausing, I gesture toward the bar. “Pick your poison, Mik.”
His eyes never leave mine. “Any bottled beer is fine.”
“Unopened,” I call out as she walks away.
This time those tightly pursed lips curve up in a wicked smirk, and something happens to me. Words get caught in my throat. My mind blanks. He’s melting, and I’m drowning.
Don’t chase storms. My mind warns. This man is a chameleon.
But I don’t listen. After Ginger returns with his beer, I toss my shot back, and not only do I chase the storm, but I run right into the damn eye. “Aren’t you going to ask me my name?”
He inspects the beer, then pops the cap off on the end of the table, satisfied I haven’t tried to poison him. “No.”
“I have to tell you, Mik… Your conversational skills need a little work.”
“And I told you I do not want company.” He takes a long swig from the bottle, the battle within him playing out across his face. Finally, he relents, letting out an irritated growl. “Well, what is it?”
“What’s what?”
“Your name.”
“Bebe.” I’ve said the name so many times in the last three months I’m unsurprised at how easily it rolls off my tongue.
“That is quite the bruise you have there, Bebe.” He tips the bottle toward my face.
I resist the urge to brush my fingers over it.
My bruise. The reason I’m here instead of a classroom at the University of Miami…
And the reason my boyfriend ended up as shark bait.
CHAPTER FOUR
ZASHA
I thought three layers of makeup covered the splotchy yellow, green, and purple bruise spanning my right cheekbone. It’s finally fading, and since no one has said shit for days, I assumed the “lesson” my late boyfriend gave me had become invisible.
I should’ve known better.
“I fell,” I lie, brushing my hair over my face.
“Into a fist?”
I open my mouth, ready to fling the sharp insult sitting on my tongue when I catch a flash in those emotionless eyes. It’s barely there half a heartbeat before disappearing, devoured by the void he controls at will.
But it’s too late.
