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“Asshole.” I fire back, which causes him to chuckle softly. It makes me stare because I’m so used to seeing him angry. It’s a look he wears well, but I kind of prefer this one. He is relaxed, no doubt due to the wine and the lazy way he is staring at me is making my toes curl.
“You’re so sure of yourself.”
“I am.”
He shrugs as if I’ve given him a compliment and I shake my head. “A little humility would suit you more.”
“I have none.” He raises his glass to the woman, and she positively beams in his direction, and I groan. “Now you’ve given her hope.”
“Why should that concern you?”
“It doesn’t.”
I bristle with indignation, and I don’t like that it bothers me–a lot.
He turns to me and crooks his finger, beckoning me closer and I hiss, “I’m not your pet.”
“Are you sure about that?”
I open my mouth to speak, and he leans forward and grips my chin and whispers, “You have the power. You are where she wants to be, and you have my full attention.”
“Lucky me.”
I roll my eyes and he dips his finger in his glass of red and runs it along my lower lip, causing me to hiss, “I don’t drink, you asshole.”
“I know, but I do.” He leans closer and takes my bottom lip into his mouth and sucks leisurely and drags his thumb across my chin, holding it firmly in his hands. Then he repeats the process, and a little droplet falls onto my tongue, and he cleans it off with his. He lifts the glass and tips a small amount of the wine into my mouth and swipes his tongue inside to clean it up.
This is so dangerous, to me anyway, because kissing a man like him in public and putting on a show for another woman, is strangely thrilling.
I’m angry that my heart is pounding and my thighs slick with desire and my breathing is fast against my chest. How does he do this? I am his to command and I hate myself for that.
He pulls away and stares into my eyes, his own flashing with a power that excites me. “I think you love the thrill of danger, little assassin. You get off on it and I can help you with that.”
I shake my head and pull away, my voice rather wobbly as I whisper, “Don’t flatter yourself. I have no thoughts concerning you, other than you’re an asshole who ticks every stereotype on the list.”
I stand and pray that this dress doesn’t betray my dignity as my nipples poke against the fabric like steel pins. The fabric could well also contain a damp patch, revealing my shame and so I edge with my back to the wall and say breathlessly, “If you’ll excuse me, I need the restroom.”
He nods with a knowing smirk on his face that I am itching to wipe off with my fist and my face burns as I head at speed toward the only place I can retrieve my sanity.
The cool air conditioning is most welcome as I head into an empty cubicle and sit on the toilet seat with my head in my hands. I am out of my depth. Drowning, in fact, because I’m not this woman who plays games with men with more money than sense.
I reach for some toilet paper and attempt to wipe away my body’s shame. I say my body because my mind is accepting no responsibility for this.
I wanted him.
Why did I want a man like that? He is everything I hate. Everything I swore I would avoid like the plague. Men in general, actually, because they have only brought trouble into our lives.
Then there’s my father. Noble fair and true with a weakness. My mom never made it easy for him and I kind of understood why he took to alcohol to get by. She drove him to it, and I never understood why he wanted her in the first place. She’s an evil bitch who only cares about herself and the string of men before Mickey proved that.
When dad died, she was out of control. Not with grief, with relief.
She was free. She made the most of it, too. Endless parties, many dates with men that ended up in her bedroom without a care for the impressionable girls sleeping in the neighboring rooms. She was into drugs, drink, and sex and when she met Mickey, he harnessed her hobbies to his advantage. Then his twisted gaze turned to us, and I will never forgive my mom for that.
I flee from the memories before they add to an already ruined evening and as I leave the cubicle, I come face to face with the woman from the next table.
She is applying her red lipstick, and our eyes meet in the mirror.
I smile and move to the basin, and she says in a slow drawl, “You have one night only. Make the most of it.”
