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Barely a week ago, I had this girl on her back, my fingernails grazing her cervix while she whimpered and hated and struggled. Now we're sitting in some cosy restaurant booth, exchanging bad sex puns and making doe eyes at each other. It's like we've done date rape backwards.
I move my finger across her menu; she doesn't move hers, but leaves them lying at the edges like an invitation.
"To start," I go on, "I like the corn fritters with scallops. Or if you prefer salad, the peach mozzarella is good."
She gives a short, sharp laugh. "I've eaten too many salads this week already. Sign me up for the lard."
"So I can count on you not to flake out at dessert, huh?"
"Oh." She lowers her eyes. "Not sure if I can manage any more chocolate today."
At that moment, the hostess returns with our beers. She takes our orders; corn fritters followed by fillets and fries, though Leo adds Béarnaise to her plate. And then we're alone, just shadows and echoed music and soft blue lights making Leo's big eyes blacker than usual.
Our menus are gone, no longer playgrounds for our fingers, but I want to touch her.
So I do.
She watches my hand as I reach across the table; I find the underside of her wrist with my thumb and push in. My breath catches at the feel of veins beneath skin, lithe and springing. I half think she'll pull away, but she doesn't; I reward that with long, smooth strokes across her forearm.
Pain is useless without pleasure. One highlights the other, and the tension that simmers between them is the sweetest of lines to cross.
"I hope you received my gifts," I say.
"I couldn't exactly have missed them." Still, she watches my fingers as if it's safer than eye contact. It probably is.
"I had them put together just for you."
"So I gathered." She takes a deep breath. "Thanks. They're...they're very unique."
"I want to spoil you," I murmur.
Silence.
Eventually, she finds the courage to look up. "I'm already spoiled."
"Leo." Under the table, I find her leg with mine, rub my knee against hers. She doesn't pull away. "I don't give a shit about anything that happened before tonight. Do you understand?"
"Seems a strange thing to say for a man who plans so meticulously."
She really doesn't get it; an impulsive man like me must learn to plan. He must accept consequence, must remember that it exists, and must build a life that cossets him from the risk of his very nature. Without plans, he's just wildfire, attracting too much attention and torching everything he touches.
Yet all that ever matters to me is the here and now.
"Besides," she goes on. "There are things that have happened between us that I'd find...difficult to forget."
"I'm not asking you to."
"Then what are you asking for?" She makes a soft, frustrated sound. "Because one minute you're all sweetness—odd, twisted sweetness, granted—and the next, you don't ask me for anything. You just take, whether you're talking me around or forcing my hand."
Twisted? That's all I get...?
"And now you look highly disgusted with me." Her voice wavers.
"I'm not in the habit of pandering to some weird alpha fantasy." How to phrase this? "I've not changed since Miss Fordham. I am what I am."
"O-okay." She tries to drag her arm back from my grasp, but I squeeze it in refusal.
"So you'll understand if I'm a little suspicious that you are, as you say, okay with that."
"I don't know that I am," she mutters. "And you still haven't answered my question."
"Isn't obvious?"
"What you want?" She gives a hollow laugh. "No."
"Maybe you haven't dared to imagine." A grin stretches the corners of my mouth. "Maybe you should."
She grabs her beer and takes a long drink. By the time she's finished, the hostess is standing over us with steaming plates of corn fritters and pan-fried scallops, their white plates garnished with lemony lettuce.
I allow her to eat because the slicing sounds soothe me. I like that she's just inches away, her knee still pressed to mine; I let my jeans ride up a little around my loafers, let the leather of her boot slide against my ankle. Her sweater dips further as she leans toward her plate, showing me more than a hint of her cleavage, and every time she opens her mouth, I get a flash of white teeth or pink tongue. It's obvious that my scrutiny bothers her—I like this even more.
"Do you have a thing for watching people eat?" she asks me sharply.
"Nope." I sit back, shove my empty plate aside. "Just for you."
We make small talk over steak and fries; the pretend first-date chatter amuses me. Leo tells me about growing up in England—the things she misses, like good breakfast tea and clotted cream—and I listen, like the articles told me to. It's even interesting.
When she asks me about how I grew up, however, a prickly shiver claws at my throat. "What do you mean?"
"I just wondered. You know. What your parents do—I mean, did. How things were."
A voice spits up in my mind; Leo, lying beneath me, the gun to her throat. You deserve it. Not just Rachel. Your mother, your father...
She can speculate about what happened to my parents, nothing else. The only person who knows the truth is me.
"Sorry." She looks away. "I shouldn't have asked."
"My mother didn't work. Trust fund. I never saw much of my grandparents, but for all their sins, they set her up pretty well. Dad...my father was a music teacher at a boarding school."
"What did he play?"
"Loads of instruments. All kinds of stuff. But I loved it best when he played piano. He used to do all this rockabilly shit, crazy riffs and rhythms."
Her lips twitch at the edges; she doesn't know if she should smile. "Do you play?"
"Chopsticks. And badly."
Her face brightens. "Really?"
"Uhuh." I find myself fiddling with the collar of my shirt, rolling it between my finger and thumb. "You play an instrument?"
"Oh God, no. And I can't sing. I'm terrible."
"That makes two of us."
She takes a sip of beer, raising her eyebrows. "This is turning into some sort of confessional."
"No, it really isn't." I catch her hand again. "Trust me."
"Oh?" She digs her fingernails into the flesh of my palm. "I feel bad because I still have two parents when you don't have any."
"I'm willing to bet at least one of your parents is a complete cunt, so don't pity me too much."
She squeezes harder. This is becoming a contest. "I should have thrown those freak roses back in your face."
"But you sent me a pretty quote instead."
"I should have called the Police when I found you in my apartment."
"But you didn't."
"I shouldn't be here. Rachel—"
"But you are here. Leo." I lean in, almost whispering. "Don't confuse should with want. All it does is make you miserable."
She won't look at me. Her nails press so hard into my palm that they sting like nettles.
I go on. "The trick is manipulate one for the sake of the other. Know the shoulds, consider the shoulds, but only comply when they lead to a want."
She gives a bitter laugh. "And that's how the world works, is it?"
"You want to tell me it doesn't?"
"No." Her eyes are bright and black beneath long, curled lashes. "But I probably should."
The hostess chooses that moment to appear with dessert menus, but I wave them away and pay the bill instead.
Leo peers at me, her cheeks flushed with anticipation. "I thought you wanted pudding?"
"I do." I get to my feet, my jacket slung over one arm and my free hand offered to her. "At your apartment."
"I'm not going to fuck you," she mutters.
The hostess passing by nearly drops her tray.
We spend the cab journey to her building in silence. Lights flash past. Sirens blare. I reach across, catch her sweat-damp hand, knot our fingers tightly and press her palm to my thigh. Flesh on flesh, separated by a thin layer of fabric; fabric we should wear to obscure the skin we want. Heat flares between us. Crackles in nerves and licks old wounds. I half think I'll cut off her circulation, and she winces...but doesn't pull away. Just sits and trembles and when we arrive, refuses to let me pay for the cab.
