Page 26 of Cruel Lies

"And strange women at bars are less exhausting?"

"This one is, so far."

The drinks come. He picks up his whiskey and tilts it toward me in a toast, just slightly. I tap my martini glass against it.

"To bad years for those who've wronged us," he says. "May they all die in horrible, painful ways."

I laugh. "Amen to that."

We drink. The martini is crisp and cool, every bit as dirty as the bartender promised it would be. I feel giddy already, high on impulsive decisions and tipsy off the first sip of liquor I've had ina long, long while. TheStarving for Santorinidays have never felt farther away.

"There's only one problem with that toast, though," I inform the stranger.

He eyes me curiously. "Not a fan of painful deaths?"

"It's not that. It's that, in my experience, if all those who wronged women died, the world would run out of men in a hurry."

To my surprise, he laughs. It's a rich, pleasant laugh, deep and sonorous, and it makes me flush with pride. Something tells me he doesn't laugh very often. I like that I'm the one who coaxed it out of him.

"Ah," he hums, "so painful deaths are fine. It'smenthat you're not a fan of."

I nod in agreement. "Men are pieces of shit."

I'm sure there are plenty of uber-masculine supporters of the patriarchy in here who would take this opportunity to lecture me about how men are the backbone of civilization and we'd all be driving hover cars and living in eternal paradise if women didn't insist on mucking things up all the time.

Luckily, this guy isn't one of them. He just nods, very seriously, and says, "Yes. We are."

"I mean it," I insist. "Every single one of you. You're all just—you take and you take and you lie and you take some more, and then when you've taken everything, you look at the woman who gave it to you and you decideshe'sthe problem."

He raises one hand. "You'll get no argument from me."

"You're agreeing with me too easily." I squint at him. "It's suspicious."

"I'm agreeing with you," he says, "because I've spent my entire career around cowardly men, and I've come to know exactly what they're capable of." He swirls the whiskey in his glass and frowns down at it. "For instance, you wouldn't believe the sad excuse for a man who came into my office today."

"Try me."

He considers, then seems to think better of whatever he was going to say. "Let's just say I met a fool who wanted things he had no right to want. And he was very proud of wanting them."

I almost shiver at the tone of his voice. It's distaste, but it's notjustdistaste. There's this sort of violent disgust underneath the surface. Funny enough, it matches the thing I've got living in my own chest these days.

I like him. I decide that, right then.

Not in a way that's going anywhere. But I do like him.

"You know what's funny," I say. "You're standing here agreeing with me that men are garbage. But youarea man."

"I am indeed."

"So." I turn on my stool to face him fully and prop my chin in my hand. "Defend your species, sir. Are you a piece of shit like the rest of them?"

I'm half-teasing. It's the kind of thing you can only say to a stranger, the kind of bold, dangerous thing that feels good when you've got a fishbowl of vodka in you and a dangerous dress, allat the expense of a husband at home you've already decided to destroy.

It's also exactly the kind of edgy, vaguely risqué banter that has defined this whole conversation.

But I'm somewhat taken aback when it doesn't draw a fast, witty reply from this man. Actually, the whole vibe downshifts. It's a subtle change, but undeniable.

His eyes darken.