Page 90 of Dark Ugly Places

“The media will be all over this. They want to see you misstep. You can’t afford another disaster.”

“Fuck the media!” he shouts, and Bambi jumps, smearing the edge of her lipstick. She quickly wipes it off, reapplies, and heads downstairs before they get in the car to leave.

Jason speeds the entire way in the Wraith, making Bambi’s legs quiver nervously. Jason swerves through the city streets, narrowly missing parked cars and pedestrians, running stoplights, and cutting through intersections. Bambi grips the leather interior, her hands leaving impressions in the cream seats.

Paparazzi are already waiting for them when they arrive. They rush the car as they pull up to the restaurant, and the valet takes the keys to the Wraith. Cameras flash in Bambi’s face, and Jason pulls her close to guide her toward the doors.

“Jason! Jason! Is it true that you sexually assaulted Lauren LaMonte?”

“Bambi! How are you feeling knowing your husband cheated on you?”

“Is Lauren LaMonte filing charges?”

“Will the studio pull the plug on your contract?”

Bright lights flicker with the snap, snap, snap of professional cameras clicking, and Bambi must remind herself to breathe. Her body pulses with adrenaline, and she whispers to Jason, “Please, let’s go inside.”

Jason lingers once more, before they escape into the cool, dark interior of the steakhouse.

They are greeted by the maître d’ and led to a table in the middle of the restaurant, right in plain sight. Jason settles in and takes up the menu for just a moment before putting it down. I know what I want, his gesture says. He gazes at Bambi, cool and calm as she shrugs off her leather jacket and positions it on the back of her chair, heart pounding. From nowhere, a server arrives with a glass bottle of water. “Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Redfern. My name is Jeremy. I will be taking care of you this evening. What can I get you to drink?” His eyes linger on her, as if her expression might give something away.

Jason sighs, a waft of exasperation. “Macallan. Neat.” Bambi notes his breath is sour, like rotting milk. She rubs her nose.

“Absolutely, sir.” The server tilts his head to look at Bambi. “I’m fine with water.”

A single nod and he disappears. The low thrum of voices all around suddenly hits Bambi’s ears, as if the entire restaurant had been listening to their order. She fidgets with her clutch, then stills, aware of the eyes on both of them.

Jason smiles—a bright jolt of white teeth—and darts his hand across the table. Bambi takes his hand, and he lowers his head to kiss her knuckles. She can’t help but stir a little at his lips on her skin, a spark of electricity out of context with the moment. She catches herself flushing. It isn’t him, she thinks. This is the actor, not the man. She knows the difference now.

“Here we go.” A hand lands a stout glass with amber liquid in front of Jason, then reaches over to pour Bambi some water from a chilled glass bottle.

“What can I get for you this evening?”

Jason glances up. “I’ll have the bone-in ribeye, cooked rare. A side of those greens you do. The tuna roll and a house salad to start.”

“Excellent choices. And would you like—”

Jason interrupts. “And I’m allergic to shellfish. Absolutely no shellfish in anything.”

“Certainly, sir.” Jeremy leans in. “I will inform the chef myself. And for you, Mrs. Redfern?”

Bambi hesitates, the hole in her gnawing with hunger.

“Get a steak,” Jason instructs. “Protein.”

Bambi flashes him an angry expression. She wants seafood—a nice piece of lobster—but of course, that is out of the question. For a moment, she imagines his bloated, swelling face, the way his lips would pucker up, how his throat would tighten and close, a red complexion coming over him. A little smile forms across her lips.

“Petite filet, please. Medium. And a side of greens. Steamed. No butter.”

The server nods and rushes off. Jason sits back in his chair and casually checks that people are indeed looking at him. He adjusts his watch and glances at Bambi while sipping his Macallan.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” he asks her, setting down his drink.

Bambi stiffens. “I’m glad you’re home.”

Jason’s eyes intensify. “Really? Because you don’t seem glad. You seem fucking miserable to me,” he says, teeth gritted into a fake smile. Whispers cascade toward them from the back of the restaurant. A couple in the booth behind Jason adjust their positions so they can see her. Bambi breathes, her chest feeling tight.

“I’m scared,” Bambi finally says. “It feels like everything is caving in on us.”