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“Do you always sound like that when you rap?” Giving her a hard time has quickly made my list of simple joys, and I smile when her cheeks turn three shades of red.
“Like what?”
“Like someone wired your jaw shut.”
“Do you ever knock before waltzing into people’s homes?”
“I did knock. Multiple times.”
“How’d you get in?”
“Turned the knob.”
She rolls her shoulders back, seemingly embarrassed. “I must’ve forgotten to lock it after I invited you for dinner and you slapped me with rejection.”
“Well, I changed my mind. Spaghetti sounds good.”
A smile lights up her stunning brown eyes set beneath long lashes that curl upward. Paired with the dimple in her cheeks, she has that girl-next-door look down, assuming the girl-next-door looks like an innocent, exotic beauty. “In that case, let’s eat!”
* * *
It’s been a long time since I sat down at a proper dinner table, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t just a bit unnerved by it. The last time was in New York, just before I put a bullet through my host’s skull. Even that stirred less tension.
“You’re not eating, Oli?” Nola asks her son, before shoveling a forkful of wound up spaghetti noodles into her mouth.
Of course not. Kid’s eyes are glued on me at the moment, have been ever since I sat down to eat. Thought he was mentally handicapped at first, but I guess that’s not the case. It’s not his stare that’s got me edgy, though. Shit, I wear hostility like a second skin.
It’s the way we look like a nuclear family gathered around the table, as if any of this is normal.
I catch the subtle shake of his head in my periphery, as I wind my fork against a spoon and chomp another bite.
“Stop staring. It’s rude.” The chide in her voice comes off clipped and muffled, like she’s got her jaw locked.
“No. It’s okay.” Gaze focused on the task of spooling another bite of noodles, I offer only a slight smile. “Staring is an act of dominance. Challenge. Some believe you can reach an altered state of consciousness by staring for long periods of time. Most consider it a form of aggression. A battle of wills, so to speak.” Resting my hands at the edge of my plate, I lift my gaze to his in an unwavering game of look away. “Do you feel in control right now, Oliver?”
The twitch of his right eye tells me he’s uncomfortable. I catch the increased rise and fall of his chest, as his breaths scramble to meet his rapidly rising heartrate. Mine remains calm, steady, unruffled by his little act of power. The contest goes on, and without breaking my stare, I take another bite of spaghetti, keeping my eyes locked on his.
Only seconds later, the kid’s brows take a sharp dive into the frown, pinching his face, and he kicks back from the table, sloshing wine over the rim of the glasses.
“Oliver Daniel Tensley!” Nola’s voice fails to make a dent in the kid’s pissed-off mask of aggression, and he curls his lip before running out of the room.
I trail my gaze after him, still keeping with the game, even as he tromps up the stairs.
With a huff of obvious frustration, Nola cups her face, then runs her hands through those long, chestnut locks. “This will be the second time today I’ve had to apologize on his behalf.”
“Why doesn’t he talk?”
“Long story, Voss. Long story. And no happy ending, I’m afraid.” She tips back her glass of wine and sets it over the purplish stain on the tablecloth.
“You’ve got three-quarters left in that bottle. I’d say you’ve got time.”
Cheek dimpled with a half-cocked smile, she reaches for the bottle that’s between us and pours another glass. “It’s not something most people want to hear. I’m certain it’s not something you want to hear.”
“Why’s that?”
She sits quietly for a moment, as though contemplating her response.
I like this about Nola, the way she considers her words, chewing on them before she spits them out.
