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“Listen, you look cold and I'm not about to let you freeze,” he said. “Not if I can do something about it. Besides, we need to hide the blood on your shirt, so people don't think we just came from a murder scene. We don't want the cops hauling us in tonight.”
He sat back down across from me and grinned. He could obviously see my hesitance to slip his jacket on completely, fearful I might ruin it, so he added.
“Don't even think about how much it costs, Casey,” he said. “It doesn't matter. I've got a bunch more at home, and I'm sure the dry cleaners can get a little blood out of the material.”
“Have experience with that, do you?”
I'd made a joke. It caught me by surprise too. Malcolm laughed, his full, luscious lips spreading in an adorably crooked smile.
Dammit, Casey. Do not use the words luscious and adorable when talking about some rich guy you never, ever stand a chance with, I mentally scolded myself. He's only taking you to get some food because he feels sorry for you. That's it. Nothing more, nothing less. Eat the food, laugh at his jokes, and go the hell home. “You're funny as well as beautiful,” he said. “Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Not that I can recall,” I mumbled.
“Well, they should have,” he replied. “You deserve to hear that more often.”
My heart skipped a beat. He'd said I was beautiful. My cheeks flushed and burned with heat as I stared down at the menu, trying to appear deep in thought about what I was going to order, rather than on the verge of a massive stroke because he'd complimented me.
The waitress came over a second later, glasses of water in hand. She wrote down our orders and before long, it was just me and the millionaire again, all by our lonesome, in an otherwise empty diner. I couldn't help but think that's why Malcolm chose this place. It was somewhere no one would recognize him, since he was slumming it by hanging out with the likes of me. Years of my father's torment and abuses came rushing back to me like a horde of evil ghosts from the past. They riddled me with anxiety and self-loathing as I played with a straw wrapper, doing my best to keep myself composed.
“So, Casey,” he asked, breaking the silence between us, “may I ask what happened back there at the club?”
“Sure, you may ask, but I don't have to answer.”
Malcolm sighed, making me to glance up at him. He studied me closely, as if trying to solve an intricate puzzle. His eyes were soft and thoughtful though, and I couldn't stop staring. Unlike with Greg or Tommy, or the countless other men who'd come into the club, Malcolm didn't look at me like I was a piece of meat. He wasn't undressing me with his eyes, and clearly, wasn't imagining me in some lewd sexual fantasy. It was different and interesting.
“What?” I asked. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Looking at you how?”
“Like you're trying to read my mind.”
“Would you rather I stare at your cleavage?”
“It'd be more familiar, ” I said, rolling my eyes. “You hide it better, but you're really just like the others, aren't you?”
“The others as in – who?” he asked. “I'm confused.”
“Greg. Tommy,” I said. “The other assholes who freque
nt the club. Rich guys who were born on third base and think they hit a triple. Guys who think they're entitled to whatever they put their hands on.”
He shrugged and reached for his glass of water, sipping it slowly, his eyes never leaving mine.
“I'd like to think I'm not an asshole,” he said. “But, I guess it depends on who you ask. I gotta believe that Greg thinks I'm a pretty big asshole right about now. Tommy and Leon too.”
Our food came out, and I almost squealed with delight. Food, glorious food. I had a heaping plate of pancakes, eggs, and bacon in front of me. I was practically salivating as the waitress set the plate down on the table, my stomach growling even louder than before. Malcolm got a massive burger and fries, which seemed rather odd. Then again, it's not like this place served lobster or filet mignon – or whatever rich guys like him were used to eating.
I dug into the food, stuffing heaping fork after heaping fork it into my mouth and relishing every single bite. Malcolm munched on a fry, clearly amused by the pace in which I was eating. When I noticed him watching, I slowed it down, and even forced myself to take a rest between bites. Stuffing my face probably wasn't the best look.
“Sorry,” I said, wiping my mouth with my napkin. “I'm just starving tonight.”
“Don't apologize,” he said. “I like a girl who can eat. Too many women in Hollywood think they have to starve themselves to nothing but skin and bones in order to be attractive. But, when I take someone out to dinner, I want them to enjoy it. I want them to actually eat.”
Considering the fact that Malcolm was in ridiculously good shape, I couldn't imagine he ate very unhealthily all that often. His girlfriend, or rather his ex-girlfriend, was a typical thin model type. Tall and waify – so, I'd just assumed that was his preference. Maybe I'd been wrong.
Or maybe he was just trying to be nice and placate me. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, though.
“So, Malcolm, did you just feel like slumming it tonight or what?” I asked. “Why hang out with me like this?”
