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I couldn’t smack this guy and suggest he take me to see Davos.
Ugh, nuance really wasn’t my thing.
He slithered up next to me at the bar like Eurotrash snake and grinned in a way that said he probably didn’t care what my name was, let alone my hopes and dreams.
Not that different from a human bar, really.
“Hey,” he said.
Oh, joy. A conversationalist.
I sipped my drink coyly, hoping it looked flirty rather than giving the impression I didn’t know how to use a straw. “Hi.”
His gaze trailed down my neck. Success.
I’d have to tell Desmond later that I was now a certified master at flirting. After he died of laughter I’m sure he’d come to agree.
“Have I seen you here before? You look familiar.”
Shaking my head, I tried to come off as extra shy. “Uh-uh.”
“Guessed as much. I’m sure I’d remember a pretty girl like you. What’s your name, sweetie?”
Okay, so one thing here. This guy was clearly an older vampire based on what he took to be cool clothes, and oh my God had he bought a bunch of old pick-up guides from the seventies? These lines were atrocious. Even money said he was going to start negging me soon, borrowing a move from those steaming-turd-heap, modern books that suggested all women wanted in life was for men to be mean to them. So hot.
“I’m Jessica.”
“You’re a bit skinnier than I usually like my girls, Jessica, but there’s something about you.”
Ding ding ding. Did I just win Asshole Pickup Bingo? Yes, yes I did. I faked a laugh as airy and stupid as any I had ever heard and then played with a loose strand of my hair.
I was especially proud of my makeshift updo now, because he honestly couldn’t stop looking at my neck.
He grazed a finger over one of the burn marks on my arm. It had healed a lot since
L.A. thanks to my twice-a-day salve regimen, but I still flinched when he touched me.
“Does that hurt?” He sounded like he hoped it did.
“I’m a little sensitive.”
“What happened?”
Couldn’t really tell the truth here. Even around people I knew it required some backstory to explain how I’d burned the shit out of myself trying to climb out of Hell.
I was glad the dress had a high front so he couldn’t see the scars on my chest. Desmond didn’t care a lick about them, but he was my husband and thought I was perfect because I had sex with him on the regular and brought him bagels.
For others, it might be a bit of a turn-off to see pinkish-white pucker marks in the shape of someone’s hand.
I’d actually forgotten about the burn marks, though, which was amateur hour. I could have at least tried to cover them with some makeup.
“I’m a waitress,” I lied smoothly. “I sometimes get burns on the bread oven at work.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
I leaned in a little closer and smiled. “I like dangerous.”
“Then you’re wasting your time with him,” came a liquid-velvet voice from behind me.
