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Buttlicker also must’ve noticed the attention the waiter gave me, for he rested his hand possessively on my knee. I winced, shifting away from the man who made me squeamish. One reprimanding stare from my father had me cowering and leaning closer towards Buttlicker.
It was a choice between two evils. With Buttlicker, I knew that I would survive whatever he had in store for me. With my father, I could never be too sure.
Gorgeous’ gaze hardened as he surveyed my father and then Buttlicker, but he didn’t comment. Smart move.
“And what can I get you?” Asher asked sharply, turning towards the slimy man still gripping my knee as if his life depended on it. Yup. That was going to leave a nasty bruise there.
Great. Another one added to the inventory.
Mental me could barely contain her eye roll.
“Did you say something?” Buttlicker asked, turning his attention from Asher to me. This time I did roll my eyes, both physically and mentally (if there’s such thing as rolling your eyes mentally. I’m not exactly sure, but I pictured myself rolling my eyes inside my mind. Does that count?)
“I didn’t say anything,” I huffed, glaring a hole at my menu. I had a tendency to speak my mind. Literally. Therapist 1 called it a defense mechanism for my traumatic childhood – whatever the hell that means. Therapist 2 said it was a way for me to express myself. Therapist 3 just chuckled and called me an idiot (I don’t believe Therapist 3 was anactualtherapist), but Therapist 4 admitted that it was not uncommon for trauma patients, when facing isolation, to find comfort in their own thoughts. Thus, my inner monologues and rumblings often turned into outer monologues and rumblings. You can imagine how embarrassing it can be at times, especially with my tendency to create nicknames.
Asher continued taking orders around the table, and I half expected my mother to make a smartass comment along the lines of “I’ll have you for supper” or something dumb like that. I was pleasantly surprised when she only made a passing comment about having “the Asher special for dessert”. That was real progress for my mother.
I wonder if his last name is Gorgeous? Then I wouldn’t feel as creepy calling him Gorgeous. Asher Gorgeous. Hmmm. Fitting.
It took me a moment to realize that all eyes were on me, including the stunning waiter who directed his blinding smile at me.
I tried to recall what I had just thought, and obviously said, and my cheeks flamed with the realization of what transpired.
“Shit.”
Kill me now.
“Tempting,” D.O.D. said, taking a sip of his water. His expression was as severe as his eyes. I had the distinct feeling that he wasn’t joking. Great. Just what I wanted.
“So, about those Red Sox?” I interjected quickly. Though, in the middle of winter, I doubted that baseball had started up again. Sports. Sports were always a good topic of conversation with men. Asher, moving from our table to the next, smirked at me. He had no doubt heard my comment and found it amusing. What can I say? I have that effect on people.
Conversation, thankfully, steered away from the whole me-dying-of-mortification-thing and Red Sox to more work-related material. Taxes and employees and the whole stimulating shebang. They didn’t talk about any of their, for back of better term,illegalenterprises, though not that I blamed them. I wondered how that conversation would go.
“I was wondering, how much you have been selling those illegal guns for?”
“The same amount as I have been selling my coke.” Or pot. Or marijuana. Or whatever the hell they were up to these days.
D.O.D. had insisted that I take part in the business.
“You’re no longer a little girl,” he had told me sternly. “You have to start training to take over the family business.”
I snorted. Family business made me think of a sweet, loving family that laughed as they fixed their shop and then came home to meals around the dinner table. I’m pretty sure that mostfamily businessesdidn’t involve over a hundred shell companies, connections with the mafia, and a date with the drug lord of Mexico. Running the “family business” sounded about as appealing to me as stabbing my eye repeatedly with a rusted spoon would’ve been. Needless to say, it wasn’t appealing.
Still, I behaved like the good girl, the good daughter, that my parents wanted me to be. It wasn’t so much to please them as it was to protect myself. When I was good, when I listened and obeyed, they had no reason to punish me.
No reason to send people like Buttlicker to my room.
The mere thought made me tremble as if I had been electrocuted. My hand absently pulled at my sweater sleeves until they covered my hands.
It wasn’t long before our meal came, though it was a different waiter from the one earlier that delivered it. Great. Theoneguy that I actually found attractive, my family had to go and scare him away.
I shouldn’t have been surprised. The longest relationship I had…well, that lasted approximately two days. In kindergarten.
You see, I had a little problem (yes, even more of a problem than talking to myself). It involved people. And it involved my lack of talking to them. To some, I came across as a complete and utter bitch. To be completely honest, I kind of was. I didn’t have friends; I had minions and wannabes that followed me around like lost puppies. I was the girl that every boy wanted, and every girl wanted to be. The socialite constantly stalked by paparazzi with a slew of hookups in her wake. The trendsetter, the beauty queen, the diva.
I was everything but myself.
It was almost as if I was a player in a video game, but I was being controlled by a monkey on acid. I ran into walls, tripped over air, and ninety-nine percent of the time looked completely lost and oblivious. I often wondered if my life was just a big joke and God and the angels sat up in heaven laughing at me.
