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“I would if I could, but she still thinks Meatloaf is Satanic.” She grabs my hand. “Come on. Let’s celebrate that tomorrow, we’ll have enough cash to open our boutique. We won’t need to work for anyone else ever again.”
15
Bex
* * *
The bar is full of people from work. Jo’s up on the stage when we walk in, singingMy Heart Will Go On, complete with hand movements that I guess represent the sinking of Titanic.
Eric spots us and beckons us over to the group. “I’ll get the drinks,” Ursula says, heading for the bar.
“You got the wine,” I reply. “I’ll go.”
“You’ll be paying for a store tomorrow. I owe you.”
She walks off. I join the group. Everyone’s talking about Hunter. So much for coming out to forget about him for a few hours. The rumors are still flying. He’s part of the mob. He’s been brought in by the government. He’s going to shut down the firm. We’re about to expand and hire new staff. The magazine’s toast. He’s saving our business. No one seems to know for sure what’s going on. They ask me about my talk with him, but I say little. I’m not sure what to tell them.
Jo comes to the end of her song. She hands the microphone straight to Ursula, who waves at me. The opening riff of Meatloaf’s finest blasts through the speakers. I roll my eyes, but I end up joining her on stage.
“I’m nowhere near drunk enough for this,” I tell her as she slaps me on the shoulder.
“Get this down you.”
She passes me a tall thin glass filled with something pink and smelling of cherries.
“What is this?”
“Try it and get singing.”
I down the drink, grimacing as I do. “That must have been pure vodka,” I tell her as she laughs at me.
She grins. “Pretty much. Now sing.”
I start to wail into the microphone. My toes curl for the first few seconds, but then I enjoy it. By the song’s end, I’m grinning like a loon and laughing my head off as I dance around the stage.
Which is when I see Hunter watching my performance.
The light’s low over by the back corner, but I can tell it’s him at once. I freeze on the spot as he emerges into the light. His tie is askew, his shirt is coated in sweat, and his hair is out of place. There’s dirt on his right cheek. He’s walking straight toward me. I open my mouth to ask what he’s doing here as the song dies, but I don’t get any further. He kisses me, pressing his lips to mine for the briefest of moments. “Don’t say a word,” he says. “You’re welcome.”
Then he simply turns and walks out of the bar. I stagger slightly in place, not even sure what just happened. When I can get my feet to move again, I run after him, pushing the door open in time to see him shutting the trunk of his car. His driver sits behind the wheel, looking straight ahead like I’m not here.
“What are you doing?” I ask, grabbing his shoulder as he climbs into the back of the car. “Are you stalking me?”
“If I was stalking you, you’d never know.”
“Is that supposed to reassure me?”
“It’s the truth.”
“What are you doing here? You can’t just kiss me and walk away like that.”
“Yes, I can.”
There’s a thump from the trunk of the car. “What was that?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he replies, staring straight at me like he’s defying me to argue with him.
“That wasn’t nothing. What have you got in the trunk?”
