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My eyebrows shoot up, and I growl menacingly. Her date blinks, turning pale. Weak prick.
“Do I look like I care?” I grunt. Shelley’s eyes widen, her mouth dropping open a little in disbelief. I guess in her world – herrealworld – people are never impolite.
She turns to her preppy date, smiling apologetically.
“I’ll be right back.”
The fuck she will.
Shelley rises, her dark red dress flowing like water over her faint curves. God, she’s beautiful. I glower at her date as she steps away from the table, warning the prick to stay here.
Turning on my heel, I stride after her, ignoring the looks we’re getting from the other diners. They can tell this story over their champagne glasses at their nextluncheon.
Shelley stops at the coat check, accepting a soft-looking light brown coat and shrugging it on. Good. It’s cold outside. I’d have to give her my leather jacket if she didn’t get her own.
We step outside, the cool night breeze lifting a few strands of dark hair from Shelley’s sleek bun. The valet turns to us, takes one look at my face, and closes his mouth, snapping to face the road again, studiously ignoring us, the tips of his ears turning pink.
Before I can hustle her to my rig, Shelley spins to face me, planting her feet. I stumble to a stop, staring at her.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” she hisses. My eyebrows shoot up. That’s not the question to be asking.
“What the fuck areyoudoing here?” I shoot back. Shelley rolls her eyes, gesturing behind me at the large feature window. I wonder if her date tipped extra to have themselves on display, sitting there.
“I’m clearly on a fucking date,” she spits. My lips tighten, my eyes burning into her face, broadcasting my disapproval.
“Not anymore.” My words are more growl than syllables. I jab my finger at my rig, parked on the street. Shelley’s eyes dance over it, but she dismissively turns her back on it. “Get the fuck on.”
Her mouth falls open, her eyes widening. “I’m not going anywhere with you. I’m going back inside to apologize again and finish my date.”
“The fuck you are. Get the fuck on the bike, kid.”
My fingers are itching to pluck her up, and bodily carry her over to the thing right now.
“No,” she snaps back. “If I’m going home with anyone, it will be Alex.”
Not happening. What kind of stupid preppy name is Alex anyway?
“What the fuck does he have that would interest you?” I’m getting annoyed now. He’s a wet-looking prick. She’s supposed to be a rebel. They don’t go on dates with preppy fucks. Where the hell is my ballerina pixie from the clubhouse? Where the fuck is my butterfly tourist from the fairground?
“I can take him home to my parents.”
My eyebrows crash together at her snapped reply. The fuck?
“Since when has that been something you look for?”
Shelley deflates in front of my eyes. The spitfire with blazing eyes is gone and in her place is a confused, defeated little thing in a dark red silk dress worth more than my monthly rent. I feel a prick of guilt for making her look like that, but I think it’s time Shelley faced some home truths.
“I don’t know if it is,” she grumbles softly. “But it’s nice to have the option.”
“Get on the bike, kid.” My tone is lower this time, less snappy. She sighs, her shoulders slumping.
“My purse is inside.” Surrender. Success. “Merch, no!”
She half-heartedly reaches out to stop me when I stride back inside. I don’t have to go through the restaurant to their table to fetch it. The preppy fuck is hovering next to the hostess station, holding Shelley’s purse.
He didn’t even come outside to stop me from taking his date away – she’s better off without the weak cunt.
Reaching over, I snatch the shiny little black purse off him. His nerveless fingers don’t even try to keep a hold of it. He protests weakly but cuts off when his eyes find Shelley over my shoulder and narrow.
