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"I know that. You’re in a special kind of hell. What did you do? Hit on her sister?" He laughs no doubt conjuring up the time he actually did that.
"No. Her brother."
Damien whistles. "You hit on her brother? That's new."
"No! Her brother is my best friend."
This time, the sounds that comes out of Damien’s mouth is a curse. A string of them. "Shit. You hit on Nathan's sister? Does he know? Of course not. Your head is still attached to your body. How did that happen? When did that happen? She's not in London, is she?"
“Too many questions."
"Yeah, but you better have some answers. I'm going to ask the only thing that matters. Are you willing to lose Nathan over a fling with his sister? Because I'm telling you now, that's what will happen. I'm not saying not to do it. But... make sure you know what you’re doing before you do it.”
I arrive at Bottle half an hour early. I want to get there before she arrives, and according to Nathan, she's always been a stickler for time. Something about respecting someone else's time.
I nod to Marcus, the bartender, who flashes me a grin and reaches for the bottle of Hibiki Japanese Whiskey I keep behind the bar and pours me a drink. He slides it across the polished bar to me, but the smell makes me swallow down a gag as soon as the scent reaches my nostrils. After I’d woken up with my head in an ice bucket, it had taken me about half a bottle of tylenol, a long hot shower, and a five-mile run in to push back the symptoms from my bender last night,
There is nothing but a bunch of blurry images and a note from Damien that says, “if you don’t die, I’ll see you on Sunday for dinner.” I reach for the jug of water on the end of the bar instead and down a whole glass, but it does nothing to wet my dry mouth. Another glass helps a little; I forego a third and check my watch.
Twenty minutes to go,
I can't believe I'm about to do this.
But I can't think of another way to make a clean cut with her so that it’s clear there will be no chance to pick things up again sometime down the road.
A tall blonde that looks like she breathes fire waves to me from the entrance and I gesture at Marcus to pour her usual drink. My assistant Odette, my partner in crime. The one who came up with the idea in the first place. She joins me, flirting with me, and with everyone at the bar, man, woman, young, old. Marcus is the only one she ignores. And he her. He’s been down this road with her before and came out missing pieces of both his body and soul.
The next twenty minutes feel interminable.
The second hand on the clock on the wall feels like it’s going backwards, and finally I take Odette’s hand and pull her into my private booth in the back of the bar, yelling to my bartender, “If anyone comes looking for me, I’m in my booth.”
We settle into the booth, my hands shaking. Something screams at me that if I’m this nervous, then I’m doing the wrong thing.
“You ready?” I ask, my voice shaking.
“Always.” Odette nods, drapes her arms along the quilted leather edge of the booth, and lays her head back, giving me a wink.
I move in closely, brushing her hair aside, leaning in pretending to whisper silly nothings in her ear.
In the corner of my eye, I see someone enter the bar, hair piled on top of her head in a perfect bun that shows the length of her neck. It's like every hair has been sculpted into place. I force myself to focus on the woman sitting next to me, but she has to grip my chin and turn it towards her.
“You’re blowing it,” she hisses into my ear.
“I know. Fuck. I’m trying. She’s here.”
“Fine, let me help.”
She takes my head and shoves it into her lap as she leans back and lets out a soft, slow moan.
Something in my stomach lurches at the thought of how Kiara is going to react when she sees me, and I don’t have to wait too long.
There’s an audible gasp.
“Kylian?”
I swallow down the bile and sit up, pretending to wipe my lips on the back of my hand.
"Oh, hey, I didn’t see you there," I say, casually leaning back against the back of the booth. "This is my best friend's little sister, Kiara. Kiara, this is Odette.” Every single part of me yells that I’m making a mistake, and aches to jump out of the booth and tell her it was just a joke, but Odette grabs my hand and pulls it into my lap, anchoring me. I don’t know whether to thank her or kill her. “What’s up?” The words sound callous. And it shows in the way her face crumbles.
