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I don’t mind being an uncultured asshole if it means I get to avoid these atrocious, uncomfortable seats. The minuscule personal space and my discomfort are only mildly offset by the occasional accidental brush of London’s arm against mine, or her scent wafting in my direction.
It’s nothing, however, compared to the entertainment we came to witness. I think Bianca deliberately wanted to torture me. Meowing cats, crying babies and nails dragged across rusty metal combined would provide a better artistic experience than the weird musical happening on the stage.
The intermission comes way too late. When they finally draw the curtain for the break, I can’t rush to the foyer fast enough. I don’t even care if London follows. Fuck me.
“Not having a good time?” She catches up with me outside as I loosen my tie and unbutton my shirt’s collar. Amusement laces her voice.
I study her, trying to come up with a smart remark, but God help me, if I have to return to that hellhole… I open my mouth, but before I can try to manipulate her into leaving, she surprises me.
“This is the worst play I’ve ever seen.” She shakes her head. “And I fit into that seat.” The corners of her lips quiver.
I exhale. “Thank God. Let’s ditch it.”
She laughs. “That’s the first good idea that has ever come out of your mouth, Cressard.”
“My hooking up suggestion beats it,” I quip and offer her my arm.
“And the rare moment that I actually enjoyed your company is gone.” She heaves an exaggerated sigh, curling her slender arm through mine, and bumps me with her hip, but it’s a halfhearted protest.
We get our coats and end up in a small bistro eating nachos and having cocktails. Well, London is having one.
“You don’t drink.” It’s not a question, but she expects an answer as she studies me with those sultry eyes.
The lighting here is low, and it lends her this enticing veil of seduction. Her feet with those damn heels are under the table, but her lips remind me of them, and my stupid cock keeps pressing against my zipper at the idea.
Fuck. London Lowe yells at me, refuses me, growls at me, insults me, and leads me to develop a shoe fetish.
“I stopped drinking six months ago.”
“Why?” Her voice is husky, humming with seduction. It must be because she isn’t barking her words. Yeah, that’s the only reason I hear her differently.
“When I started losing interest in my life, I dropped alcohol and drugs. I used drugs only occasionally, but alcohol had become a daily occurrence over the years. I thought that with my mind cleared I’d have a better chance at identifying the problem.”
“And how is it going? You look much better than when I met you.” She takes a sip of her drink, her eyes pinned on me. Does she know how sexy that is?
“Are you giving me a compliment, Chils?”
Her jaw ticks before she forces a smile. Even her fake smile is beautiful. “I’m saying you no longer look like the ghost of a lumberjack. New York’s lovely winter weather suits you, I guess. Perfect conditions for your dark soul.”
“Obviously.” I throw the insult back at her.
She sighs. “My personality comes out warm to people who deserve it.”
“Like our doorman?” I don’t even know why I’m poking at her.
“You know nothing about me to judge,” she snaps.
Shit. This conversation went south pretty fast. “Well, we’ve established that I’m an asshole.”
“Finally, something we can agree on.” She leans back in her chair.
“We agreed on the quality of tonight’s entertainment.” I smooth my tie. The suit has grown more comfortable since we left the theater.
“Jesus. What was Bianca thinking?” Chils shakes her head.
“That we’d enjoy audio and visual torture.”
London laughs. And just like with her shoes, it immediately becomes an obsession. I want her to laugh more around me. I’m probably the last person she wants to laugh with though.
