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It’s not like he wants to be here. That much is obvious from one glance at his face. He looks like he’d rather be getting a root canal.
And yet I can’t imagine that Dmitri Egorov does anything he doesn’t want to do. So the question remains: why is he here?
“My first boyfriend brought me here,” Bee continues. “It was technically the first official date we ever had.”
I try my best to focus on her. She’s been doing all the talking tonight. Dmitri’s mostly just brooding in his seat, avoiding everyone’s gazes.
“Your first date with your first boyfriend and he brought you here? That’s intense.”
She giggles, grabbing the pink drink a server brings her and taking a ladylike taste through the straw. “You wanna hear ‘intense’? His name was Astor Samuel-Sachs Hawthorne Alcott-Thurgood III.”
I nearly spit out my mocktail. “I stand corrected. That’s intense.”
Bee grins evilly, her white teeth flashing in the darkness. “My father wouldn’t have agreed to let me go out on a date with just anyone. He made sure to vet all dates and all boyfriends. Only A.S.S.H.A.T. passed the test.”
It takes me a minute to realize the joke, but when I sound out the initials of Astor’s name—or rather, names, plural, because the man had way too damn many of them—I do in fact spit out my mocktail right back into the glass.
“Asshat. Oh my God. That’s incredible.”
On a much less humorous note, what’s also incredible is that Bee can talk about her father so casually, as though she doesn’t have a back full of scars courtesy of him. She twists around in her seat to hail the waiter again right on cue. The dress she’s wearing bears her back, but there’s not a scar to be seen. It’s only when I peer super closely that I can see the sheer, flesh-colored body suit she’s wearing underneath.
I force a smile back on my face as she turns around again. “Did A.S.S.H.A.T. last very long?”
“Three dates and a couple of makeout sessions,” Bee answers dismissively. “To be honest, he wasn’t a great kisser.” She leans to the left and grazes her fingers along Dmitri’s cheek. “Not like my tamed beast over here.”
Is it my imagination or does he pull back just a little? It’s almost a flinch before he stiffens suddenly and resigns himself to letting her play with his ear and I’m left wondering if I imagined the whole thing.
“What about you, Wren? Any notable first boyfriends to talk shit about?”
“No one with a funny name, unfortunately,” I say. “Tommy Sheridan was my first. We were both fourteen and on the track team. It lasted four months and ended because he got mad that I beat him in a cross-country race.”
“Sounds like a prick.” She raises her glass in a toast. “To pricks. Can’t live with ‘em, can’t live… well, mostly just that one.”
We clink our glasses together and laugh. Meanwhile, Dmitri continues to look pained. The only one who doesn’t seem in the least bit awkward right now is Bee. That may also have a little something to do with the fact that her waiter has just delivered her second round in as many minutes.
“Excusez-moi, garçon!” She waves him over yet again and starts tapping on the rim of her cocktail glass. “Another, please.”
Make that three.
Bee turns that megawatt smile of hers onto her sour-faced fiancé. “It’s your turn, Dmitri.”
“My turn for what?”
“We’ve both shared our first boyfriend experiences. Time for yours.” She bats her eyelids at him expectantly.
I’ve got to hand it to the woman: she’s got cojones aplenty. I wish I had a fraction of her courage to go jousting right at the surly ghoul shadowing our every move tonight.
Dmitri scowls. “You already know that story.”
“Like the back of my hand,” she confirms. Then she points her chin at me. “But Wrenny here doesn’t.”
His scowl darkens. “I don’t live in the past.”
“Coulda fooled me,” Bee mutters under her breath, though it’s not so low that we don’t both hear perfectly well.
Instead of responding, Dmitri just gives her a pointed glare before excusing himself from the table. “I’m going to go get another drink.”
Considering the waiter’s standing only a few feet away from us, it seems like a pretty obvious attempt to get some space. Which is perfect, because I could use some space, too. Not to mention the freedom to let Bee have it for subjecting me to the intensely awkward vibes of the evening.
