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“Comprehensively.”
He broke eye contact. He was looking somewhere inside himself. “I’ve never told anyone that.”
She wanted to bring him back into the room. “In the spirit of the game, my first kiss was Nathan Tucker, we were both sixteen. We went steady for about six weeks. I was heartbroken when he chose dirt bike racing over me. I had sex with his older brother Ben a year later.”
“Was it good?”
“I was being a little shit. I only did it to hurt Nathan.”
“Not that—the sex, was it good?”
“God, I don’t remember.”
“Yes, you do. You’re embarrassed. What does it matter if you tell me?”
Now he was being a shit. He’d memorised their conversation like a history lesson.
“It was awful. It was quick. It hurt. Ben didn’t care about me, and he told everyone I cried. It cured me of teenage promiscuity.”
But it hadn’t cured her of the flush of embarrassment from being called a slut by the boy she’d thought she loved. That still stung like the undeserved flick of a wet tea towel. Darcy was lost to the smells and sounds of that summer. Coconut oil, and fried food eaten too often. Singing Green Day’s Good Riddance while her heart was hearing Celine Dion. Crying in the dark watching Shakespeare in Love with her Jennifer Anniston haircut.
She shook her head, heard the irritating hum of the over bright fluorescent ceiling panels—interrogation lighting. She’d started this, but she’d let a stranger reach inside her and pull out secrets and confessions.
He leant across the table, both arms flattened on it. He was close enough for her to study the crinkle in the scar on his chin.
“What’s your adult promiscuity like?”
Wow. Her natural reaction was to push away, but that’s exactly what he was aiming for. His version of the game was to unsettle; to try to shock. Why else tell her about his dyslexia, and his tough neighbourhood? Did he want her to dislike him? She met his blue-black eyes
. “Good thing I wasn’t expecting sympathy.”
“I’m not a sympathetic guy. Answer the question.”
A quick jerk of his chin. That obey me tone. That expectation she would. “None of your business.”
The mood shifted again. From the relief of distraction, of not being alone when the rules were unclear; from surprisingly playful to something darker. Darcy felt the beginning of a thread of fear unwind in her belly. She didn’t know this man, and there was no one else near. She needed to take care not to inflame things between them.
He stood abruptly, his chair scraping, the table barking against the floor. Her thigh muscles clenched. She was ready to move too if she had to. He was looking at his scuffed RMs, his fists clenched at his sides.
“Right, sorry. I got carried away there. Fuck. I apologise.” He looked up. “I reckon I owe you a dare.”
He looked genuinely contrite, frowning. For the first time since he’d entered the room he looked uncertain. He waited, fine blond hair stood up on his muscled forearms; he must’ve been cold.
“No, don’t worry. We don’t have to play anymore.”
“How else can I make it up to you?”
“Think warm thoughts. It’s really cold in here. You must be freezing.”
He rubbed his hands together. “Yeah, I am cold now. No excuse for being a shithead though.” He opened his arms wide. “Come on, free shot.”
The smart thing would be to start an entirely new conversation, something impersonal and safe, maybe about books or music, or get him to talk about his business. But volunteering for detention in a Chinese airport and playing truth or dare with a rich, attractive man who made you wonder if he kissed with the same authority he used when he wanted information stripped your sense of smart.
“Dance.”
He dropped his arms, his head tilting to the side. “Sorry?”
“My free shot. I dare you to dance.”
