by Eva Ashwood
I wonder if Sloan on a date will be any different from Sloan in every other situation, but honestly, my brain shuts down when I try to imagine any other version of this man.
Still reeling a little, I get in the car, and we head off.
It’s not quite an awkward drive, but it’s definitely not as comfortable as being in the car with Levi or Rory. The music is on low, and I can feel Sloan stealing glances at me every now and then, but he doesn’t say anything. Whenever I look over at him, his eyes are on the road, one hand on the wheel while the other rests on the center console.
I’ve been in cars with him plenty of times since this all started, but never alone. There’s always been Rory to cut the silence or Levi to lend his laid-back attitude to the atmosphere.
My fingers drum lightly on my knees. I’m not sure whether I should try to say something or just let the silence linger until we get to wherever we’re going. I don’t want to piss him off before I’ve managed to get close enough to get something out of him.
In the end, I just opt to keep my mouth shut to be on the safe side. I’m afraid if I start speaking now, we’ll get in a fight before we even reach our destination.
Sloan takes us to a restaurant I’ve never been to before—and no wonder, because it’s fancy as fuck.
I slide out of the car as he hands his keys to a valet, doing my best not to gape up at the place like an idiot. Even the outside of the restaurant screams wealth and luxury, and it makes me understand why Sloan got me the dress. It’s definitely not the sort of establishment where you can walk in looking like some schlub from off the street.
The hostess who greets us is dressed almost as nicely as I am in a glittery black dress, and Sloan breezes through confirming the reservation like he’s done it a million times before. He probably has. He might be in a gang, and he’s clearly not afraid to get his hands dirty, but he’s also no stranger to power and luxury.
Sloan looks back at me as if to make sure I’m still there, and we follow the hostess to a table in a sort of private nook off to the side of the restaurant. It’s out of view of most of the other diners, giving us a lot of privacy. It’s very intimate, and I swallow hard before taking my seat, getting there before Sloan can do something like pull out my chair for me or whatever.
This is all so unnervingly date-like. And not even a shitty date at some crappy restaurant like I went on in high school either. This is a luxurious, swanky sort of date, and it’s freaking me out.
To go from rarely being alone together to this is such a big change, but I’m determined to use it. I have to. Who knows if I’ll ever get another chance like this?
“Have you been here before?” I ask Sloan, glancing around at the velvet seats and the glittering crystal light fixtures.
“Once or twice, yes,” he replies, busying himself arranging silverware, probably to avoid looking at me. At least he seems a bit unsure, too.
“With other women?” I ask, arching a brow.
He gives me a flat look, something sparking in his eyes. “What do you want that answer to be?”
I shrug and honestly, I’m not really sure. It’s unrealistic to think he’s never been with anyone else before, and I’m not even sure why I care one way or another when this isn’t real. It’s just something I have to do.
“I’m just curious,” I tell him. “It’s not like we know each other all that well.”
Sloan nods, conceding the point. He doesn’t offer to let me ask him things, but he doesn’t tell me not to either, so I decide to see how much I can push it and figure some things out about him.
“What’s your favorite thing on the menu?” I ask, starting with something easy.
“Prime rib,” he answers. “With the mashed sweet potatoes.”
“Sweet potatoes? You don’t seem like the type to like sweet potatoes.”
He snorts. “You don’t know what type I am.”
That’s hardly true, considering what I’ve seen him do, but I’m not dwelling on that. Not now.
“Okay, fine. What’s your favorite food in general?”
Sloan furrows his brow, clearly thinking about it. “I don’t know. Noodles, maybe.”
“Noodles?” That’s not the answer I was expecting at all. He’s always struck me as the type to like the fancier things in life, especially considering where we currently are. Noodles are pretty normal, everyday fare.
“Sure. They’re versatile. They go with pretty much anything. You can eat them when you’re in a hurry.”
“Huh.” I purse my lips. “That’s very practical.”
“I try to be.”
“Do you?”
When he looks at me this time, his eyes seem to burn, and I know we’re thinking about the same thing. He’s practical when it doesn’t come to me. When he’s not shoving me over sinks or against walls in alleys, his lips hot on mine and all rational thought burned away by the inferno that burns between us.
I glance away, clearing my throat. Tonight isn’t about that, and I can’t afford to let myself get distracted.
Instead, I ask more questions, trying to see what he’s in the mood to answer. It’s not like we’ve never talked before, but this is the most we’ve ever spoken one on one, and Sloan seems a little more open to conversation than he usually does, so I figure I should take advantage of that before it ends.
“So,” I say a little bit later, once we have our waters and a bottle of wine is being brought to the table. “What’s it like having your dad be head of a gang?”
He picks up his water glass and takes a long drink, and for a second, I think I’ve definitely found the line. This is far from superficial conversation about favorite foods or menu items, and I’m sure he’s not going to answer. But then he sighs. His features soften a little as he does, and it’s an expression I’ve never seen on him before.
“I don’t know what it’s like to be any other way,” he says with a shrug. “The Black Roses have existed for a long time, and I was raised as a part of it. The gang was there before I was, so it’s not like I’ve ever been without it. I have to uphold my father’s reputation and follow in his footsteps.”
“It sounds like a lot of pressure,” I offer.
“Maybe. But it is what it is.”
Sloan doesn’t deny my statement, so I feel like I’m right. It’s got to be a lot to put on one person’s shoulders. Sloan’s the heir, the one who stands to inherit everything his dad has worked for and built, but it’s got to come with some downsides.
“Growing up,” he continues. “I knew that if he couldn’t come to school shit or see me play sports, it wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t because he didn’t love me or didn’t want to be there. His work was just important, and sometimes that stuff had to come first. The Black Roses are bigger than any one person. It’s not about what you want as an individual. It’s about what’s good for the group.”
I think about that in contrast with how I grew up. My dad came to every spelling bee, every basketball game, every school play. There weren’t a lot of them because I wasn’t really big into extracurriculars like some kids, but he supported my activities to the best of his ability. He taught me how to fight and how to ride a bike. Because I was the most important thing in his life.
But for Sloan’s dad, the gang has to be the most important thing, clearly, and I have to wonder how that felt when he was growing up.
“What did your mom think about that?” I ask him. “Did she come to your stuff, at least?”
He looks down at the table again and then back up at me, and his eyes have more feeling in them than I’ve ever seen before. The emotion behind his gray irises isn’t simmering anger or resentment for once, and it sort of takes my breath away.
“She wasn’t around for most of it,” he says. “She died when I was little.”
I wonder if he knows my mom died when I was young, too. I know Rory told Levi, but I have no idea if he shared it with Sloan as well. I don’t know what any of them are sharing with e
ach other at this point.
“Oh,” I murmur, chewing on my lip. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
He shrugs a shoulder. “It’s a part of the life. She was married to the leader of the Black Roses, and he has a lot of enemies.”
My eyes go wide at that. “Someone came after her? To get to him?”
“Close enough. They threatened her, and he defended her, but she was still caught in the crossfire. So they got what they wanted in the end.”
He sounds a little bitter, but there’s something almost like resignation in his voice too. Maybe it’s been long enough that he’s come to terms with her death, or maybe this is just an expected part of gang life.
“What was she like?” I ask him, watching his face carefully.
He considers for a moment before he answers. “Different from my dad. He’s intense. Focused. She was more carefree and fun-loving. She liked to paint.”
There’s fondness in his voice when he says it, and I find myself picturing a little kid version of Sloan watching his mother paint. Maybe he painted with her, making a mess with small hands that smeared paint everywhere while she beamed and praised his work.
Honestly, it’s hard to imagine Sloan being a child at all, let alone a happy one. But maybe he was once.
“I used to look at them together and wonder what she saw in him,” he continues, seeming almost lost in his thoughts. “She was so bright and he was always so…”
There’s a moment where he trails off, and I wait for him to fill in that blank with a description, but none comes.
Instead, he shakes his head and looks at me, raising an eyebrow. “What’s your favorite food?” he asks.
There’s an almost teasing tone to his voice, but I know better than to trust it. I can tell he’s diverting the conversation from himself, purposefully turning the questions back on me.
I lift an eyebrow right back at him, undaunted. “Tacos.”
“Do you like spicy things?”
“Sure. As long as they still have flavor.”
Sloan snorts. “I should have known you’d never be afraid of heat.”
“You should’ve,” I agree, letting the flirtatiousness of the banter build between us. He knows what I’m capable of to some extent, and that I’m not afraid of much.
“How old were you when your mom died?” he asks. I guess he does know about her—Rory must’ve told him as well as Levi.
“Seven.”
“Do you miss her?”
“Yes.” I hesitate, making a face. “I miss what I can remember of her, anyway.”
He nods at that, still watching me while I answer his rapid-fire questions. Surprisingly, I don’t mind them. None of it is too personal, or anything the other guys don’t already know, and that makes me feel safe in answering. I don’t feel like I’m giving up too much of myself, and I hope that by being open, I’ll get him to open up too.
“Best fight you ever had?” he asks.
“Ooh, give me a second.” That one’s tougher because there’ve been so many. I smile at a memory, though. “Tenth grade. This jackass named Bobby Walker was making fun of one of my friends for being gay.” I make air quotes with my fingers. “He wasn’t, not that it would’ve mattered to me if he was. But since he didn’t play football or whatever, that made him too ‘feminine’ to be taken seriously, I guess. It was really stupid either way. One day I just got sick of it and asked Bobby what was wrong with being feminine. He said the usual shit about girls being weak and blah, blah, blah, so I challenged him right there in front of most of the school in third period lunch. He was bigger than me, and probably stronger too, but he didn’t last more than five minutes before I had him on the ground crying.”
“Beating up high school students,” Sloan says, teasing. “Impressive.”
“I was also a high school student,” I point out. “So it was a fair fucking fight. And I hate bullies.”
“I bet all the little tenth grade boys wanted to fuck you back then,” he murmurs, voice going low and curling around me with its tone. “Especially after watching that.”
“I don’t know,” I murmur back. “I think they were all mostly afraid I’d do the same to them.”
“Cowards. They didn’t know what they had in front of them.”
“And you do?” I fire back, pinning him with a look.
It’s a challenge, but much less harsh than the ones that usually fly back and forth between us. Sloan licks his lips, and his eyes bore into me, almost scorching my skin. It’s that constantly burning fire, the tension that always builds between us when we let it—and even when we don’t, to be honest.
We always try to deny it, to cover it up with taunts and bad attitudes, but it’s there, and I can feel it sparking across the table as sure as anything.
“Definitely. I can handle you,” he says. The promise in the words makes me shiver slightly.
I huff a laugh, smirking. “You can try.”
We’re interrupted by the waiter again when he comes to take our orders. I’ve barely had time to look at the menu, which feels like a shame in a restaurant like this, so I quickly choose something that sounds good.
Sloan orders with practiced ease, like he’s used to this kind of dining all the time, and where that would usually piss me off about him, now it just adds to his appeal.
I don’t know what it is about tonight, but he seems almost like an entirely different person.
I can’t tell whether this is the mask or the other version of Sloan is, but something about the way he’s acting right now draws me in like nothing else.
He’s actually surprisingly easy to talk to when he’s not being a dick, and his steel-gray eyes are bright and open. I find myself leaning across the table to be closer to him, following the scent of his cologne and his natural musk, devouring every word he says.
The food arrives, and we barely notice, so wrapped up in each other that we take distracted bites and then get back to… whatever it is we’re doing. The conversation flows naturally, and we tease each other, trading quips and flirtatious comments as easily as breathing.
And then, all of a sudden, it’s too much.
Somewhere in the middle of dinner, the reality of the situation hits me in a rush, reminding me where I am and who I’m talking to. I jerk a little, snapping myself out of the moment as I lean back in my seat, nostrils flared and heart pumping like I just ran a marathon.
I glance down at the table, noticing that my food is still mostly untouched and growing cold—all because I was so engrossed in conversation with fucking Sloan of all people.
A sick feeling tightens my stomach, giving the back of my tongue a metallic taste.
“Um… I’ll be right back,” I say, giving him a shaky smile before quickly getting up and heading to the back of the restaurant.
There’s no line for the bathroom, and of course it’s just as fancy as the rest of this damn place. At the beginning of the night, that felt exciting, now it’s just as sour as everything else. After peeing quickly, I step up to the elaborate row of sinks and look at my face in the mirror. My cheeks are still a little flushed, and I wonder if that’s how I looked out there, hanging on to everything Sloan said.
“Fuck,” I mutter, turning on the sink and splashing some water on my face to cool it down and help get my head back on straight.
It’s so fucking stupid. I came here with a plan, and I was on track even, and then I got sucked in. Whatever fucking act Sloan has been putting on worked to get me to listen to him, to believe him.
All of it is bullshit. He’s not some charming guy who misses his mom and deals with pressure from his dad, and he certainly doesn’t give a shit about me and my feelings.
He’s a murderer, plain and simple, and I have to remember that. I can’t let myself get duped.
I stare hard at my reflection, trying to drill that simple truth into my head with just a glare, and when another woman enters the bathroom, I pull myself together and slip back out.
&nbs
p; The little hall that separates the dining area from the bathrooms is narrow, and I nearly walk right into someone coming from the opposite direction.
I step back quickly, an apology on my lips, but when I look up into the face of the person I nearly collided with, I stop dead.
It’s a man, tall and broad, and for a second…
He looks just like my dad.
My heart leaps, and I stare up at him with wide eyes, but then the differences come trickling into my awareness. This man seems older than my dad, and the face is different. The resemblance was so striking at first that it caught me off guard, but now I’m just a weirdo staring at a stranger in a hallway by the bathrooms.
“Sorry,” I mutter, wrenching my gaze from his face.
I quickly step out of his way and keep my head down as I walk back to the table. Tears burn my eyes, and I’m suddenly glad I didn’t eat much, because my stomach is churning.
For a wild second, I believed my dad was still alive. It was just a second, but that’s enough to bring all that grief and anger crashing back down. Every bit of it comes flooding back, and I remember all over again why I’m doing this. Why I’m out on this “date” right now in the first place.
It’s not to have fun or to eat a nice meal. I’m not trying to actually get to know Sloan—not any more than I need to in order to take him down, anyway. He’s the one who took my dad away from me. He’s the one who caused this, and he and the rest of his gang have to pay.
Whatever spell was hovering over the table before I got up to pee is well and truly broken by the time I get back. I was sort of having a good time, getting drawn in by the lie I’m living, pretending this is a real date. But that’s all over.
I can’t capture any of that easy lightness and banter I had before, and when Sloan glances up at me, I realize that the old version of him is back. Maybe I blew it by leaping up to run to the ladies room like that, severing the growing connection between us. Or maybe he’s just physically incapable of acting like a human being for more than a couple hours at a time.
Either way, the light is gone from those gray eyes, and he’s back to being cold and distant, as if someone pulled the shutters over the vibrancy he had before.
