by Rye Hart
His head rocked back from the force of my punch and he staggered back a few steps. With a look of rage on his face, Greg got his bearing back and came at me. Greg was a big guy – bigger than Tommy – but he was no fighter. As he lumbered at me, I grabbed onto his arm before he could lay into me, stopping his punch before he'd even had a chance to throw it.
“Get lost, man,” I said, shoving him away again. “You don't want to fight me. We both know who wins if this goes down.”
Greg backed up and glared at me with white hot hate in his eyes. He spit a glob of blood out on the ground as he looked back at me, shaking his head.
“Fuck you, man,” he said, pointing his finger at me. “This ain't the end of this shit. Watch your back, Crane.”
He headed back toward the club, and I watched him go. I half expected Casey to be gone when I turned around to face her again. I was surprised though, to find her still there, watching me closely. Her jaw was still clenched, and she still had that look of angry defiance on her face, but at least she was still there.
“Think your macho bullshit is going to impress me?” she spat.
“Not at all. Not why I did it,” I said, running a hand through my hair as I smiled at her. “Impressing you is the last thing I'm trying to do. But, I'm glad to see that you stuck around.”
“I like seeing assholes getting punched in the face, what can I say?” she said. “Hey, something we have in common then,” I said.
Her lips pulled back in a wry, half smile.
“Oh, look, you can smile!” I teased. “I was starting to think you didn't have it in you and that your only expression was one of pure derision.”
“Shut up,” she said and actually laughed, playfully smacking me in the chest.
I pretended it hurt, holding a hand over the spot she'd smacked with a look of exaggerated pain on my face. Her smile widened, and she quickly looked down at the ground.
“I still don't need a chaperone,” she said. “I can get home just fine.”
“I know you can,” I said. “I get that you're a tough, strong woman. But, I thought we could maybe celebrate your newfound freedom.”
I looked around the street, looking for something, anything, that would help me spend a little more time with her. Finally, my eyes landed on a hole in the wall, twenty-four-hour diner. The place was probably a health hazard, but it was about the best I was going to do.
“Let's grab something to eat,” I said.
“Nah, I'll eat when I get home,” she replied.
“It's on me,” I said. “Come on. My treat. Call it my way of saying I'm sorry for everything that happened tonight.”
She hesitated, looking around, as if contemplating whether or not to turn me down. The wheels in her mind were spinning and I was afraid she was crafting some elaborate excuse about a sick mother she needed to get home to or something.
So, I decided not to give her the option. Taking her arm in mine, I started to pull her toward the diner. She hesitated, not walking with me at first, but then she gave in and walked beside me. For once, she didn't fight me.
CHAPTER EIGHT
CASEY
Given the current situation at home, I'd be a fool to pass up a free meal. When you're not sure where your next meal is coming from, free food is the one thing you'll never turn down. My stomach growled ferociously as we sat down at a corner booth, and I glanced up at Malcolm, afraid that he'd heard the rumbling.
If he'd had, he ignored it, which won him some points in my book.
The diner was your typical greasy spoon; worse than some in the city, better than others. Here was the thing about Hollywood – parts of it were super nice and fancy like Obelisk was. But, if you went over a few blocks, you’d find crappy diners, tenement buildings, hookers and junkies both looking for their next score, and homeless people begging for anything they could get.
The diner we were sitting in wasn't so bad, but Malcolm looked incredibly out of place there in his designer jeans, dark blue dress shirt and black dinner jacket. His sandy blonde hair was moist with sweat and clung to his naturally tanned face. He looked up from the menu and caught me staring, blue eyes sparkling in the bright fluorescent lights of the diner.
I'd slipped into the restroom before we sat down to clean up the blood on my hands, but my shirt was stained with it. Patrons looked at me as I tried to cover up the mess with my arms, but then quickly looked away, unimpressed. Obviously, seeing a woman covered in blood wasn't anything new or particularly exciting.
“Here, take this,” Malcolm said, slipping his jacket off and passing it to me.
“I can't. I'd get blood all over it,” I muttered. “I'll be fine.”
“I insist,” he said.
When I didn't take the jacket, he stood up and walked around, and stood behind me. I glanced up into his baby blue eyes as he slipped the jacket over my shoulders and felt a warm current of energy gently roll through me.
“It looks expensive,” I said.
“Listen, you look cold and I'm not about to let you freeze,” he said. “Not if I can do something about it. Besides, we need to hide the blood on your shirt, so people don't think we just came from a murder scene. We don't want the cops hauling us in tonight.”
He sat back down across from me and grinned. He could obviously see my hesitance to slip his jacket on completely, fearful I might ruin it, so he added.
“Don't even think about how much it costs, Casey,” he said. “It doesn't matter. I've got a bunch more at home, and I'm sure the dry cleaners can get a little blood out of the material.”
“Have experience with that, do you?”
I'd made a joke. It caught me by surprise too. Malcolm laughed, his full, luscious lips spreading in an adorably crooked smile.
Dammit, Casey. Do not use the words luscious and adorable when talking about some rich guy you never, ever stand a chance with, I mentally scolded myself. He's only taking you to get some food because he feels sorry for you. That's it. Nothing more, nothing less. Eat the food, laugh at his jokes, and go the hell home. “You're funny as well as beautiful,” he said. “Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Not that I can recall,” I mumbled.
“Well, they should have,” he replied. “You deserve to hear that more often.”
My heart skipped a beat. He'd said I was beautiful. My cheeks flushed and burned with heat as I stared down at the menu, trying to appear deep in thought about what I was going to order, rather than on the verge of a massive stroke because he'd complimented me.
The waitress came over a second later, glasses of water in hand. She wrote down our orders and before long, it was just me and the millionaire again, all by our lonesome, in an otherwise empty diner. I couldn't help but think that's why Malcolm chose this place. It was somewhere no one would recognize him, since he was slumming it by hanging out with the likes of me. Years of my father's torment and abuses came rushing back to me like a horde of evil ghosts from the past. They riddled me with anxiety and self-loathing as I played with a straw wrapper, doing my best to keep myself composed.
“So, Casey,” he asked, breaking the silence between us, “may I ask what happened back there at the club?”
“Sure, you may ask, but I don't have to answer.”
Malcolm sighed, making me to glance up at him. He studied me closely, as if trying to solve an intricate puzzle. His eyes were soft and thoughtful though, and I couldn't stop staring. Unlike with Greg or Tommy, or the countless other men who'd come into the club, Malcolm didn't look at me like I was a piece of meat. He wasn't undressing me with his eyes, and clearly, wasn't imagining me in some lewd sexual fantasy. It was different and interesting.
“What?” I asked. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Looking at you how?”
“Like you're trying to read my mind.”
“Would you rather I stare at your cleavage?”
“It'd be more familiar, ” I said, rolling my eyes. “You hide it better, bu
t you're really just like the others, aren't you?”
“The others as in – who?” he asked. “I'm confused.”
“Greg. Tommy,” I said. “The other assholes who frequent the club. Rich guys who were born on third base and think they hit a triple. Guys who think they're entitled to whatever they put their hands on.”
He shrugged and reached for his glass of water, sipping it slowly, his eyes never leaving mine.
“I'd like to think I'm not an asshole,” he said. “But, I guess it depends on who you ask. I gotta believe that Greg thinks I'm a pretty big asshole right about now. Tommy and Leon too.”
Our food came out, and I almost squealed with delight. Food, glorious food. I had a heaping plate of pancakes, eggs, and bacon in front of me. I was practically salivating as the waitress set the plate down on the table, my stomach growling even louder than before. Malcolm got a massive burger and fries, which seemed rather odd. Then again, it's not like this place served lobster or filet mignon – or whatever rich guys like him were used to eating.
I dug into the food, stuffing heaping fork after heaping fork it into my mouth and relishing every single bite. Malcolm munched on a fry, clearly amused by the pace in which I was eating. When I noticed him watching, I slowed it down, and even forced myself to take a rest between bites. Stuffing my face probably wasn't the best look.
“Sorry,” I said, wiping my mouth with my napkin. “I'm just starving tonight.”
“Don't apologize,” he said. “I like a girl who can eat. Too many women in Hollywood think they have to starve themselves to nothing but skin and bones in order to be attractive. But, when I take someone out to dinner, I want them to enjoy it. I want them to actually eat.”
Considering the fact that Malcolm was in ridiculously good shape, I couldn't imagine he ate very unhealthily all that often. His girlfriend, or rather his ex-girlfriend, was a typical thin model type. Tall and waify – so, I'd just assumed that was his preference. Maybe I'd been wrong.
Or maybe he was just trying to be nice and placate me. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, though.
“So, Malcolm, did you just feel like slumming it tonight or what?” I asked. “Why hang out with me like this?”
“Why not?” he shrugged.
“Because you're like a super-hot – err I mean, rich – guy,” I said. “And I'm, well, a cocktail waitress. No one important. Don't get me wrong, I'm thankful for dinner and all, but we don't exactly move in the same social or economic circles.”
He chuckled and finally took a bite from his burger, the juices dripping from his lips. Yes, I stared and licked my own lips, imagining what his might taste like. As if on command, Malcolm licked his lips, and even that movement was slow, seductive, and sexy. I felt a flutter in my belly, like the wings of a butterfly battering my insides, and a warmth down below took me by surprise.
I adjusted in my seat, trying to compose myself and ignore growing heat inside of me. I'm sure it was written all over my face though. I'm sure it was as obvious as a neon sign on my forehead or something, announcing that watching Malcolm Crane eat a cheeseburger was the epitome of sexiness.
I could only imagine what he'd look like eating something else,and my cheeks burned bright red at the thought.
“What?” he asked.
That crooked smile was back on his face and showcased a dimple in his cheek.
“Nothing – it's just –”
Think of something, Casey, I mentally demanded of myself. Say something that isn't stupid. Something that doesn't make you sound like a totally vapid bimbo.
“Well, it's just, I have no idea what to talk about with someone like you,” I said.
“Someone like me?” He cocked a thick, sandy brown eyebrow at me. “I'm not Tom Cruise or Brad Pitt or anything like that. I'm just a normal guy. What do you talk about with normal guys?”
Nah, you're hotter than both those men combined,I thought to myself. Instead, I shot him a look.
“Please, you? Normal?” I scoffed. “There's nothing about you that's even remotely normal.”
“Oh yeah?” he responded. “Well, what do you consider normal, Casey?”
I thought about that for a moment, and finally said, “Normal people have problems,” I said. “Not like – what car I'm going to drive today? Or, what exotic location I'm going to visit next? Like real problems. Things like, how am I going to pay the rent this month? Or, what the hell am I going to do now that I lost my job?”
“Is that what you’re worried about, how you’re going to pay your rent?” he asked, looking at me thoughtfully.
“You don’t think I can take care of myself?” I challenged.
He didn't answer me. Wisely. He probably knew there wasn't a right answer to that question that wasn't going to piss me off. He was obviously, a smart man. Malcolm seemed to read me better than other people. He knew how to avoid getting under my skin. Which meant, I was starting to like him.
Bad idea, Casey. Very bad idea, I thought.
Still, I found it hard to keep quiet. I opened my mouth and had a bad case of verbal and emotional diarrhea. I couldn't help it. Everything just flew out like the flaming pile of shit it was.
“Okay, fine, you got me,” I said. “Yeah, I'm freaked out because I just lost my job, and I'm not sure how I'll pay the bills this month.”
Malcolm looked at me with an inscrutable expression his face, and once I'd realized what I'd said, I felt the heat rising in my cheeks once more.
“I'm sorry,” I added quickly. “It's not your fault. And it's not like you want to hear about my struggles.”
“Talk to me, Casey,” he said, his voice soft and gentle. “I have all night and nowhere to go. Especially, since my former best friend hates me, and I don't have a girlfriend I need to check in with since she cheated on me and I kicked her to the curb.”
He smiled and tried to play it off like he was making a joke, but that last bit hit me like a truck and stuck with me. I gaped at him, my jaw nearly on the table. I was floored by the admission. “Your girlfriend cheated on you?” I asked in stunned disbelief.
“Hey, we're talking about you, not me.”
“Sure, it's none of my business, but seriously – what a bitch,” I said. “A really stupid bitch.”
I found it hard to believe someone would cheat on a guy like Malcolm. Maybe if he had the personality of Greg, okay. That would make sense. But, Malcolm was hot, successful, and from the little I knew of him, I thought he seemed to be a nice guy. What psychotic bitch would cheat on him?
Malcolm chuckled. “That she is,” he said. “But I'm here to talk to you. I want to find out what made you snap tonight.”
“Why? Are you a shrink?”
“No,” he scoffed. “It's just that I don't like seeing good people upset.”
“How do you know I'm a good person?”
A rueful smile touched his lips. “I'm good at reading people.”
“How very noble of you, Malcolm,” I said. “But, I don't need a white knight to come in and save the day. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
“I know that, and it's one reason I enjoy talking to you,” he admitted and took a sip of his water, though his eyes remained glued to me. “You're so different from other women I've known.”
I rolled my eyes. “Because all women are just the same, and I'm the unicorn amongst them,” I said and laughed. “Come on, Malcolm, you can do better than that.”
“Fine,” he said. “I like that you aren't afraid to speak your mind and don't take crap from anyone. Including me.”
“Thank you. I think,” I said, a shy smile touching my lips.
“You're welcome,” he replied. “And yes, I meant it as a compliment.”
We finished with our meal, and I was a little embarrassed that I'd cleaned my plate off completely. Even more so, because Malcolm only ate about half his fries and a few bites of the burger. It made me think either he didn't care for the food or wasn't even hungry in
the first place. “So, were you really looking at Tinder earlier?” I asked. “Because honestly, I find that hard to believe.”
“Not Tinder, no, but something similar,” he laughed. “Even I have standards.”
“Please, of course you do,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Just the idea that you'd have to use a dating app to find a girl is crazy to me. I'd imagine that women throw themselves at you, Mr. Malcolm Crane, wealthy and attractive as you are.”
I meant it as sarcasm, but I realized too late that it came out more as a statement of fact. It was true though, even if I didn't mean to sound so smitten with the guy. Malcolm wasn't the type that would have any trouble getting a date.
“I'm not looking to date, actually,” he said as he frowned down at his empty water glass, swirling the ice around with the straw. “I'm not ready to date again. Not so soon, anyway.”
“Then why would you be on a dating app – unless –” my cheeks flushed and I didn't bother finishing my statement, since the answer was more than obvious. “Oh well, I guess there's other things you could be doing with women that doesn’t involve dating.”
He shook his head and gave me that crooked little grin of his. “Not looking for a hookup either,” he said. “In case you were wondering.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You're a really confusing man, Malcolm Crane,” I said. “I hope you know that.”
“Maybe I'm just a normal guy in a confusing situation,” he said, looking up at me.
His face was serious, his jaw tight. He wasn't smiling, nor happy about this conversation. That much was clear. Why, though? The contradictions and confusion about him left me reeling, and completely curious.
“I told you my predicament,” I said. “Now it's your turn.”
