“That Zeke doofus,” I echoed. “He’s a platinum-selling artist. Everyone knows who Zeke is.”
“I ain’t everyone.” He huffed. “Told you, I don’t keep track of that shit. If I know you, it’s because I know you. In my world, there’s just people. Celebrity, not a celebrity, I don’t give two shits. People are people.” He smirked at me. “Plus, I met the guy at some stupid red-carpet bullshit later on, and he was a doofus.”
“You met Zeke Pryor?”
“Sure. And he’s a doofus.”
I sighed. Zeke Pryor was a doofus. This guy was too much. “And what would an example of something exaggerated?”
He checked his mirrors, put on a blinker and changed lanes, then made a right turn. “Hmmm. Oh, I know. That story about the brawl in Prague? It did happen, but it was way overblown. Me and the other dude got a little heated, he threw a punch, I threw one back, our respective friends pulled us apart, there was some scuffling, but it wasn’t a fuckin’ brawl. Me and my boys decide to brawl, you’ll fuckin’ know it.”
We pulled into the valet lane of a well-known high-end restaurant in the LA area; I had to now figure out how to exit this car gracefully, without flashing the whole restaurant, and particularly the valet who was opening the door for me. I pressed my knees together and rotated so I was sitting half out of the low-slung rocket-mobile, feet on the cobbled brick of the valet pavilion. Seven was there, then, stone-and-leather paw wrapping around my suddenly tiny, dainty, frail little doll’s hand, and he was standing in front of me, his big body blocking view of me as I levered myself upright with my knees still pressed together. If you’ve never tried to stand up with your feet and knees pressed together while in a car barely six inches off the ground, then you won’t understand how simply physically difficult that is.
As soon as I was on my feet, Seven smiled down at me. “Easier getting in than out, ain’t it?”
I huffed. “No kidding. Next time, either drive something I don’t need a crane to help me out of or let me know so I can wear a skirt I can move in more easily.”
His eyes narrowed and a devious grin slid across his chiseled features. “Next time, huh?”
“Slip of the tongue. If there’s a next time, and you know that’s what I meant.”
He rolled a shoulder. “Hey, I take people at face value and at their word. I assume folks mean what they say, say what they mean, and if someone’s words or actions don’t match their intentions or desires, sucks to be them. I don’t play games. Life’s too short to fuck around like that.”
We were inside, at the host stand. The short, young, beautiful, and somewhat scantily clad hostess saw Seven as we entered and inflated her lungs and pushed her shoulders back in a way that somehow made her boobs look several sizes bigger and more prominent than they already were.
“Mr. St. John. Thank you for joining us today, sir. Your table is ready, please follow me right this way.” Her voice was high and breathy, and I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anyone bat their eyelashes that obviously before.
Not so much as a glance at me, obviously.
Seven’s hand rested on my lower back, subtly and neatly putting me between himself and the hostess. We followed her through the low-ceilinged, dimly lit restaurant, weaving between tables of two and four people, around servers with trays of food and bottles of wine. She led us to a dark back corner, away from everyone and hidden behind a pillar so we wouldn’t be easily spotted. Or, rather, so Seven wouldn’t be, since no one cared about spotting me.
“Here you are, Mr. St. John. Our most private table.”
I felt Seven lean down close, murmuring in my ear. “Cue the bend over toward me and tell me she’s here if I need anything.” His voice was barely audible, and amused.
The hostess indeed sidled toward him, completely ignoring me, and bent toward him to offer him an obvious look straight down her cleavage. “And if there’s anything at all I can do for you, please, let me know. And I do mean absolutely anything.”
Well. You can’t get any more obvious than that, can you? Also, how many words in a single sentence can you emphasize?
“Excuse me.” I heard myself talking, and had no clue what I was about to say. Something rude, knowing me. “I’m his date, and I’m right here. In front of you. Not sure if you’ve noticed me, yet, since you haven’t so much as looked at me. I mean, look, I get it, okay? It’s Seven St. John. But have, like, some dignity. Throwing yourself at a man when he’s with another woman is just…slutty. It’s not a good look on you, sweetie.”
She finally turned her eyes on mine, and her gaze and posture were haughty. “Like he’d even take you home after. I don’t even recognize you. Sorry to break it to you, sweetie, but you don’t stand a chance.”
Seven’s voice cut in. “Darlin’, I somehow doubt it’s gonna go over well with your boss if I tell him you’re insulting my date, number one. And number two, I’m real, real close with Freddy. You know, Fredrick Lyons, the owner of this place?” He stepped closer to the hostess, and somehow he made himself seem even bigger and more imposing. “Number three, even if you were right about anything you said about my date, which you’re not, insulting her in front of me isn’t going to earn you any favors with me. And number four…” he paused for emphasis. “I don’t fuck with children.”
She blinked up at him, and her chin quivered. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. Please don’t tell Mr. Lyons—I really need this job.” Her eyes went to mine, suddenly meek. “I apologize, ma’am. I was out of line.”
I tendered a forgiving smile. “It happens to the best of us. I did something very similar once when I was cocktail waitress, in front of Christian Slater.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Who?”
I sighed. “Before your time, I guess. Look him up. You’ll thank me later.”
Seven rumbled a laugh. “Can we sit?”
He held my chair for me, and waited until I was settled before taking his own. So far, his manners were impeccable, if you ignored his salty language.
Once we were seated, a server came over with a rocks glass full of clear bubbly liquid, garnished with three lime wedges. “Titos and soda with extra lime. And for the lady?”
“A regular here, huh?” I asked Seven. To the waiter, then: “Dry red, please. Something from Napa, pre-2017.”
“Of course, madam.” He bowed, turned, and left.
Seven sipped his drink. “Like I told the hostess, I’m buds with the owner, so yeah.”
“Buds.”
He frowned, confused. “What? Not a cool enough word?”
“It just feels…like a dated term, I guess.”
“Well, I’m not one of those guys who uses ‘bro.’ It’s douchey, and I’m not a douche.”
I snorted a laugh. “I went on a date once with this guy. We had dinner, and it was great. He was fairly articulate, could hold interesting conversation, didn’t lecture me about his business or whatever. But then we went for a drink after dinner and we ran into a group of his friends. I shit you not, he referred to his friend as ‘bro-chacho.’”