To my surprise, Cliff laughs into the phone, a different laugh than before. It’s a dark, thrilling kind of laugh that could melt panties right off a normal person. I’m not a normal person, at least not where Cliff Marshall is concerned, so all I get is a bit of unwanted tingling in the lady bits region.
“Tonight. Six.” I rattle off my address, ignoring my body’s physical reaction. I blame it on the fact that it’s been about a good eight months since I saw any action. Even when I was dating Calvin, we weren’t actually intimate in those last few months, which might have had a little something to do with the fact that he was so freaking convinced I was cheating on him that he basically stalked me all the time and threatened me verbally and even physically. “Fill up your tank this time, for the love of God.”
“Does this count as date two?”
“No. No, it does NOT count. That should be abundantly clear.” I then pull out all the stops because I’m obviously seriously mature. “If you don’t show up, I’ll–I’ll–I’ll call your mom and tell her about all of this.” I hit the end call button and slam the phone down like it’s a retro model, and Cliff can hear the satisfying smack.
Yeah, I really just went off there.
I finally give in to the urge to slam my head down on the tabletop. Gently. Gently. Maybe if I don’t knock myself unconscious, I can still fix this. It’s only a grain of hope, glistening off in the distance like a dying star, but I clutch at it like someone… well, like someone who is about to lose her job and is seriously and ridiculously desperate.
CHAPTER 5
Cliff
A dry run. A. Dry. Run. Who does a dry run at life?
I’d reject the idea completely and tell this self-assured lady to take a hike straight up somewhere like a porcupine’s ass, since I’m sure that can’t be pleasant, but unfortunately, I care about my job. I do care about what my parents think, too, at least to a certain extent as all kids do. But it’s more about the company than anything.
I’ve worked there for ten years. It’s a family business, and I’m proud of it. I’m good at it. I like what I do. And it’s not about the money. It’s about doing something I can be proud of, something that has the Marshall last name attached to it. Losing my job would mean losing not just my livelihood and my source of income. Losing my part in the company would be like losing my left hand.
So, I’m here. Sitting across from a very nicely done up Rowan, at a solid two-star restaurant all the way across the city from the old brick apartment building she calls home. I should have known she’d live in something vintage. It suits her red dress, red heels, black sweater, hair pulled back into a red headband, nineteen-fifties style kind of vibe she has going on right now.
I’m uncomfortable, and I fidget with the menu. She picked—no surprise here—an actual fifties-style diner complete with red and chrome tables, red stools at the front counter, and freaking pie sitting next to the cash register. There’s the token jukebox in the corner, records and old photos all over the walls—the whole clichéd diner deal. It’s not my vibe, but I don’t say anything about it.
I haven’t read the menu, but I’m willing to bet the go-to here is a burger and fries deal, so I’ll go with that.
When Rowan sets her menu down and looks at me with those long sweeping eyelashes and the red lipstick she has on to match the rest of her cherry-red outfit, something strange happens to my chest. Something happens to my nuts, too, which closely resemble getting trapped in my jeans that are suddenly two sizes too tight in the crotch area, but I ignore it and shift under the table to try and fix the restriction.
“So. This dry run—how’s it going so far for you?” I ask her mockingly, but of course, I have to admit I care just a little. Just for business reasons, of course.
Rowan pushes her menu to the edge of the table and purses her lips thoughtfully. “I don’t know. I guess I’d say it was fairly creepy if I’m honest.”
That feels like a kick straight to the nuts. “Creepy?” I barely struggle to keep the annoyance from my voice. “Creepy in what way?”
“Well, when you picked me up, you texted me that you were there, but you sat in the car the entire time. You made me find you—”
“I was parked directly in front of the building.”
“The building has three streets that border it, an alley, and a parking lot. It would have been nice for you to get out and stand by the door or even ring the buzzer.”
“Well, maybe that’s just your preference. Maybe the next person would prefer if I don’t harass them at the door and that I wait politely in the only car parked for miles in front of the building, running, with the lights on.”
“You should identify it then. You know. Black car. In front of the door. That kind of thing would be really helpful. It’s embarrassing to have to come out and glance around, walk around, guess…”
“You seemed to find it just fine. You spotted me immediately.”
“Honestly, what if it wasn’t you? What if it was someone else waiting to pick someone up? I could have walked right up and knocked on the window or opened the door, and then I would have been the creepy one. It’s not a good start to the date.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t bring flowers and a box of chocolates and fall at your feet to worship your beauty the second you walked out the door.”
Rowan’s left eye twitches. I can tell she’s pissed, and as this is our second meeting, I’m starting to learn her tells. Know your enemy. I find that it’s served me well in business and life so far. I feel like this date isn’t a good trial for anything, because I don’t normally go into a date ultra pissed at being forced into it. Okay, so maybe this is a good test as far as the rest of these dates are going to go.
“I’m not saying worship me or bring me things. That’s not what I’m saying at all.” Rowan sighs. “If you are going to be that difficult, then I seriously have my work cut out for me. We might as well just call this whole thing off right now.”
Panic claws at my throat. I hate that I’m trapped between a rock and an asshole place at the moment, but there’s nothing I can do except endure it.
A young girl who is probably no more than sixteen—dressed in a bright pink mini dress type thing that looks like a collared shirt stretched down just enough to cover the essentials, and a frilly apron that is completely inappropriate as far as restaurant attire should go—comes to take our order then.
Rowan orders a club sandwich, salad instead of fries, and a slice of cherry pie to go. I order the burger and fries, which I’m informed, by said waitress, is a good choice. At least I got something right as far as this evening goes.
Rowan starts in on me again as soon as we’ve placed our orders, and our waitress saunters away. I can hear her yelling the orders in the kitchen a few seconds later, which for some reason, actually makes me smile.
“The car ride over here was thirty minutes. I chose that for a reason. I wanted to see what you would do with that time. You did nothing.”
I nearly wince. Jesus. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was a test.” Either this lady seriously hates me, or she’s a real tough ass. Maybe both. “You could have said something to start the conversation off. A normal person on a normal date would.”