“Why are all the good one’s gay!” the woman almost wails.
“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true. Is it, Olive?” My reply is heavy with sarcasm. Or my unspoken plans for retribution.
“No, because Lyle hits on straight guys all the time,” Olive, I mean, Holland, offers, unconcerned. “Of course, they’re also usually married.”
That’s not the direction I’d hoped for.
“Who’s married?” Nikki’s companion suddenly arrives back at the table. I can’t recall his name. Just his attitude.
“Lyle is,” Nikki whines. Not that I pay her any attention as Holland’s smile slips, her gaze meeting mine across the table. I shake my head. I’m not married. I was once, but that was a long time ago. I wouldn’t have spent the afternoon with her if I was, and I wouldn’t be planning to spend the rest of the evening between her legs.
“Married to her?”
Our gazes break as Holland’s attention is snagged by his question. A beat later, she’s shaking her head. “No, Lyle isn’t married,” she says with conviction.
“I didn’t mean to say he’s married. I meant to say he’s gay.” Nikki’s shoulders move up then down in a plaintive and unhappy shrug.
“Oh. Really?” He takes his seat next to me. “So all that staring at Olive was . . . what?”
“He’s very protective,” Holland offers.
“Gay.” As the man’s gaze falls over me, a cold realisation sinks in. “I’ll drink to that.” He raises his glass. “Did Nikki mention I’m bi?”
Holland, Holland, Holland, you are absolutely going to pay for this.
5
Holly
Well, shit.
The music fades, then quiets completely as the door to the bathroom closes with an echoing clunk. Honestly, I don’t know how I get myself into these scrapes. How sometimes I just want to see what I can get away with blows up in my face.
“Dammit.” Pulling my purse off my shoulder, I deposit my precious Prada to the vanity with less care than I’d normally show it. “Oh, we’re not dating,” I mutter in a grating falsetto, rummaging through my purse for my lipstick. “We’re family, right, Lyle? Urgh!”
Way to go, Holland. Congrats on trying to screw up a good thing! A sure thing.
I eye myself critically in the mirror. My sister is always saying I’m too clever for my own good, not that I feel particularly intelligent right now. And I know I said I wasn’t going to sleep with him, but that was before. Before he looked at me like something he wanted to devour. Before I changed my mind and decided I’d be breaking my dry spell sometime and that I wanted it to be with him. I can’t remember the last time I met someone, and we just gelled. But that was before the competition turned up wearing a sparkly belt for a skirt! I mean, I look cute, but it’s a look that’s more daytime city girl than a vampy imma-lick-you-from-your-head-to-your-toes kind of look. There might not be anything I can do about my clothes—other than to keep my jacket off because I know the tatas are high and my butt is tight, and I know he’s noticed both of those things—but that didn’t seem enough. So, I made him gay for the second time today.
My reflection grimaces back at me from the mirror. Sorry, Lyle.
Alexander, I silently correct. It’s a good name, and it totally suits him because it’s a name that’s both strong and classic. Just like he is.
Well, that study in manly perfection is mine tonight. And I know he’s thinking the same thing. The way he watched me as I danced made something sticky and sweet flow through me. Every time I glanced his way, his eyes met mine, dark and intense. And when Nikki had grabbed my hips, a very private joke seemed to lurk in the twist of his lips.
Out of the frying pan and into the fire, his expression seemed to say.
And in a way, he’s right. Because how could I have foreseen that making Alexander gay would’ve put him on Lewis’s radar?
“Gaydar?” I say aloud, then shake my head.“It doesn’t mean a thing. Man, woman, straight, gay, no one is cutting in on me.”
I’m not above tripping a bitch. Literally or figuratively. But first, a little common-sense security. Grabbing my phone, I open my Messenger ap and select the sneaky photograph I’d taken of Alexander on the way to the bathroom. Cropping out Nikki’s hand, I stare at it a little, then press send.
You can do what you like when you’re on vacation.
Be anyone you like.
Take a break from your own life.
Or so I tell myself as I return to my search for my lipstick. Pulling it out, I examine my expression again.
He’s perfect. I don’t mean without flaws because everyone has them. I just mean he’s perfect for me. Here. Now. Tonight. Not to mention, the setup is pretty sweet. I’m just a tourist. Here for the night. Leaving tomorrow. On a jet plane. Never to be seen in London again. At least, that’s what I’ve told him. I might as well be leaving because in a city of more than eight million people, it’s not likely I’ll ever bump into him.
Impatient, I grab my phone again.
Did you get the photo? I type out.
I already saw your Instagram post, my sister, Kennedy, immediately replies. She means my post from earlier today. It was a piece of London street art posted with a cool filter and some pithy text. By the way, it’s nice to know you got there. Finally.
Got here? You dropped me off at the airport. Where else would I be?
Kidnapped? The victim of a plane crash? This might not even be you, for all I know. Because regular people check in with their loved ones when they get where they’re going to.
Ho-oh boy. This is what I like to call big sister syndrome.
I’m here. I’m sorry I forgot to report in . . . but if there’d been a plane crash, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be telling you about it now. Back to our regular programming. Pleeease check your MSNGR!!
I turn in the direction of the bathroom door as it creaks opens, the thump of the bass reverberating off the tile. A redhead (aka not Nikki) slips into a stall without making eye contact. Girls in bathrooms are like that. Either they want to be your new BFF or they pretend you’re Casper the ghost.
Feast your eyes on the piece of hot Britishness I’m currently enjoying. No need to mention my idiocy or Nikki the sex fiend, as my mind (clearly a Prince fan) has dubbed her.
Hold your horses. Nothing has come through yet, comes Kennedy’s reply.
Believe me, it’s worth the wait, I text back, but then my phone begins to ring.
“You got it?” I ask, not giving Kennedy time to speak.
“Not yet.”
“Is the rug rat playing on Minecraft again?” It tends to slow down their connection. “Ground that child. The internet is no place for minors.”
“If it wasn’t for your nephew, I wouldn’t know what a modem is, never mind how to switch it on.”
This is true. Kennedy is the dumbest smart person I know when it comes to technology. Odd that her kid (and my very favourite small person in the world) is a total techno wiz.
“He also says to remind you he has a name.”
“I know he does, but I can’t call him Wilder,” I complain. “Because that means he’s growing up!”