Is he serious? “Yeah, sure.”
“A large glass,” he orders. “At least you’ll get some protein.”
Connie scurries off and returns in minutes, placing a glass of milk on the table, and immediately disappears.
“Eat.” He points his fork at my offensive roll.
I cross my arms over my chest.
He stretches his thick neck from side-to-side. “We obviously have differing opinions as to what constitutes food.” He leans his forearms on the table, his smile with just the right amount of charm.
I’m sure he’s used this smile a thousand times before to divest women of whatever is impeding his desire.
“Detente?” He asks and adds in a little sexiness by lifting his eyebrow ever so slightly.
Connie’s probably dreamed of being on the receiving end of such a smile from Roy. He’s expecting me to smile back at him and melt in my chair and… Well, I’m not doing it. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep my traitorous lips from returning his smile and busy myself by placing my napkin on my lap and cutting my roll with a knife and fork.
He lets out a slight snort and tucks into his food.
Who can resist the mix of cinnamon and butter? I guess Mr. Lethal, who’s finished the first omelet and cut into the next one.
When his plates are clean and his napkin placed on the table, he leans back and gives me his full attention. “How was your roll?”
“Bliss,” I purr with delight, meeting his eyes defiantly and wiping a bit of icing off my lip.
He taps his finger by my full glass of milk, but doesn’t remark on it. “I’m not Jason King’s bodyguard. My company was hired by the studio to provide security.”
Oh, this is his business tone. So what tone was he using before? “Why were you there?” I toss my hands up. “Nope, no, don’t care. None of my business. Remember, nothing happened.”
“You misunderstand my intentions.” With his right hand, he inches the glass of milk closer to me. “I want you to press charges against Jason King.”
“What?” I sit ramrod straight. “Impossible.”
“He deserves to be punished. He assaulted you yesterday. Might have done much worse—”
“I can take care of myself.” A dark memory lifts its ugly head. Can you? “I had the situation under control.”
“I know what you thought—that I’d want to cover this up, pay you off, or keep you from the police.”
Pay me off. What type of a person does he think I am? “Wait…that was the Jason King?”
“The one and only.”
“He’s short.” I knew the man was an actor and seemed vaguely familiar but never thought it was Jason King.
“That he is.”
Jason has starred in a string of spy pictures where he saves the world from terrorists and mass destruction and megalomaniacs. The man in the trailer was not the urbane character he plays, but small and mean and a deviant asshole of gigantic proportions.
“He’s also a junkie blasted out of his mind most the time.” Too quick for me to protest, he takes my hand, engulfing it in his large one. “I’ll go with you to the police. I’ll testify on your behalf.”
“No. You’re making too much out of this.” He squeezes my hand tighter. “Nothing happened. I walked into the wrong trailer. That’s all.”
“You don’t have to be afraid.”
Can’t he see what this would do to my aunts? To the business? And all the press attention? He can’t force me to do this. “I’m not.” I try to free my hand still trapped in his.
Instead of letting go, he rolls his hand over, so the underside of my arm is facing the ceiling. The fresh cut in the crook of my elbow is clearly visible.
He knows. My face burns. I fold in on myself. “Please,” I plead, “let go.”
“I want to help you.”
“I don’t need help.” Finally, he releases my hand, and I wrap my arms around my chest.
He dips his head, attempting to make eye contact. “It’s not healthy. Pretending it didn’t happen.” And nods towards my arm.
My eyes downcast, I murmur, “It’s not what you think.”
“I see.” His voice softens. “My mistake.”
I push back from the table and stand. “Are we done? I need to get back to work.” My shoulders roll forward, and my thick hair falls around my face, shielding it from the patrons who are no doubt confused as to why plain-old Daisy is with someone like Roy.
He steps around to my side, placing his hand on my back. “I’m sorry.” His rich voice low, so only I can hear. “I regret I didn’t get to you sooner. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. It wasn’t my intention.”
How does he do it? One moment I’m struggling along the outer rings of panic, and with just a few words he pulls me back to a place of reassurance. Keeping my head down, I let him maneuver me through the restaurant and out to the street.
I turn to him. “I do appreciate what you did for me.”
“It wasn’t nearly enough.” He blinks a few times and gestures with his free hand to the sidewalk in front of us. “Tell me, you’re, what…twenty-two or thereabouts?”
It takes a moment for his question to sink in. “Thereabouts.”
“Put me out of my misery.”
What does it matter? “Don’t you know? I mean you’re Mr. Lethal.” I close my eyes for a moment in mortification and trip on the uneven pavers.
Roy steadies me and laughs. “Mr. Lethal. Haven’t been called that before.” His hand moves to the shoulder Jason grabbed, and I shrink away. He rolls his hand into a fist, his smile gone, and cracks his knuckles. “Should I punish him more?”
The New Testament part of me is stunned he would say such a thing. The Old Testament side of me wants to watch.
“Earlier, you asked why I was there. It was a personal favor to the studio head to escort their cash cow back to rehab. It’s a high-dollar film. He’s using again.” Roy clicks his teeth as he clenches his jaw.
He’s waiting for me to say something. Perhaps he thinks what he’s said explains everything; it doesn’t, at least not to me.
“I warned him to stay away from you.”
I glance at Roy’s knuckles. I want to kiss the bruises away. To thank him for standing up for me when I couldn’t. “You shouldn’t tell me this. I could sell my story to…” I scramble to recall the name of a celebrity tabloid, but nothing comes to mind.
“You won’t.” He turns and with his hand on the small of my back moves us closer to Mangler.
My assumptions about Roy were wrong, and it dawns on me he hates Jason more than I do. Which has me wondering how many horrible things the actor’s done and gotten away with? “Your company provides security?”
“For this movie, yes, we’re handling the cyber and surveillance measures, not bodyguard services.”
We’re almost back to the shop and I should be relieved, but I’m not. Instead, I search for a reason to delay.
“I’m not accustomed to asking twice.”
Not this again. “I’ve already told you I’m not pressing charges.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-one, almost. In a couple of days I’ll be twenty-one.” Two days to be exact.
His only reaction is a slight twitch of his fingers resting on my back. I’m a moment away from asking his age when we arrive back at Mangler.
“It was a pleasure.” He removes his hand from my back, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear, and he leans down to whisper, “Take care of yourself, Miss Daisy Aldridge.”
I lick my lips. Is he going to kiss me? No, he backs away. I’m stunned and stuck in place, watching him get into the awaiting Suburban and disappear behind the dark, tinted windows.
Mae opens the door for me to walk inside, her eyebrows jumping with excitement. “How’d it go?”
All I can think to say is, “He didn’t like my cinnamon roll.”
“Who doesn’t like a good cinnamon roll?” she asks.
&n
bsp; “They don’t eat that kind of thing in Los Angeles,” Stella answers.
Chapter Three
For the umpteenth time, I’ve tried to persuade Vincent he doesn’t need me to stick around. I only promised to go out tonight because I haven’t seen him in ages. “And I’m tired. It’s been a long day.”
“Love, can’t you at least try and have a little fun?”
Vincent’s my best friend, but his idea of fun is vastly different from mine. A movie, a good book, a hot bath, or a long, exhausting run are what I call fun. He’s like a male version of Holly Golightly, flitting from one party or continent to the next.
“Why don’t you go talk to Jeremy? You know he’s always had a crush on you.”
“I doubt that.” Across the bar, Jeremy gives me a hopeful smile. “Please, tell me you haven’t been matchmaking.”
“Moi?” He bats his long eyelashes at me. “You wound me with such accusations.”
“I’m glad you’re home and I can’t wait to catch up, but I’m out of here in another half hour.”
“Women.” He places his hand dramatically over his heart. “Your gender has driven me to find comfort in the arms of men.”
“Don’t blame women. You’re gay. Now, go mingle and…whatever. I’ll finish my drink and go home.” I give him a quick kiss on each cheek. “Okay?”
“Fine. Sure I can’t get you a proper drink, instead of Coke on the rocks?”
“You know I’m not old enough,” I whisper. “Plus, I hate how it tastes.”
“Because it’s an acquired taste.”
“Why do you have to acquire it? Shouldn’t it be like chocolate or cherry pie or ice cream? I knew I loved those from the first bite.”
“You’re impossible,” he whines. “I hate seeing you sit here like a lump. You know you could have your pick of the room.”
“Right…maybe you should take it slow on those vodka tonics.”
“You’re a swan.” He looks over my ensemble. “You should be showing off those lovely legs of yours instead of hiding them under jeans or wearing those hideous khaki shorts.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my shorts.”
“If you were a middle-aged woman.” He waves at a friend newly arrived. “One day, I’ll dress you to the nines.”
“And my aunts will be eternally grateful to you. Until then”—I flick my hands at him—“go enjoy yourself.”
I laugh as he executes a courtly bow and leaves me to my drink. Perhaps I should have put on some mascara. But honestly, what difference does it make? A few strokes of mascara aren’t going to transform me into anything but a pale, thin girl with a headful of curly red hair.
Standing with my back to the bar, I peruse the crowd. There are more people than I expected on a weeknight. Along the far wall, I recognize a group of farm hands dressed in pressed Wrangler jeans. A table near the door is filled with trainers, each wearing polo shirts with embroidered farm logos, probably complaining about their clients’ unrealistic expectations for their expensive horses. Some businessmen have pushed two tables together and look to be celebrating something. I decide they’re lawyers or bankers in town to meet a client. Probably from D.C. or Tysons and have stopped in on their way back home. A few tables over, a group of women I don’t know are laughing and flicking their hair about trying to attract the attention of the businessmen.
One of the men is attractive in a Gordon Gekko kind of way. I don’t know how many times Vincent has made me watch the movie Wall Street. He says Gordon is his idea of a dreamboat. Mr. Gekko—my nickname for the unknown man—is cold toward the women. His friends, coworkers, whatever, are interested, and they’ve sent over a round of drinks. But Mr. Gekko doesn’t return any of their gazes. He either looks toward the bar or at the space where the dance floor would be if it were the weekend. Maybe he’s married or gay.
I pull my cell phone from my back pocket and text Vincent. Mr. Gekko sitting under the Degas racing prints.
His reply is immediate. Not Mr. Gekko’s lucky night. I’m leaving with Paulo, jockey from Brazil. Will you be OK?
Jockeys and polo players are catnip to Vincent. Sure. Have fun. Do everything I wouldn’t.
“May I buy you a drink?”
I snap my head up to see Mr. Gekko standing next to my stool. I didn’t expect him to have a British accent. Do the Brits have a Mr. Gekko of their own? Maybe James Bond. No, he’s a spy. I realize my mouth is open and I close it. “Um, I was leaving.”
“I would be ever so grateful if you’d delay your departure.”
I’m not an expert on British accents, but Mr. Gekko’s would be classified as posh. Would it hurt to have another Coke?
“Please.” He nods towards the table. “Save me from my coworkers.”
The businessmen have joined the table of women. There’s a lot of laughing and drinking, and it looks like the kind of forced merriment you see at New Year’s Eve parties, which, for me, are the stuff of nightmares.
His smile is warm. “What are you having?”
Before I let myself think too much, I say, “A Coke, lots of ice.”
His look is quizzical as he lifts his hand to attract Bernie. “Another, please, and a Coke, plenty of ice, for the lady.”
Bernie, bartender and owner, nods, makes our drinks, and places them on the bar.
“I’m Nigel.” He sets the fizzing glass of Coke next to me. “And you are?”
“Daisy.” I switch drinks and nervously twirl the straw.
“A name you don’t hear often.”
I almost blurt out in my nervousness that a daisy was tucked inside my baby blanket when my aunts found me. Instead, I take a long sip of the perfectly carbonated Coke. Sometimes bartenders get the mix wrong, but I kind of want to stay to finish this; it’s that good, much better than the first one.
“We’re here on business.” He takes a sip of his drink. “Kind of obvious.”
“I live here.” Why did I think this was a good idea?
“It’s a beautiful place.”
Awkward is the word of the moment. “Yep, Middleburg is a lovely place.”
“I live in D.C.”
My intuition was correct. “Thank you for the drink, but I need to go. I have to get up early tomorrow and…”
Nigel extends his arm to reveal a Rolex. He holds it out for me to read the time. “It’s only seven thirty.”
I abuse my lower lip between my teeth. “It’s been a long day.” I slide off my stool.
Nigel sits on the edge of my vacated seat with his long legs spread wide around me. It makes it easier for me to talk with him but harder for me to leave.
I look over at the party happening at his table. “They’re having fun.”
“You have the most charming accent.”
He’s not going to take a hint.
“I come to Middleburg quite often for business. I’d like to see you again. Perhaps take you out to dinner.”
Mr. British Gekko, Nigel, is asking me out on a date. His accent gives the words an almost mesmerizing quality, and I find myself waiting for him to say more so I can hear how he pronounces the words. Funny how both our countries speak the same language but our words sound different. I tuck a stray curl behind my ear and shake my head. “Thank you, that’s a kind offer, but it’s not possible.”
I expect him to move his legs, but he doesn’t. Instead, he leans forward.
“Surely, you aren’t married.”
I take a step back. “No.” I look for Bernie. Maybe he could walk me to my car. “I need to go.”
Nigel stands and steps into my personal space. “A boyfriend?”
I shake my head, deciding the best course of action is to stop talking and start walking.
“What a pity, for me. At least let me escort you out.” He stands and lightly cups my elbow with his hand.
I yank my arm away and stumble back. I know I’ve overreacted and feel like an idiot. I begin to sputter out an apology when a charged current runs through me, al
most like when I accidentally bumped into the electric fence when I was ten. From behind, I hear a low, deep growl. Goosebumps scurry over my skin.
Nigel’s eyes bulge, fixed upon something over my shoulder. He doesn’t look at me again, or go to the table with his friends; instead, he turns around and fast-walks out the front door. Slowly, afraid of who, or what, is behind me, I turn around.
“Roy.”
His eyes, ferocious as a hellhound, continue to track Nigel through the front glass as he gets in his sedan.
“Did you growl at him?”
Finally, he looks at me. “I thought it better than breaking his nose.”
Why is he angry? “What? Why would you want to punish him?” I meant to say punch, but his frequent use of the word punish must have rubbed off on me.
“He touched you.” He steadies me with his hand on my shoulder. “I saw you flinch.”
“I just don’t like being touched.”
He regards his hand resting on my shoulder.
“You’re different,” I say without thinking. “What are you doing here?”
“Dinner with a client.”
“Shouldn’t you get back to them?” I step away from him, and his hand drops to his side.
“She’s fine. Do you want to finish your drink?”
“No.” I pull my hair back and over my shoulder, disliking the thought of him having dinner with a woman. “I think I’ve had enough fun for one night.”
“I’ll walk you out to your car.”
“It’s not necessary.” I place my palm flat against his hard stomach. “Your date is probably looking for you.”
“Not a date.” He places his hand over mine. “Come on; let me get you out of here before another calamity transpires.”
“Daisy,” Bernie calls. He’s walking around the bar. Bernie never leaves the bar. He protects it like a badger. “You okay?” His shoulders are thrown back, causing his beer belly to stick out even farther.
I’ve known Bernie my whole life. I deliver linens to him three times a week. It warms my heart he’s worried about me and willing to step up to confront Roy.
“Thanks, I’m fine. This is Roy. He’s walking me out to my car.”
Secrets In Our Scars Page 3