Page 84 of Raise Hell

“Maybe I just don’t care as much what you think.”

“I’ll take the chicken.” I close my own menu and lean back in the chair with my arms crossed over my chest. “But if I don’t like it, you’ll have to get me something else to eat.”

“You’ll like it.”

The waitress comes back, her expression just the slightest bit sullen as Drake rattles off our order while barely sparing her a glance. She brings the bottle of wine and slams it down a little too hard on the table, making our glasses shake. If Drake notices her attitude, he doesn’t say anything about it.

“You know that chick?” I ask offhandedly.

He picks up his glass of wine and takes a small sip. “Not even a little bit.”

They definitely slept together at some point. And if I had to guess, only one of them was left wanting more. I feel an inexplicable mix of jealousy and triumph, but I recognize both emotions are entirely unhelpful.

Drake isn’t mine, and I don’t want him to be.

“Tell me what it was like living in South Africa?”

He seems surprised for a second before his expression morphs into its usual forced indifference.

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything. Everything. What’s something you wish more people knew about it?”

He shrugs. “It’s hard to say.”

“Seriously? You’re the one who got pissy because I don’t know South African food from Siberian. I’m giving you the chance to educate me, and you’ve got nothing to say.”

“Most people don’t bother to ask what it was like back home,” he admits.

“Well, I’m asking.” A plate of steaming pastries that smell like broiled meat and savory spices is placed on the table by a busboy. This has to be the steak pepper pies that Drake ordered as an appetizer. I’m pleasantly surprised when I bite into one, tasting onion, thyme, and a sweet hint of cooked brandy. “Is it hot or cold there?”

“Hot, most of the time. It’s similar to California, we have beaches and desert. Sometimes we get snow on the Eastern Cape, but not often.”

“Do you miss it?”

“I miss my mother. She gets lonely, I think, even with family and friends around.” His lips twist into a frown. “Especially now that Felicia is out here with me. Thank you for keeping the fact that we’re related a secret, by the way.”

I shrug off his thanks, mostly because I kept my mouth shut for Felicia more than I did for him. “She told me you guys grew up less than privileged.”

“Summers without air-conditioning. Dirt floors. Barely enough food to eat.” His voice is clipped. “Is that what you mean?”

“Sounds like a struggle,” I say evenly.

“What would you know about it?”

“Probably more than you think.” I have an inexplicable urge to tell him I spent my formative years in and out of juvenile detention, that I’ve lived on the streets because it was better than crawling back to my father and begging forgiveness for being myself. “You certainly aren’t struggling anymore, not with all that Van Koch money to play with.”

“Everything comes with strings attached,” he murmurs. “There’s no such thing as a free lunch.”

My own free food is set in front of me at this point, so I don’t press him any further. I had originally assumed he would be like every other spoiled rich boy I’ve ever met, flashing cash and hoping it would impress me.

Drake almost seems to be embarrassed about it.

I had checked out the menu prices when we arrived. This place isn’t expensive, practically street food compared to the sort of fine dining places most guys at St. Bart’s would take a girl for a first date.

My dish is whole chicken legs in a red sauce, and I stare down at it for a long moment. I’m trying to decide the best way to eat it without getting the sauce all over my dress. Using my fork and knife, I gently separate hunks of meat from the bone and mix it with the mound of basmati rice on the side.

I’m sure I look like a crazy person dissecting her food.

---