Page 64 of Bombshells
“Why?” I ask, and it comes out sounding more anguished than I’d like.
“Because…” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Because I really liked spending the night with you. Really. A lot. But now I have all kinds of guilt. Like I took, uh, advantage of a situation.”
This is not the speech I wanted him to give. So now I’m looking for an out. “You want to do this here? With an audience?” I wave a hand toward the cab driver who’s sharing the car with us.
“I guess not,” he says levelly. “Fine. You can come over to my place.”
“What? No.”
“But I ordered lunch—a double order of spicy chicken.”
My stomach gurgles without my permission.
“We can talk for a minute.”
That sounds awkward. “Did you also get the dumplings?” I hedge.
His smile grows wide. “As a matter of fact I did.” And then his phone starts playing a loud ringtone. It’s the Bruisers win song—“No Sleep Till Brooklyn.”
“Christ. What now?” He pulls out his Katt phone, and I notice the edges are glowing red.
“Whoa. I’ve never seen that before.”
“That means an urgent call from the team,” he grumbles. “Usually means I’ve fucked up somehow.”
“Guess you’d better answer.” It’s not like I’m in a hurry to hear his silly apology, anyway. Not unless he tells me that the reason he didn’t call was because our night together was so perfect that he couldn’t form words.
“Hey, Heidi,” he says after answering.
Even from a couple feet away I can hear her animated voice. “Anton! Why is your father blowing up my phone with a request for free tickets?”
“My father?” Anton asks. “Tickets for when?”
“Tonight.”
He groans. “That asshole. I’m sorry, Heidi. He is not your problem.”
“We are in agreement about that. Unfortunately, tickets are tight tonight. We set aside a block of seats for the Bombshells team. I don’t know if they’re all planning to attend, but I don’t have the time to sort that out.”
“I understand,” Anton says. “My dad is a piece of work. Not every Bayer is as cool as me and Eric. Those genes sometimes skip a generation.”
Heidi Jo laughs. “Just make it stop. He wants five seats. Good luck with that.”
“How did he even get your number? Wait—never mind. It doesn’t matter. Sorry. See you tonight.” He hangs up and scrubs a hand across his face. “So now I get to deal with that.”
“Is your father local?” I ask, curious about Anton even when I know I shouldn’t be.
“No. He shows up in New York once or twice a year, always expecting a hero’s welcome. He’s exhausting.” He scrolls through his messages and sighs. “Yup. He wants four seats, with eight hours’ notice. Good seats, it says. One for himself and a client, and two for his kids.”
“His kids? Aren’t you his kid?”
“Only when it’s fun and convenient.” His thumbs move over the screen as he shoots off a text. Then he shoves the phone into his pocket as the taxi pulls up in front of his building.
I shove a twenty through the pay window, planning a quick escape.
“Come on, now,” he says, seeing right through me. “I wasn’t done apologizing.” he says.
“What if I’m done being apologized to?”
