Page 70 of Inflame

Lovely. I break my hold on him and walk into the elevator first. Everyone else shuffles in. Nic smacks the number on the board, and I swear I hear him growl every time the car stops to add on a person or two from each floor on the descent—which has been a rare occurrence on this side of the hotel. At a snail’s pace we finally make it to the main floor.

As I expected, the Grand Buffet at the Bellagio is award winning. It’s not your $5.99 special at Earl’s Country Buffet, just five miles from Reagan National Airport. This is top notch and a place that even foodies go to indulge in the eclectic cuisine. I glance around the food serving areas, taking in the scene. It really is a masterpiece of art for the eyes.

Ethan’s arm is slung around me as his gaze sweeps through the room—territorially pissing himself all over me. This is what he does in public. It is his pattern of behavior. I let him, despite every cell in my body screaming for me to run and not look back. He treats me like a trophy on a good day and an outdated car on a bad one. Most people see me as the outgoing, never lacking for a word, girl of confidence. But it is in moments like these that my throat dehydrates and my spine loses one more bone of support. I feel trapped in a relationship I have given up everything for, just to see where things may lead. Maybe it is my naive optimism that allows me to hold onto this—

Hope?

Illusion?

I think that if I stick around long enough and see this through, I might get everything I have ever wanted—a happy ending.

We get seated right away at a table for five, and instantly I grow tense finding myself situated between Nic on my left and Ethan on my right. I don’t feel like a rose. I feel like a naive little girl, putting herself in the middle of two men who are so different that it is even hard to find just one similarity.

Ethan leans over and kisses my hair. “Good choice, babe, this place looks amazing.”

I should smile over his compliment. I should be happy he is starting to make an effort at being content today. However, I can tell by the tic in his jaw that he is just going through the motions. Playing nicey-nice in public. He is surviving the morning, so he can skip off to a business meeting and enjoy the things he wants to do—without me.

“Glad you approve.” I bite my tongue from saying more. He often tells me I amtoo much. To tone it down a couple of notches. He is right. I get myself excited and expressive and animated.

“What can I get everyone to drink?” the blonde waitress asks the group.

Graham motions for Angie to answer first.

“A cappuccino and a pineapple mimosa please,” she says politely, handing over the leather-bound beverage menu.

Graham orders the same.

When I start to give my order, at the direction of the waitress, Ethan interrupts with, “black coffee,” before I can even finish my answer. I dip my gaze into my lap. I need to stop being so sensitive. I need to stop comparing my relationship with Ethan to that of the power couple seated across from me. There is no touching Graham and Angie. So why even try to aim for something that is unreachable?

“Go ahead, Claire,” Nic says softly, brushing his hand lightly against mine that is resting on my knee under the table.

I look up into his eyes. He looks like he is holding back from saying something. I frown. I can’t hide my emotions well. When my own words get stuck in my throat from the ball of stress lodged inside, I curl my lips under my teeth to fight back the tears.

“Herbal tea, surprise me,” Nic says to the waitress. “Two mimosas and…”—he looks at me and winks, instantly making me relax—“two organic waters.”

My lips pop out from their restraints, and I huff out a few laughs. “Organic waters?” I ask.

“I am very health conscious,” he responds, his eyes twinkling with light-heartedness.

Nic’s silly humor is welcome right now. It is a lifeline that I hold on to as I navigate the muddy waters of keeping Ethan content but also not losing myself entirely over to the world he wants to live in.

Ethan’s throat clears, drawing everyone’s attention to him. “So, Nic, how’s work at the agency going? I’ve been hearing there is a decrease in revenue in the past six months. But what do I know? I found my woman right here, so I’m not up to date with the inventory at this time.”

At this time? What does he even mean?

From my periphery, I see Nic’s shoulders tense up. He is not an Ethan fan—that much is obvious.

“It’s going better than your daytime gig,” he says with confidence.

“I’m racking up new clients left and right,” Ethan offers.

“How do you know I’m not doing the same?"

I inwardly groan.

Not another pissing contest.

I’m tempted to ask them both to whip out their dicks and just get it over with. I mean, I do know now what Nic’s looks like in 2D. The sizing-each-other-up drama can be done at another time.

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