Page 3 of Under Locke & Key
I roll my eyes because, again, that’s such a fucking cop out. But we’re out of time. That brief impression of the stranger knocks around in my mind and I settle on, “Finance. Contractor, not government.”
Ángel turns pensive, and nods once in a way that I know means it’s a solid guess.
The stool beside me scrapes against the floor as Mr. Gin settles in beside me. I shouldn’t be able to hear it over the music but I feel the vibration in the seat of my own stool and I steel myself.
Flicking my long black hair over my shoulder, I greet him with a pinched smile I’ve spent hours practicing. Not too obvious, not too open. Something that says “thank you for holding the door” or “no, you go first” without drawing attention.
He returns it, and I blink through the haze of my last three drinks to get a proper look at him. Blonde hair with more product than I have in mine. It’s subtle but I’ve dated enough high-maintenance people to know how long it takes to get such an effortless style to look that way. The top two buttons on his shirt are undone. Ring finger is naked.
“Hi.” He holds out his hand for me to shake and his palm is smooth against mine. Office then, for sure. “I’m Austin.”
“As in the city?” I ask and kick myself immediately.
“As in Powers. Like the movie.”
Ángel chokes out a scoff and when I give him side eye he has the grace to go fill someone else’s drink before he returns, with his humor under control.
“Oh, wow. Okay, that’s cool.”Is it though? God, this is awkward. When did those movies come out anyway?I squint a little harder through my buzz and he does look young. Younger than my twenty-nine anyway.
“So, what do you do for a living?” he asks and I could kiss him right then and there for hurrying up this little charade. This is about the bet. I decided at the start of the night I’d be going home alone.
“I work for the Senate.” He beams, actually beams. Bright white teeth that his parents must have spent a fortune on. I let the silence stretch just past the point of comfortable before I answer.
“Oh, I’m a software developer. Your job sounds exciting. What do you do up on the Hill?” I’m near choking to inject fake interest into the sentence but flattery gets me there quicker and I’m so ready for this interaction to be over already.
“I’m just an intern right now but I’m hoping to get a job on the press side.”
Fuck. I might as well reach into my purse and slap the twenty on the bar right now. But Ángel doesn’t like the camera picking up my extra tips when he’ll just have to split them. So I’ll save it for the end of the night like usual.
He’s an intern, named after a movie that came out in the late nineties (if we’re talking about the first one) which can only mean . . . Oh god.
“How old are you?”
Austin flushes. Never a good sign. “How old areyou?” He lobbies back and this is a fucking nightmare.
I drop the practiced smile and level him with one of my “don’t test your bullshit on me” looks. His blush fades into a pale terror.
“Austin. How old are you?”
Ángel is back, and if he were a dog his ears would be upright and turning toward us like a fucking antenna searching for signal.
“Twenty-two.”
A veritable baby. God, am I in cougar territory already? Sure, my knees hurt sometimes when I’ve been sitting at my desk for too long but that’s from disuse, not age. Ángel snickers and pours me a glass of water, setting it next to the offending gin. What kind of fucking twenty-two-year-old sendsgin?
I’m sure there are some mature guys in their early twenties, but, from my experience, the men on the Hill are no better than frat boys at that age, and I really don’t have it in me to train one again. The last one ended with a whimper and pushed me toward the worst relationship I’ve ever had. A reverse Good Luck Chuck and just as terrible.
“Look, it’s very kind of you to send over a drink. I appreciate it, really. I’m just a little too old for you, I think.”
Gentle. Make it about you.
“It’s okay. I don’t mind an older woman. My ex was twenty-five.”
“Yeah, well I’m twenty-nine. Bit of a bigger difference there. So, unless you’re interested in getting married andhaving kidssometime soon, I’d recommend you give me a pass.”
The wordmarriedmakes him swallow—hard. The wordkidshas him looking downright sick and I can’t help but empathize. God, I’m still so angry at Andrew and the implications he didn’t have the balls or stupidity to admit to.
“I—you—” he stutters. “Have a good night.” Austin rushes away, back to his table of friends and I can already hear them laughing at his rejection. It’s good-natured ribbing at least. He’ll get over it, or under someone younger.
