Page 151 of Even Vampires Bleed
I lift my face to look at him.
“Not that I know,” I answer him, even if somewhere inside of me a small part of my mind is asking,“Aren’t you a bit?”
“You don’t look like the kind to come atLa Poule au oeufs d’or, that’s all…” he says with a shrug.
I can see it for what it is. He’s intrigued by my presence.
I have no doubt that the women who come here don’t usually dress the way I do.
They’re here to sniff out rich men or to gamble their own money.
They don’t come here in jeans and old shirts that say, “Sarcasm,” with the periodic table elements as the letters.
No, they come with glittery dresses that show more than I’m willing to. It might be because my double D cup would overflow the kind of cleavage they wear, though. Or because I’m not sure I could breathe in the kind of tight dresses I’ve seen around a few times.
Don’t get me wrong—those dresses look awesome, and I would love to wear one even if it’s hard to find in a size fourteen without it costing an arm and a leg.
Yes, I would love to own a beautiful dress, but there is no way I’m wasting money on a dress when there are so many things that the girls need.
But I can see why the bartender would be surprised by someone like me inside thePoule aux oeufs d’or—the chick with golden eggs.
I stick out like a sore thumb.
“I’m looking for someone,” I tell him.
“Aren’t we all looking for someone?” he says with a teasing smile, and I realize the man might be flirting with me.
“Not like this,” I say with a sigh.
To be honest, he is cute, in a pretty boy kind of way. He looks fit but on the slender side, has dark brown hair that is slicked back in a way that makes me think he spends more time in front of his mirror every morning than I do, and a very pretty smile. His blue eyes sparkle with mischief.
But I don’t feel a thing.
Not even an inkling of need when I see him.
He looks too polished.
I’m sure that in this place it works well for him.
“I’m looking for my dad,” I tell him. If he’s going to talk, I might as well stir him the right way and see if he can put feelers out for me tonight.
I know people who are like my dad. They always come back to the same place and if anyone has seen him, there is no one better to find out than the man behind the counter.
“Tell me more,” he says as he drops his elbows to the counter and cups his chin with his hands.
“Stéphane Beaumont,” I tell him. “This tall,” I say as I lift a hand in the air twenty centimeters above my head—don’t ask me, I don’t know exactly how tall my dad is.
“Could lift a cow and has my fiery hair. Well, maybe I have his, but the result is the same,” I add.
I see recognition in his eyes.
I also see dread.
What did my dad get into again?
“I don’t think you’ll see your dad again,” the bartender says, barely above a whisper, and I wonder if I really heard him say that.
“What do you mean?” I ask in panic.
