Page 17 of Kiwi Gold
“You promised,” he reminded me.
The band stopped playing abruptly, and then the guitarist crashed through a chord as the vocalist shouted, “Grab your best girl, lads, because we’re about to count down, and you’ll want to get that kiss!”
Panic filled me, hot and sharp and impervious to reason. He was going to expect me to kiss him, or he was just going to kissme,and I wanted him to and dreaded it, the same way I’d wanted my palm read and been afraid of what it would show.
Icouldn’tkiss a man whose name I didn’t know. All night, I’d been pretending to be something I wasn’t, but now, when we came down to it, I knew I couldn’t do it.
I said, “I have to go.”
He said, “What?”
I shook my head, took off the sword belt, then the other belt and the tunic. I handed them over, stood there in my nightdress, and didn’t look at Jax.Don’t see me,I prayed.Don’t know me.The drummer was doing some sort of riff now with a wire brush, and everybody was crowding around the band. I saw Poppy’s red head across the crowd, and Matiu’s dark one.
I had to get out of here. Poppy and Jax were going to see each other at any minute, and I’d be … I’d be …
I was headed for the coat check, then remembering and trying to fish the ticket out of my garter in the most unobtrusive way possible, which turned into pulling up the nightdress and groping around frantically in a manner that was absolutelynotunobtrusive.
What a stupid idea. I hadn’t had time to sort out a pocket, but I’d seen this in the top drawer of my tallboy, saved for some foolishly sentimental reason from my wedding, and thought,Why not? It’s another first tonight. The start of my new social life, and I’m tired of pretending that my marriage was some sort of sacred bond that must be preserved.I’d snipped a hole in it for a pocket then and thereand shoved it up my thigh. At the last minute, I’d taken off my wedding ring and shoved it in there, too. You couldn’t be damned twice, right? I hadn’t imagined accessing my so-called pocket, though, in front of a man I didn’t even know. Because, yes, he was still here. Looking at my bareleg.
Behind me, the guitarist was striking a note, and the singer was starting to chant.
“Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight. Twenty-seven.”
The man, whoever he was—Jax’s mate, somehow? Oh. He’d be Army. Well, at least the bullet made sense—said, “Let me see you home, or at least make sure you get into an Uber, if you’re not used to drinking.”
I’d already handed the ticket across the counter, though, was taking my pashmina, my purse, and saying, “It’s all right. I’ll walk. I was … I need to go, that’s all.”
“Twenty-two. Twenty-one. Twenty.”The voices were getting louder now, the slap of wire brush against drumhead more emphatic.
He said, “Tell me your name, at least. As we made a vow and all.”
“Eighteen. Seventeen. Sixteen.”
I hesitated, then thought,He’s going to find out anyway, if he knows Jax. Besides, he’s right about the promise,and said, “Laila.”
“Like the song? Got me on my knees, and so forth?”
“Yes,” I said. “And no. Pretty sure I’ve never had a man on his knees.” And then, for some reason, I added, “Though that’s the story with the name in Arabic, too. Laila and Majnun. He loves her, but he’s her uncle, so their love is forbidden. She’s married off to someone else, he goes mad, they both die of longing. Romeo and Juliet, in fact, other than the creepy uncle. Our story is the original version.”
The crowd getting even more excited now.“Twelve. Eleven. Ten.”I needed to get out of here. Why had I even said all that?
“What does it mean?” he asked, totally ignoring the crowd, his entire whipcord-tight self focused on me. “The name? And why ‘our story’?”
“Seven. Six. Five.”
“Our story because my mum was Kuwaiti,” I said. “And the name means dark beauty. Night beauty.”
Why was I telling him that? Men weren’t romantic. They might pretend for a while, but it didn’t last. And I didn’t want to be kissed. I didn’t need to feel ashamed, let alone stupidly hopeful, afterwards. I didn’t have time or energy for that.
“Three. Two. One. Happy New Year!”
Whistles. Shouts. And through the open doors, the pop and crackle of fireworks over the harbor.
It wasn’t a decision. I just ran. Out the door. Down the steps. Up the street. My purse in one hand, my pashmina trailing behind me.
Not quite Cinderella.
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