Page 12 of When Stars Collide
“I’ll think about it.”
The cab turned down a one-way street and pulled up in front of a seedy-looking bar with a neon cactus flickering in the window.
“While you’re thinking,” she said, “would you mind lending me cab fare to get back to the hotel?”
“I might,” he said. “Or... I have a better idea. Come in with me. I doubt the guys have ever met an opera singer.”
“Go into that awful bar?”
“Not what you’re used to, I’m sure, but mingling with the commoners might be good for you.”
“Another time.”
“Really?” His eyes narrowed. “You think all it takes is a couple of ‘I’m sorry’s’ to make up for character assassination? Words are cheap.”
She regarded him steadily. “This is payback, right?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“I’m barefoot,” she pointed out with a certain degree of desperation.
He regarded her with silky animosity. “I wouldn’t have thought of it otherwise. If there’s too much broken glass, I’ll carry you over it.”
“You want revenge this much?”
“Hey, I said I’d carry you, didn’t I? But never mind. I know you don’t have the guts.”
She laughed in his face. A big, theatrical “ha!” that came straight from her diaphragm. “You don’t think I have the guts? I’ve been booed at La Scala!”
“They booed you?”
“Sooner or later it happens to everyone who sings there. Callas, Fleming, Pavarotti.” She reached for the door handle, stepped out onto the dirty pavement, and turned to gaze down at him. “I gave them the finger and finished the performance.”
He didn’t move. “I think I might be having second thoughts.”
“Afraid to be seen with me?”
“I’m afraid of you in general.”
“You’re not the first.” She marched toward the flickering neon cactus.
3
Decades of fossilized cigarette smoke clung to the bar’s walls, and the ancient black and brown floor tiles were a cautionary tale in asbestos abuse. Yellowed rodeo posters were shellacked to the ceiling, brown vinyl stools fronted the bar, and fake Tiffany Michelob lamps hung over the wooden tables.
Olivia considered her yoga pants and her bare feet. “I’m glad I travel with antibiotics.”
“I’ll bet you the bartender has a bottle of Boone’s Farm tucked away somewhere to cheer you up. I know you like your wine.”
“Thoughtful.”
One of the four oversized men sitting at a back table held up his arm, gesturing toward him. “T-Bo!”
Thad’s hand settled in the small of her back, propelling her forward. The men rose, dwarfing the table. Thad glowered at the youngest one sitting at the end. “What’shedoing here?”
The object of his disdain was maybe in his early twenties, with a big square face, solid jaw, shoulder-length light brown hair, and a manicured beard.
“I don’t know. He just showed up.” This came from a gorgeously athletic man with a fade—Afro on top and closely shaved sides with a scalp tattoo showing through. He wore a colorfully embroidered men’s leather bomber jacket over a bare chest draped with a half dozen necklaces.
