Page 54 of Cruelest Contract
“Not even close. How did you guess?”
“Because you wouldn’t have considered this whole marriage arrangement if you had. You’d want to wait for something better, something real.”
“Real isn’t better. Real can destroy you, leaving you with nothing but heartsickness and an addiction to memories.”
She’s startled by this candid observation. And it’s probably too heavy a line to drop in a crowded bar while my brothers grind on college girls a few feet away and the women sitting behind us tell penis jokes.
But this is where we are. She might as well know where I stand and what I’m offering.
Slowly, she nods as the wisdom sinks in. “You’re not wrong.”
Her whiskey shot is untouched but now she picks it up. I want to laugh at the way she holds it gingerly with two fingers like it’s a sharp object. She takes a tiny sip and grimaces.
“You need to down it all at once,” I say. “Or it’s not really a shot. By the way, I don’t recommend this in your case.”
She continues to hold the glass with uncertainty. “How’d you figure out that I don’t drink much?” A teasing smile touches her lips. “Were you spying on me before I got here?”
Yes.But I’m not confessing.
“The one time I saw you pick up a wine glass at dinner you only took two sips and made a face,” I tell her. “But if you needto learn the hard way what whiskey shots do to you if you’re not used to them then go for it. I promise to hold your hair back when you vomit.”
I expect her to set the glass down but another unexpected willful spark strikes.
“Here’s to new experiences,” she says and tilts her head back, swallowing the contents of the shot glass with one gulp. The sight is so unexpected and so hot that I end up gripping the edge of the table to keep my cool.
She coughs twice and turns the glass over on the table, still grimacing as the heat of the alcohol sears her throat.
How I’d fucking love to push my hand under her dress. I want to watch her bite her lip and get embarrassed when she can’t avoid coming on my fingers. I bet it wouldn’t take much.
We’ll get to that point. But not yet.
Instead, I push my soda in her direction. It’s filled with crushed ice and will help with the fire in her throat. She throws me a grateful look and takes a sip with no clue that I’m thinking her next taste of whiskey ought to be the one I spit into her mouth.
“Do me a favor,” she says when she’s able to talk again.
I’ll do anything she asks. “Name it.”
Cecilia pulls out her phone and holds it up. “Say cheese.”
Okay, I lied. I won’t be doing that shit.
I sit back, cross my arms over my chest and glare into the phone’s camera lens. I’m about as fond of getting my picture taken as I am of shoveling a hill of manure.
Cecilia snaps the photo anyway. She lowers the phone and smiles at her handiwork. She turns it around for me to see.
My resemblance to Getty is strong in this snapshot. I look like I’m plotting the cleanest way to whittle an enemy’s heart out of his chest.
“She’ll love it,” Cecilia says and starts tapping a message with her thumbs.
“Who?”
“Alice. She begged for a picture of you.” Cecilia finishes typing and returns the phone to her handbag. “She’s my best friend. I can’t remember if I’ve told you about her.”
Alice would be Alice Dreyfus. Cecilia’s roommate for all four years at Arizona State. She was once arrested for running onto a baseball field in the middle of a game while wearing an inflatable unicorn costume. The charges were dismissed. She now teaches fifth grade in a suburb west of Phoenix and is Cecilia’s only close friend.
But none of these details came from Cecilia so I can’t reveal them.
“I think you might have mentioned her,” I say. “Why does your best friend want to see a picture of me?”
