Page 35 of Bought
Clearing my throat, I stare down at the menu on my phone. “Everything is good here.”
“We don’t know each other’s likes, do we?” Her nose crinkles.
She’s adorable. And she’s right. That’s why I asked her here tonight. “I like steak. Mooing. And all forms of root vegetables. You?”
“Chicken or fish,” she says. “Green veg. Loads of chocolate, of course.”
“Is it true you Brits drink tea and eat sweets every day?”
“Three pm. It’s snack time.”
“But you call it tea?”
She shakes her head. “Not where I come from. In the North, tea is dinner.”
Suddenly she looks away, as if she’s given up too much.
I wonder why.
I order her the spinach-stuffed chicken and the steak for myself. Water for both of us. A bottle of chilled white wine if she feels inclined.
For the first time all night, the tension shifts. The silence isn’t about sex. It’s companionship.
Dangerous.
“So,” I say, leaning back in my chair, watching her toy with her glass. “Tell me something real, Erin. Something about home.”
“There’s not much to tell,” she says, looking away. “I come from a quiet place. Farms, green pastures, sheep.”
I want to ask her the name of her town, but she’d have offered it if she wanted me to know. Besides, I can find out easily enough.
“Go on,” I encourage.
She hesitates, then gives me a small smile. “New York is so different from where I grew up. I don’t love the city. I get lost a lot. But I love the noise. It makes me feel… less alone. I hated how quiet it was.”
“I was born here. I live for the noise,” I admit. “Without it, I can’t sleep.”
Her eyes brighten. A shared truth. A piece of common ground.
We go back and forth, sharing small details, fragments of who we are beneath the surface. Childhood poverty is the only thing we have in common. My wealth quadrupled when I joined the Bachmans.
Besides the generous payday from me, she’s still waiting for her luck to change.
She doesn’t drink much. She won’t say why. My people love nothing more than a great party with plenty of alcohol. I love a good whiskey, smoky and bold. Her idea of a great night is staying in with a good book.
She’s forever optimistic. The library book currently taking up residence on the nightstand is about asking what you want from the universe.I think that’s garbage, and I tell her so. A man makes his own destiny.
My last read was a car magazine. Six months ago. It was mostly pretty pictures with a few short articles.
I skipped those. But I did scan the captions.
About halfway into the conversation, I realized she’s way smarter than I am. And college-educated. I calm my bruised ego by reminding myself that knowing how to get rid of a body is an important life skill.
Right?
Peering at me, she says, “Did you send the Aston Martin because you knew I’d know it from home?”
“Maybe.” I steal the vague answer she’s given me before.
