Page 40 of Wristlocked
The restaurant is Beauty and Essex, a trendy New York transplant that brought the hipster vibe to the glitter and glam of Vegas and became an instant favorite among the local elite. The dining rooms are hidden behind a fake upscale pawn shop storefront, hung with two-thousand-dollar guitars and gilt mirrors. As soon as Omar drives away, Gale has me against the plate glass window with a hand up my skirt.
“You look like a fucking wet dream in this tight little skirt, Smalls,” he says, palming my ass and dragging a finger up the back seam of my lace thong. “Did you wear it for me?”
“Did you wear these for me?” I counter, sliding a finger into one of the holes in his jeans and tracing it along his thigh.
“I’m going to hurt you tonight,” he swears, ignoring my question. “But I promise you’re going to come harder than you ever have in your life while I do.”
Dark spots cloud my vision and wet heat floods my core at his words. He claims my mouth in a kiss, fierce and punishing, before resting his forehead against mine. “Fuck. Don’t believe everything you hear in there tonight. Promise me.” The note of desperation in his low voice makes me tighten my arms around his neck.
“Okay.”What the hell am I getting myself into? We stand like that for another moment, the weight of our fears pressing down on us like the air before the lightning. With a harsh exhale, he pushes himself back, and I shiver as the cold night washes away my body’s memory of his heat.
Celeste is waiting for us in one of the jewel-box-themed dining rooms, tucked into a corner table with a fresh martini in a frosted glass. She stands when we approach with the maître d’ and kisses me twice in the French style before presenting her cheek to Gale. After a dutiful brush of his lips, he takes the seat next to her without meeting my eyes.
“So, tell me, Gia,” she says once we’re settled in the velvet-upholstered seats. “Are you enjoying your time at ACCA this term?”
“I am.”
“I’m glad to hear that. And your classes? Are they living up to your expectations?” She smiles and takes a sip of her martini.
“So far.”
“Wonderful. Your instructors speak highly of your focus, and Coach Pena tells me you have already made wonderful progress in your discipline.”
The waiter arrives before I can respond, offering up the evening’s specials and taking our drink order. Gale orders bourbon on the rocks, sounding bored and never lifting his eyes from the menu. I opt for sparkling water and think about kicking him under the table.
“It was lovely to see your mother last month,” Celeste continues once the waiter leaves, undeterred by my silent discomfort. “Do you think we’ll see her or your father again soon?” This finally seems to catch Gale’s attention, and they both look at me, her expectant and slightly covetous, him unreadable.
“I doubt it,” I say, turning to my menu with a shrug. “They’re not the biggest fans of ACCA.”
Celeste draws back, frowning, and Gale’s lips twitch as he gives her a sidelong glance.
“Is that so?” she asks, her veneer of warmth slipping. “I suppose we will have to change their opinion, then.”
Our drinks arrive, and we spend the next few minutes perusing the menus. Gale finishes his bourbon in two swallows and asks for another when we order our food. I decide he has the right idea and choose a glass of sauvignon blanc from the wine list. Neither Celeste nor the waiter bat an eye at my request.
“Well, surely we’ll see them at the showcase?” she asks, recovering her poise. “They must be excited to see their daughter perform.”
“I think Gale and I will surprise them if they do.”
The flash of fierce pride he throws me with his grin makes my heart swell.
“So he tells me.” She drops a hand beneath the table and gives me a small, pointed smile. Gale goes instantly still, his face a blank mask, and a red tide washes through my body.
“I doubt he’s told you everything.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, and Gale shoots me a warning look.
“He knows better than to keep secrets from me.” She laughs.
“Are you sure?”
“Are you?” Her voice is all cool amusement, and I’m ready to scratch her eyes out.
“Enough,” Gale growls. “Stop fucking with her, Celeste. We’re going to slay the fucking showcase, and you know it.”
“Did I ever say I doubted it?”
“All the fucking time. Give it a rest.” Something passes between them, strangely intimate, and it hits me that he doesn’t simply hate her, heknowsher. Well enough to walk the line and survive. As if in confirmation, he drags her hand out from under the table and places it deliberately on the white linen tablecloth. A flush rises in her cheeks, and recognition rocks me back in my seat.
She’s not embarrassed or even pissed. Her confidence hasn’t faltered. She’s fucking turned on. She might be the one keeping the dragon chained in its place, but she obviously chose him for his fire.
