Page 48 of Dead Serious with Benefits
“Depends on the liquor,” I said.
“Any you don’t like?”
“Tequila.”
“One of those people, huh?”
“No, I just don’t like the taste.”
“Fair enough,” he said, smiling and gesturing to a passing server. “A dirty martini, if you would, pickle and spicy, please, make it filthy. And a bourbon, finger and a half, on the rocks. Thank you.”
The server zipped off, and we continued walking. I glanced at him. “Confidence.”
“What’s that?” he asked when we finally reached a table near the front. He pulled out a chair for me.
“You ordered that drink with the confidence that they would get it for youandknow who you were to find you amidst allthese people,” I said as I sat down. “And you did it with authority without being aggressive or demanding.”
“My mother might win with steel and fire, but I prefer a bit of honey before I draw my weapon,” he said as he sat beside me.
I watched him as he ruffled his jacket and adjusted his shirt, and I turned before he could see the amusement on my face. It was hard to tell if he didn’t understand what I was trying to say or if he simply chose to ignore it. Even the most confident, self-assured, self-aware person could miss things about themselves,especiallypositive things.
Obviously, his mother wanted something from him that he wasn’t willing to give, or perhaps couldn’t. I didn’t know what it was, but if he refused to see what I was saying, perhaps it was tied to that. He had a good sense for people, knew how to make them comfortable, and was more than capable of getting them to do something for him, while keeping them in line and happy. Leadership skills like that weren’t taught; they were developed over time. Given enough time and willingness, he could get people’s attention in a way his mother never could.
“Thank you,” I murmured to the well-dressed man who set our drinks down, and I took the martini glass. Ward shot me a wry look as I took a sip, lip twitching as I set it back down. “That...tastes like pure pickle juice with a dash of liquor you can barely taste.”
“Oh, good, I’d hate to taste my liquor if it isn’t in a shot glass,” he said as he took his glass back, and I picked up the bourbon. “I never understood people’s love of wanting to taste their liquor. It just tastes like…liquor.”
“Isn’t that the point of a martini? Especially if you have quality liquor?” I asked and took a drink of mine. “Kind of like this...my God, no wonder so many of the rich and famous turn out to be alcoholics.”
A laugh made me stiffen, and an older couple joined us at the table. It was the woman, dressed in a soft blue dress that made her eyes even bluer, who laughed. “The eternal boredom of having the world at your fingertips but no desire to risk anything would make the top spot for me, but the good drinks certainly don’t hurt.”
“My apologies,” I said sheepishly.
“Oh, don’t,” she said as her husband set a drink down beside her, smiling as he sat. “There are far too many things to be sorry over, but the truth is not one of them. I take it this is your first time being around people like us?”
“She means people from a different socio-economic background,” her husband amended.
That was and wasn’t what she’d meant, and I smiled. “To say we’re from different socio-economic backgrounds is like saying that Earth and Mars are simply a few miles from one another.”
“This one understands just fine,” she said with a twinkle in her eyes. “You can call me Eleanor, and my husband, if you couldn’t tell is in public relations, is Aaron.”
“I’m Arlo,” I said, glancing over at Ward, who shrugged.
“He works for my mother’s office; they know who I am,” he said, raising a glass. “But it is always a delight to talk to you again, Eleanor. I wasn’t aware we were sitting at the same table this evening.”
“Your mother thought Aaron’s influence might tone down whatever urges you might have,” she said with a fond smile. “As if anyone but you could keep you in line.”
“Now if only someone would tell my mother that.”
“Oh, no one is going to tell her anything any more than they are going to tell you.”
“Yes, I’m aware,” he said with distaste. Unsurprisingly, I didn’t think he liked being compared to his mother. Or perhaps more accurately, he wasn’t fond of the idea that they werenot dissimilar in some ways. Not all ways, he didn’t have her coldness, and if his assessment of her was right, and I had no reason to believe otherwise, he didn’t feel the need to control people.
“Now, before I do the polite thing, is there...anything I shouldn’t ask you about, Arlo?” Eleanor asked politely.
Ward was not wrong; people really did expect him to invite someone who stuck out like a sore thumb...did she think I was a hooker? “Not that I’m aware of, but if it eases your mind, I can tell you when a question has gone too far.”
“Polite but direct, ah, a rarity in this world,” she said with a titter. “Now, tell me about yourself, Arlo. Where are you from? What do you do?”
