As we make our way out of the speakeasy I can feel the stares coming from every which direction.
But mostly I feel his presence.
It’s that…hard.
We step out into the night air, which is hotter than the casino air but more refreshing in some way and make our way down the strip.
“This is nice,” I say, and he looks at me. “Just being out of there I mean. I never really wanted to…I mean my sister was very insistent on…”
“It wasn’t my idea either,” he admits, and I actually smile.
“Well, that’s a relief. I’d be a little hesitant if I knew you were actually a fuckboy.”
A sound comes from his face…a snort? A laugh? I’m not sure because he isn’t actually smiling, though I get a sense of amusement from somewhere deep inside.
“My name’s not Cal,” he says as we wait to cross to the other side of the street.
“No?”
“No. It’s Callum. No one calls me Cal.”
“Callum,” I say softly and his eyes, a dark shade of bluish green, dart over to me for a moment.
Suddenly I am getting flashbacks of him looking at me from the stage.
It’s hard to believe that that wasn’t some weird made-up dream.
That the man who was playing footsy with my eyes in a crowded room is now about to take me out to dinner.
In Sin City of all places.
“What’s your name?” he asks as we start to walk. It suddenly occurs to me that I haven’t told him.
I could tell him a fake name. I could say anything I want.
But for some reason, I don’t feel like lying about it.
They say you can be anyone you want when you’re in Vegas.
But I find myself wanting to be me…in Vegas.
“Amanda.”
“That’s pretty,” he says and his hand falls onto my lower back, ushering me through a crowd of oncoming drunken college boys.
It’s not pretty. It’s plain. It’s everyone’s name born in the decade I was born in. A decade that makes me young-ish to him.
“What are you hungry for, Amanda?” he asks. “We could go anywhere you want.”
I look around, fully aware that Vegas has everything from roof top bars to Chilis.
Yet something about sitting at a restaurant, at any capacity, seems too…stuffy. We may have been forced on this date, but it doesn’t mean we have to play it out like puppets.
“Okay don’t make fun of me,” I start with a smile.
“I would never,” he answers quickly.
I don’t know what to do with that. So, I go on. “I love a good food truck.”
