Guilt gnaws at me for having kept him waiting. I’m usually one of those annoyingly prompt people. If I’m on time, I’m late. “Thank you.”
We weave around tables as we walk through the restaurant, and when Matthew sees me, he lights up. Literally. His entire face brightens with a wide grin. Suddenly, taking the extra time and care to dress nice doesn’t seem like such a chore.
He stands when we arrive at the table. I slip off my backpack and hook it around the chair. When I sit, he slides me toward the table. I offer him an apologetic cringe as he retakes his seat. “Sorry I’m late.” I tug at the dress’s neckline. “I had to dig this thing out of a suitcase. Then I had to unpack my iron because I didn’t think you’d appreciate me showing up looking like a wrinkled mess.”
“It was only ten minutes.” Matthew calls the server over. “You look pretty. But I think you looked pretty this afternoon, too.”
I blush at the compliment, having grown used to being a mud person among glamazons, who never received a compliment from anyone other than Kerri or drunken frat boys who wanted to get in my pants.
I give him an appreciative once-over. “You look mighty fine yourself.”
Personally, I would have chosen someplace less… stuffy. When Matthew texted me to meet him at Stanzia, I felt terrible suggesting burgers instead. It’s fun to indulge occasionally. Play dress up and try new things.
Like Matthew.
He’s new. A clean-cut standout in a town famous for its depravity. The blue button-down accents his eyes, and honestly, with his looks, he could walk a runway rather than serve coffee. He’s tall and angled and lean, and that dimple is deep enough to swim in. So where are the dang butterflies? Why aren’t my palms sweaty? Do I even have a pulse?
What the hell is wrong with me?
Any sane woman would give up a kidney to take my place on this date.
This is the same thing that always happens. A lack of attraction. A bleak emptiness in place of desire whenever I meet someone who is even remotely attracted to me.
I call it Mayhemitis.
Hell yes, I gave my ailment a name. Growing up in a town ruled by the Unholy, I was surrounded by mammoth, tattooed, and dangerous men who live by an unprecedented code of loyalty and honor. And yes, they are also criminals. Big deal. While in Brighton, I sat among people who are considered society’s elite. Some of them are more corrupt than all the Unholy combined. I won’t apologize for being more attracted to an honest street thug than a corrupt millionaire who funds his lavish lifestyle off the backs of the working class.
But not every man in Mayhem is worthy of the Unholy. That glory is reserved for a select few. It’s not Matthew’s fault he wasn’t born with the lethal edge that sets an Unholy apart from the average man.
Therein lies my dilemma.
As the saying goes, a hero will sacrifice the person they love to save the world, but a villain will sacrifice the world to save the person they love.
Matthew, bless his heart, with his Clark Kent appeal, is pure hero material.
I crave the villain.
“Thanks. It’s been a long time since someone called me pretty.” I shrug before lifting the menu. “I wasn’t exactly the belle of the ball in Brighton.”
“Brighton is overrated.” He tilts his head and stares at me curiously. “Since you love Mayhem so much, why did you leave?”
“Right to the punch. I like that.” Before I can answer, the server arrives to take our drink order. Once he leaves, I add, “I wasn’t given a choice.” I scan the Italian dishes on the menu, wanting to devour each item. I’m hungry, and this is like shopping on an empty stomach and you want to eat everything in the store. Grudgingly, though, I bypass carb-heavy food and opt for lighter fare—and that’s absolutely no fun. Just once, I want to eat worry-free, but I can’t, so I don’t, and it sucks. “But even if my mother hadn’t forced me to follow in my sister’s footsteps by attending Saunders Hall University, I wanted to go anyway just to prove I could do it.”
“Why’s that?”
I lower the menu and give him the highlights of what it’s like being Olivia Decker’s disappointment of a daughter. My mother had a hard life before she married my father. His death hit her hard emotionally and financially. Brianna helps out by sending her money, and I think that’s another reason why she’s the golden child.
“Well, you don’t seem like a disappointment,” he says as he scans the menu.
“Thanks. My friend, Kerri—she’s the one you saw me with at Black Bean—she likes to say I’m more of a spectacle. But I swear to God, half the girls in Brighton owe her a debt of gratitude. She held me back from beating the hell out of them for trashing on me because I’m from Mayhem.”
Matthew’s brows shoot up, and he makes a gesture with his fingers, indicating my tiny size. “Youbeat up people?”
I snort out a laugh at his shock. “I may be small, but I’m scrappy. As I’ve said, I ran with the toughest bunch of delinquents in this town. We were always in trouble. Always getting into fights. Most of my friends grew up to become Unholy. Some didn’t get the chance to grow up at all.”
He makes a comically horrified expression. “Is it that bad here?”
“It can be.” Mayhem crushes the frail. Like my mother. Or it chases out the faint of heart, like Brianna. But for people like the men of the Unholy and me? We thrive. Makes me wonder how much longer someone like Matthew will last before the town chews him up and spits him out.
