He takes off, not quite running, phone pressed to his ear.
I pull out my phone and do a search, wondering if I’ve gone and fucked everything up, now that there’s video evidence.
It takes a while, but I finally find it on one of the big social media sites.
It’s me all right. #ParkingLotHero. Whoever posted it was dining at Parlor that night and she, clearly, along with more than 2 million other people, thought the other guy deserved what he got. I watch the whole thing, closely, and the distance, the lack of any real identifying characteristics, like a license plate, a restaurant name, or my face, allow me to finally breathe enough to get in my truck and head to the restaurant.
But I’m buzzing, hard, with adrenaline when I get there.
Kit
“My place tonight.”
“What?” I blink up to see a very stern-faced Jake, just back from who knows where.
“Let’s do my place.”
“Oh. I think we’re not on the schedule until?—”
“Fuck the schedule. Fuck the contract. I want new rules, Katarina.”
“What’s going on?”
“I’m over the rules. They’re obsolete.”
“They’re important.”
“Bullshit. They’re hypocritical nonsense. I’m tired of being the bad guy, bending rules. Tired of breaking them, too.”
“We don’t need to?—”
“You sucked my cock, Katarina.” He leans close enough so no one can hear, looks me straight in the eye and in a low, gruff growl, says, “You licked it like a fucking lollipop.” Mortification turns my skin to pure fire. I cast a quick look over my shoulder at where Cora and Toni are rolling silver. “We’re well past your rules and you know it.”
I can’t catch my breath.
“You pregnant yet?”
“I…I don’t know.”
“All right. Well, let’s get you that baby.”
I can’t think of a single reply. Or anything else I’d rather be doing.
27
Kit
The shift goes by painfully slowly. Everything I do feels too slow, too syrupy, nervous, and also caught in someone else’s headlights.
The waitstaff takes forever to leave. Finally,finally, I lock the door behind Cora, then Toni, then Frida.
When Jake turns the kitchen light off and comes out, I set the credit card receipts down so he can’t see how hard my hand’s trembling.
“You ready?” He asks, like there was no six-hour break in our conversation. No offering of red velvet cake with cream cheese frosting brought out to me on a plate, wordlessly. Just the cake and a look. Just him watching while I take my first bite and then work very hard not to moan through my second. That’s two cakes in one day. I can’t help but feel like things are ramping up.
Through it all, the way we seem to communicate without words feels…meaningful. Real.
It scares the crap out of me.
