“The kind a five-year-old picks.” Cal laughs. “He's been with me a long time. So has Molly, but that doesn't mean she's privy to my personal details. Did I detect a note of jealousy from my future wife?”
“Not at all.” I shrug.
“Good. Because there's only one woman I want on my cock for the rest of my life. And she's dressed to fucking kill tonight.”
I don't manage to stifle a snicker at the innuendo as we make our way to the glass elevator. It takes us to the seventh floor in a matter of seconds, and when we reach the floor, the elevator spits us out across from a luxe bar spanning the length of one wall.
“Get yourselves some drinks.” Cal says, gesturing to the bar. “Everything is on the house tonight.”
“I'll be right back.” Dex tells Katrina, pressing a kiss to the top of her forehead that is surprisingly tender. “You'll be okay?”
It's easy to forget that I'm not the only one damaged by this world. It takes me a moment to realize why he even asked that, but then I remember, and I appreciate Dex a little more for it.
When I find Cal's gaze, he nods.
“Try to have some fun.”
“Fun.” I laugh, turning to Katrina as they stalk toward the double doors of what I assume is theater seven. Their strides match each other, and fuck if they don't look powerful—criminally so. “This your idea of fun?”
Katrina's eyes sweep the sterile space, cold and clean but lacking any coziness... in fixtures and in people. Everyone and everything here is sharp angles, beautiful but not welcoming.
“Not at all.” She laughs. “Give me a dance floor and a bottle of tequila over champagne and... whatever the fuckthatis.”
I follow her gaze to what looks like a lounge area set in the corner of the floor, nearest the window that looks out on the city.
We make our way to the bar anyway and get Katrina her tequila on the rocks because they wouldn't give her just a shot of it. I get a mixed drink that the bartender assured me was the strongest thing he could legally make, and we decide to meander.
“So…” She ventures, wincing when she takes a sip of her drink. “How did you meet Cal?”
I laugh because that's a subject that feels like it needs a few more drinks and a more private location.
“He... paid for me.” I say quietly, though we're already out of earshot of everyone still at the bar.
“Like... how they paid forme?”
Paying off her handler to forget she ever existed isn’t quite buying her, though I suppose I don’t know what their relationship entails. As far as I can tell, Katrina is with Dex willingly.
“A little different.” I shrug, my eyes latching onto a neon sign, the one bit of color in the otherwise bleached place. I tip my head toward it, and she nods, following my lead. “He found me on the internet.” I confess.
Her eyes rove over me, looking for more details to the story. “And it was... love at first sight?”
I snort and take a healthy gulp of my drink, feeling my cheeks warm with the liquid courage. “Not for me. I don't know about him. But I showed up in a box, and he decided to keep me. I'd already been with him for a few months before I was conscious enough to know about it.”
“Jesus.” She mutters. “I think you're marrying a psychopath.”
“A sociopath, at minimum.” I laugh. “It's weird, I know, but…”
“But you care about him.” She nods. “Yeah, same.”
Her eyes widen at my frown. “No, not Cal!” She clarifies. “Dex. I mean, he may not have tried to kill me, but he was going to pay me off to stay quiet and then send me halfway across the world. And when he showed up, he told me I'd just fallen, that I hit my head, that everything was totally fine. I knew somewhere in the back of my head that it wasn't, but I ended up in his house, and he kept an eye on me all night to make sure I didn't stop breathing, and all of a sudden, I found myself not wanting to leave.” She sighs.
“Look at us,” I tease, drawing up to an air hockey table. “A couple of poster children for romance… or Stockholm syndrome.”
She snorts at that, crossing to the other side of the table and picking up one of the pucks. She holds it between us as we ready ourselves and then places it directly in the center of the board. It drifts toward her immediately once I turn the power on, and she manages to bank it off of her mallet, sending it directly into my goal.
I tense when a man ambles behind her, his eyes on her ass as she leans forward to hammer the puck into my side of the board again, but he passes without incident, and she jumps excitedly at the goal.
Katrina makes three more in quick succession, and I'm coming to the realization that I'm going to either lose a finger or else my dignity when she straightens.
