“Next time, I’m driving,” he said, looking down at legs clothed in tailored pants, feeling almost like a normal guy with a better-than-normal girl.
“Promise?” she asked, not expecting an answer, looking in her side mirror to pull onto the wide avenue.
“Where are we going?” he asked. He observed drunken passersby swerving in more acute angles than he ever challenged Nadine with in their mat-lined rooms.
“Rockwood Music Hall.”
“I see, it’s a night out for you,” he said, teasing.
“Of course it is, and I picked you over that sourpuss brother of yours.” He liked that she tossed his teasing right back, no kid gloves.
Sascha had arranged nearby parking. They reversed the routine with the chair and wheeled up a ramp to enter. A hostess led them to reserved seating at a table to the far right, just in front of the stage.
A gorgeous pale waitress, golden hair piled high, making a black apron over dark leggings look good, came over. Catching sight of Phoenix, she exhibited perfect white teeth.
“I’m Ana. Do you know what you want to drink?” she asked Sascha, not breaking eye contact with Phoenix.
“Club soda. I’m driving,” Sascha yelled over the band warming up.
“How about you, doll?” The blonde leaned down, ostensibly to hear him. The tops of her breasts peeked over the v-cut of her fitted T-shirt.
“Blue Sapphire martini, dirty.”
She flashed her teeth like the drink order was inspired.
“Sure thing, doll,” she sang, sashaying away. A funky electronic beat started up. The band featured one guy surrounded by drums and a keyboard, and another with an electric guitar.
“You’re not even my boyfriend and I’m jealous.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he grumbled.
Sascha cocked her head with an exaggerated stare. “You didn’t notice the waitress falling all over you?” she enunciated. “She may be working but she’s still flesh and blood with perfectly good eyesight and libido, apparently.”
“You kidding? In this chair?”
“Who cares about the freaking chair? I’m with the hottest guy in this place.”
He looked around at the eclectic crowd, interspersed with beatnik, casual, punk and posh. A redhead caught his eye and winked. Something familiar tugged at his insides. He looked away. “Do you know her?” he asked, shrugging towards the pinup-styled beauty.
“Another fan,” she filled him in, deadpan.
“Oh, c’mon. What is this, a set-up? Did you pay these people?” he huffed over the music, now low and moody.
The waitress glided over, tray in hand. “Club soda. Dirty martini, extra olives,” she beamed. She placed small bowls of mini pretzels and nuts on the table. “A little something in case you’re hungry.”
“Thanks, Ana,” he said, returning her smile.
“Are you always so good with names? Can I get you anything else?” Was he imagining the innuendo in her perfectly reasonable remarks?
“No, thanks,” Sascha answered for them, dismissing Ana with a scowl.
She turned to him. “You think I paid these people? They’d paymeto hang out with you.”
“You are too clever. Taking me out to show me I’m okay, instead of all those crazies at the hospital trying to convince me through words.”
He dredged up sarcasm, but did feel better. The familiar memory clicked into place. That redhead’s wink was flirtation. He’d been holed up in rehab for so long, and before that, starting the agency, he’d nearly forgotten the simple interplay between strangers. And of course, that short period in between, when two professionals nearly became more, needed to be banished from his thoughts. He sipped the cool gin, face wanting to split over unexpectedly high spirits.
Sascha twisted towards him, her latex straining with the movement. “You think I’m taking you out for you? My friends know, I always said I dated the best-looking guy’s brother. Now quit the questioning, it’s not all about you. I’m being selfish here so let me enjoy myself.”
