I shake my head. ‘No, I’m good, but thanks.’
He strolls off, and I let my gaze linger on his retreating form. Drinking in the way he walks, the tilt of his head as he leans against the bar, the way his two-toned hair falls over his cheekbone as he speaks to the barman. His long fingers digging in his back pocket for his wallet. This could be the last time I see him, so I want to memorise every little detail ...
‘Slainte,’ says Damian, clinking his glass against mine when he’s seated with his drink. He takes a gulp of whisky. Up close, he has dark circles under his eyes and looks like he’s had a few rough nights. I know the feeling. I don’t need seven hours of shut-eye, but I’ve been struggling on the two hours I normally have.
‘Slainte,’ I reply and swirl my water.
‘So’, he says, ‘there’s some stuff you want to tell me?’
His tone is neutral, but his shoulders are tense. I don’t need to read his mind to know he’s still weirded out about those photos.
I nod. ‘Yes, before we ... I mean, if you want to keep hanging out with me, you should know that ... I’ve had a bitof an odd life.’
Damian’s eyes meet mine steadily. ‘What do you mean by “odd life”?’
I shift in my seat. ‘Uh, I’ve had to move around a lot. And when I lived in London, there was some ... drama.’
‘Drama? You mean with an ex?’ he prompts. I can tell he’s really just wanting me to tell him outright, but it’s better for his mental health if I don’t.
I lean back against the padded banquette and steel myself to keep going. ‘Yes. My ex-boyfriend ... he’s looking for me. And there’ll be ... consequences ... if he finds me.’Namely having my neck snapped.
Damian frowns. ‘Is he Russian?’
I stare at him blankly. ‘Ah, no. At least I don’t think so? But I’m not entirely sure of his background...’
‘Right. I think I get what you’re implying.’
My shoulders sag in relief.Thank goodness.He doesn’t even seem too upset about it. Perhaps I was worrying about nothing.
Damian leans in closer and says in a hushed voice, ‘I can see why you can’t say it outright. They may be listening.’
His eyes swivel right, then left like one of those comedy spyhole paintings.
‘Who exactly?’ I whisper to make sure we’re both on the same page.
‘The mafia,’ he whispers back. ‘Your ex-boyfriend is heavily involved, and you’re in a witness protection programme.’
He leans back in his chair and takes a sip of whisky, looking pleased with himself.
What? Oh no!
He’s so far off the mark it’s not funny.
I sigh inwardly. ‘That’s not it, Damian,’ I say, trying not to let my frustration show. ‘I’m not on the run from the mafia.’
‘Oh.’ His face loses the smug expression. ‘Well, what then? Just tell me. It can’t be that bad.’
I open my mouth, then close it again.
‘Perhaps I will have a Bloody Mary.’
‘Fine.’
He goes off to the bar, and I attempt to collect my thoughts. The subtle approach isn’t working. I’m going to have to give him a massive hint, maybe something I couldn’t possibly know unless I was there at the time.
‘Here you go.’ Damian puts the drink down in front of me.
I take a sip and try not to wince at the taste. Anything other than blood tends to resemble vinegar.
