Lukas whistles, low."Someone's got a hot date."
She doesn't deny it.Just gives them both a look that says: behave.
She turns and walks off.I follow her movement without meaning to.Out the pub door, down the street.And there he is.
Bellini.Waiting in front of the hotel, leaning against the stone wall like a man who knows he looks good in the streetlamp glow.
The moment she reaches him, something in me snaps.
I slam my beer down and leave Lukas mid-toast.The glass doesn't break, but it startles the table.I don't care.
Lukas lowers his voice, captain-calm."Mate, save stupid for after my social posts are scheduled."
I empty the glass in one long gulp, feeling the raised eyebrows more than seeing them.
So, she wanted us to behave?
Even when she doesn't?
We´ll see about that.
Three hours later, I am sobering up in the lobby.
I survived the interview without throwing up.
Lukas was sober enough to nudge me when I almost swore live on TV.
The media crew was thrilled.I imagine my slurred one-liners will be circulating all socials and turned into memes that will entertain for weeks.
How's that for too polished and too perfect, Miss PR wizard?
But the lights are off now.The studio buzz is gone.And I'm alone again.
The hotel lobby is half-dark, warm in a way that doesn't touch me.The clock above the fireplace ticks too loudly.The fire crackles like it's mocking me.I sit too still in the leather chair, tea going cold in my hand.The chair groans every time I shift.My neck aches.
I tell myself I'm just decompressing.Just riding the after-race high.Just letting the buzz wear off before I go to sleep.To improve my recovery.
But I'm kidding myself.I'm waiting.
We came back from the studio after ten.The boys clapped me on the back.Lukas handed me water.No one said a thing about her.But they knew as they left me in the lobby.
And I keep waiting here.
Half past ten.
Eleven.
I picture them in some candlelit restaurant, wine glinting in her glass.Him brushing her wrist with his fingers.That soft laugh she gives when she's not trying to impress anyone.Her coat slipping from her shoulders as they head up to his room.
I picture them in his bed.
His mouth on her neck, his fingers in her hair, the arch of her spine.Her breath catching.
The sounds she made with me.
Every second past midnight hammers that image deeper.Still no message.No knock.No fucking key in the lock.
I want to believe she saw through him.Saw the slick moves, the easy, perfected charm.I want to believe she walked away.
