Gianni rummages around a bit more and then emerges. With grease on his too-young-to-be-this-jaded face, he gives me an older-than-he-is look. “And Ransome isn’t?”
There is nothing I can say to that. Because to many people, mainly anyone who might cross the Rozanovs, Ransome would be the bad guy.
Gianni closes the hood. I leave.
I couldn’t argue with him. But I also know how I feel about Tristan. It’s a festering feeling in the pit of my stomach.
And I know myself well enough to trust that feeling.
50
AMARA
It’s only when I get home that it dawns on me.
No one is listening to me.
Ransome is brushing off that Gianni could be in danger. Gianni is acting like he knows who he’s messing with. Like I am the naive one.
Well, I’m over it.
Over it enough that I’m going out.
Electra gets us into this swanky little speakeasy where you have to snag the secret password on their social media page. It’s dark, with gothic wallpaper and tufted chairs and orange lighting behind the wall of liquor. It’s made up of multiple rooms, some small and cozy, some large, linked to the main bar. It’s moody. Hidden. Bougie.
Perfect.
It’s also packed and the only two seats left are at the main bar.
“I can’t believe you have a night off.” She digs into the charcuterie board we ordered while waiting for the bartender to make our cocktails.
I reach for a slice of hard gouda. “Believe it or not, I don’t always take orders from my boss.”
“No? Could’ve fooled me.”
“Yeah well I’m here aren’t I?”
She grins. “You are.”
“And I’m having drinks with you.”
“Yes.”
“And I look good.”
“You look fabulous,” she tells me. “I mean, for real. Look at you, wearing name brand. It’s about damn time you spent some of that money on yourself.”
What Electra doesn’t know is that I don’t pay for most of my clothes anymore. Even with the money Ransome gives me, he still sends new outfits straight to the penthouse. And as much as I love thrifting and second-hand things… I’m not stupid. I’m still a woman. And I don’t hate my new wardrobe.
That being said, I did buy this dress. I bought it because I went to the mall before I came here. Maybe not the mall Ransome would have me shop at. But not the cheap one either. This dress is the literal definition of little black dress.
Straight. Flattering. Flashy. And short. Short enough that I can’t bend over.
Paired with high black stilettos, I’d be lying if I said I haven’t noticed the number of looks I’ve gotten since stepping out of my car this evening. And while I have no interest in any of those stares, it doesn’t suck doing what I want for once. And what I want is to have a drink in a cute dress with my friend and pretend like I’m not dating a man from the Bratva.
“So, tell me about this guy you’re seeing.” I take a sip of my drink. It’s tequila, of course. Because tonight, I’ve decided to treat myself to something I actually like.
It’s spicy and sweet and divine. All it takes is one sip for me to feel loose and free. I’m not drunk. It’s a buzz on life.
