I already want nothing to do with this marriage. Mom’s got her hooks into another poor, unsuspecting fool and he’s blind to it. I’m going as a courtesy to her, fully knowing that it’s going to end with her moving ahead in life and him broken.
It’s not something I stand for. Not anymore, not after that night…
“Oh shit, I did.” Forget, she means. Misha perks up and shimmies around until she’s facing me better, from her position on the desk. “And you still don’t know anything about him? Like whether he’s got a family… some hot, twenty-something, bleached-blond, stars-in-his-eyes son with a chiseled body someone could worship, for example.”
“Oh God, we really need to get you laid.” I burst out laughing. Misha joins in.
“What’s this I hear about getting laid?” Dylan Erikson’s voice comes from behind a shelf near the front door.
The shelf is positioned toward me, with the boxes and files blocking the view of the door leading in. It’s a way to fit as many racks in here as they could, but it’s made seeing people come and go impossible. Most days it’s not an issue; we don’t get many visitors here. But it’s times like this, when Dylan could’ve been there for ages, eavesdropping on our conversation, that I wish it wasn’t like that.
Had Misha and I not been talking, I’d have heard the door’s light, mechanical hiss as it slid open and then closed. But like I said, the man who built The Barkhouse was loaded, and he spared no expense on the furnishings. In this case, the best of the best doesn’t allow for much privacy.
Misha’s face coils in disgust, but she hides the grimace well when he crosses into view.
“Dylan,” she says politely, doing her best to keep her face in check.
“Mish,” he says.
She stiffens up, practically vibrating with the effort to stop herself from dry-heaving. I’d feel the same way in her position. There’s something off about Dylan Erikson, but neither of us can put our finger on what that is. He dresses sharply, has all the characteristics of a traditionally handsome man, and shows respect to everyone around The Barkhouse.
But beneath that warm, inviting smile and his perfectly coiffed hair, something just isn’t right. Then again, after my terrible ordeal with Tom, no man has ever beenrightin my eyes. For all we know, Dylan could just be a nice guy, with a happy-go-lucky attitude, but one who’s awkward and uncomfortable around women.
He stops in front of my desk, peering down at me behind the monitor. He swallows hard, doing his utmost to maintain eye contact with me. If there weren’t so many eyes on him, he’d be looking lower, I’m sure.
That’s not my fault. My blouse isn’t supposed to be revealing. The mannequin I saw it on didn’t have a single inch of cleavage showing. It was only after I took it home that I realized that my chest was in no way similar to the mannequin’s. It was small, and meant to resemble anaverage-sized woman, whereas there’s not a damn thing that’s average about my breasts.
“What are you two fine ladies up to this evening?” he asks when no one furthers the conversation.
“So much to do, so little time,” Misha says, taking a few steps back from Dylan. We both watch her walk away, each step becoming goofier the further she gets from my desk. I laugh, knowing it’s for me. He just gawks, confused by her antics.
“I’m going to dinner,” I say, hoping it’ll squash any notions he might have of asking me out.
When I turn back toward him, after Misha goes, I see his gaze has tracked lower. Just as I suspected. He couldn’t stand the embarrassment of gawking at my tits in front of her, but steals a glance at the first opportunity he gets to do it alone.
He coughs and looks away for a moment, hoping I didn’t see anything. When he looks back, it’s with a wide smile that tells me I failed in deterring him.
“Oh? Any idea how long it’s going to be?”
“Not a clue.” I expect we’ll eat and move on, since it’s a first meet and it’s bound to be uncomfortable for everyone involved.
“Could I twist your arm into joining m—”
“Not tonight, Dyl,” I cut him off before the offer can be made. Sessions with Dr. Rice rarely leave me craving company, and I doubt meeting my future stepdad is goingto help with that. “I’ve had a long day. I just want to curl into bed and fall asleep.”
“I understand,” he says. “But look, I only ask because my band plays at the Rusty Hook a couple of times a week. I’m trying to get some familiar faces through the door. So, keep it in mind, will you? Stop by and check us out sometime.”
“You’re in a band?” I have no reason to be surprised when I don’t know a thing about Dylan. Still, I find myself slack-jawed and wide-eyed at the idea of his being in a band.
“Bassist, yeah.” He rummages through his pockets and hands me a folded sheet of paper. It’s a poster with three guys and a chick, posing with their instruments. “My siblings and I. We’ve done a few free shows, but the Hook is our first paid gig.”
“Okay, yeah.” I tuck the poster into my handbag. “If anything changes and my Friday nights aren’t full of lazing away the day’s woes, I’ll be there.”
“That’s all I can ask for,” he says, and walks off the same way he came in.
Not even a second after he’s gone, Misha appears out of nowhere, squinting in the direction he went.
“That guy gives me the creeps.”
