Page 5 of Hell Bent
“Very nice,” he said.
“I know, right?” she said as she turned onto Castro. “You’re here. I’ll circle the block, but if it’s more than ten minutes, you better be upping that tip.”
“I’ll do that,” Sebastian said. “Circle the block with Sabrina in the back, will you? No reason for her to hobble around on that ankle.” With that, he climbed out of the car, went around to my side, and held the door for me, then took my hand to help me out. Of course, he got honked at and given the finger by a too-close driver, but still.
Sebastian
“You know,” Alix said as she headed to the sidewalk, “I’ve been getting out of cars by myself for a while now.”
“True,” I said, “but as we’ve noted, it could be icy, and you don’t have much traction in heels.”
“It actually isn’t icy,” she said. “I just said that because?—”
“Because you don’t like bullies. Especially, possibly, rich bullies.” I held the door for her into Walgreen’s, maybe because she’d put her hand in mine to get out of the car. I’d enjoyed it, and I hadn’t been the only one.
“In fairness,” she said, “you were eating in that very expensive restaurant yourself. What does that say about you? Withtwogood-looking women. First-aid supplies are over here.” And headed there, then turned around when I didn’t follow her. “What?”
“Basket,” I said, and grabbed it. “You’re a decisive woman. And I’m glad you noticed my company. Should I be flattered?”
“No,” she said. “And I come from a long line of decisive women. If it bothers you, too bad.”
“Not me,” I said. “I’m good. That’s why you picked that guy, though.”
She stiffened right up. “You realize the arrogance of telling an engaged woman that she’s picked the wrong man, right?” Some fire in those dark eyes, and, yeah, that red dress was everything.
“Everybody makes mistakes,” I said.
She stopped in the first-aid aisle and grabbed a roll of elastic bandage, then a couple of soft ice packs, dropped them into the basket, and tried to take the basket from me. I held onto it, and after a second of silent struggle, she let go. “I’m telling myself,” she said, “that you’re being kind. That Sabrina listens more to men than to women, so you were the only way she wasn’t riding in that car. Right. We’re done. Let’s go.”
“I’m not kind,” I said, choosing three more items and tossing them into the basket. “I liked your dress and your face and your body and your attitude. I didn’t like the guy you were with, I hated the other guy, and that ankle is definitely sprained. Easy decision.”
“We don’t need those extra ice packs,” she said. “I got enough. I’m ignoring the rest of it. My mom told me this dress was inappropriate. You’re saying she was right. I hate that.”
“No,” I said. “That dress is a knockout. It’smoreof a knockout because it’s not short and you’re all the way covered up. Inappropriate for the convent, maybe, or for the Princess of Wales, but you’re not a nun or a princess. And you do need these ice packs. You snap them and they’re cold, and it’ll take an hour for the others to freeze. They all go intothis wrap. Fasten it around your ankle, and it doesn’t keep slipping off.”
She grabbed my instant ice packs, and I said, “Sometimes, you know, the guy is actually just right.”
She still had her hand on the ice packs. “Actually,” she said, “Iama princess. Technically. Hence my mother’s relentless insistence on propriety, even though it makes no sense. And I cannot believe I just told you that. I don’t tell people that. I also don’t enjoy admitting I’m wrong. I’m not normally wrong.”
“Ah,” I said. “That’ll make this uncomfortable, since, yeah, you were wrong. Consider this, though. You were right about that asshole, and about Sabrina, even if you’re with the wrong guy. A princess, huh.” I considered her. “Yeah, I can see it. And you told me because you’re feeling like you’re losing. There’s no winning or losing happening here. We’re having an honest conversation, that’s all.”
“You cannot see princess-hood,” she said. “That’s ridiculous. It’s not like I have the Hapsburg jaw.”
“Confidence,” I said. “I do love a confident woman.”
“I’m not with the wrong guy, either,” she said. “He’s quiet, that’s all. Now, if I were withBrian,I’d be with the wrong guy.”
“He’s a pushover,” I said. “Your guy. It’s not a binary choice: asshole or pushover.”
“And you know this how?” she asked. “From your extensive experience of being a woman? He’s successful. He’s independent.” I made a noise in my throat, and she said, “What? Don’t hold back. You’ve gone this far.” She was fired up, all right. Not looking nearly so soft. Looking like, yes, a princess.
I said, “He doesn’t stick up for you. Here’s a thought for you. A man’s supposed to be protective.”
“I don’t need protection,” she said.
“Everybody needs protection. Everybody needs a soft spot, and a hard spot. Somebody to have their back, and to hold them afterwards.”
“Another thing you’re an expert in,” she said. “So are you married? To a woman who’s the perfect blend of independent and appropriately needy? How does that work, exactly?”
