Page 4 of Mr. Wrong
A real life.
When I told him that Cassieismy life and that taking her away from me was the same as killing me, he gave me the kind of look that made me want to gouge out my fucking eyes. The kind of look that told me exactly how pathetic and sad he thinks I am.
I know you love her, Lex—but you need a life. Areallife. A life of your own.
In other words,notmylife.
I left after that. Because Ihavea life. A real life.
I do.
And fuck him for saying I don’t.
I ended up here because I can drink for free, which is a moot point considering I’ve been nursing the same Beluga Noble for the past hour and a half. I really don’t want it, but I also don’t want to leave. I have a point to make and I’m not going anywhere until it’s sufficiently proven.
Jesus, it looks like Ed Hardy and Betsy Johnson had a baby and that baby threw up in here.
I hate LA.
My phone buzzes on the bar in front of me.
My brother.
Again.
I kick the call to voicemail and take a drink.
Shitty.
Fucking.
Day.
“Who the hell do I have to kill to get a drink in this god-forsaken place?”
I look up from my half-empty glass to find a woman standing a few feet away from me. Thick, chestnut brown hair pulled into a low ponytail. Olive skin. Dark, slim-fit jeans. A plain white T-shirt topped with a cherry red cardigan. A profile that has me doing a double take.
“What are you drinking?” I don’t really care. I only ask so she’ll look at me.
“Well—” She gives me a long-suffering sigh and looks at me like I hoped, aiming a pair of brown eyes at me, deep and dark enough to drown in. “I’mtryingto drink a whiskey ginger, but I’ve come to accept that is a pretty lofty aspiration.”
Even though it’s been a shitty fucking day, I laugh. “What’s your name?”
She hesitates, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth to give it a nervous chew. For a second, I’m sure she’s not going toanswer me—which makes me like her even more. “Elle,” she tells me, letting go of her lip.
“Elle?” I cut her a quick smirk. I don’t know what her name is, but it sure as fuck isn’t Elle. “You just made that up.”
“I did not.” Her spine snaps straight—either because I caught her in a lie or because I insulted her. It’s hard to tell.
“So,Not-Elle...” I pick up my glass and take a swallow. The icy vodka slides down my throat, as smooth as silk. “Are you an actress?” I wait for her to gush all about her bus ride from Nebraska and how she has an appointment with some sketchy agent or how she has an audition lined up with an even sketchier casting director she met online.
Instead, she looks at me like I just asked her if she enjoys nude sky-diving. “No.” She shakes her head but before I can ask her what shedoesdo, she says, “What’syourname?”
“Lex.” Normally, I’d do what I accused her of—give her a fake name and try not to laugh while she tries to google me on the sly. Instead I tell her the truth. “Lex McLeod.”
“Lex?” Now she’s laughing at me. “Thatis nota real name,” she says, sliding onto the stool next to me.
I angle myself toward her and give her a grin. “Sure, it is.” Something stirs in my blood that I haven’t felt in a long time. Interest. Real interest. “Ever hear of Lex Luthor?”
