Page 13 of Bounty
“You don’t like beer, do you?”
“Not really,” I admitted, seeing no reason to lie since half my beer remained and Slice was almost ready for his second. “I prefer margaritas and pina coladas. White wine. Although,” I added at his sudden interest, “I’m a lightweight. I can only have two at most and I can’t mix my drinks at all. It makes me so fucking sick.”
“You should’ve told me. The bartenders here make a mean margarita.” He turned in the direction of the bar. “I don’t see Pam. Hers is the best.”
“Let me eat first,” I said. “I don’t want to get sloshed. If I drink on an empty stomach, that will happen.”
“I’d hate for our date to end on such a note.”
“Really?” I asked shyly.
He nodded. “I’ve been looking forward to spending time with you.” The moment the words left his mouth, he winced. “Forget I said that.”
Never in a million years. Those words took up residence in my head and wouldn’t easily move out. No matter what he said.
“Why is the club named Murder?” I blurted, attempting to move away from his admission since he seemed so uncomfortable.
“It isn’t named Murder. It’s Red Rum.”
“A palindrome. Murder spelled backward.”
“It isn’t. Murder is one word. The club’s name is two words.”
“Probably deliberate, so stop gaslighting me. If you had it as one word, it would be too obvious.”
He scowled. “You go from awkwardness to nosiness. I prefer the former.”
“You don’t have to insult me because I’m right.”
“It wasn’t an insult,” he said flatly. “It was the truth.”
I huffed.
“I don’t want to talk about my fucking club. The topic’s off-limits.”
“Fine,” I gritted.
He glanced over his shoulder. “Where the fuck’s our food?” he asked crossly.
I thought it was a rhetorical question until someone yelled, “It’s coming, Pretty Boy.”
I still thought Pretty Boy was more applicable than Slice. He was pretty—okay,handsome—while Slice could mean something I didn’t want to imagine. I hadn’t even meant to askhim the stupid question. He flustered me so much and it turned me into an idiot.
To cover my disappointment, I grabbed my purse from where I’d sat it. “Is it okay if it took pictures?” I pulled out my phone, slid my chair back, and stood. “If I can’t do it in here, I’ll go outside.”
My camera would’ve been ideal, but I hadn’t planned on doing anything else but basking in Slice’s presence. Now that that plan was up in flames, some selfies were my last minute backup solution.
Slice drained his beer. “Claude,” he called, his commanding voice rising above the din. “Effie wants to take photos. She’s good. An amateur photographer, so don’t give her any shit.”
“You got it, Pretty Boy,” the same voice, now identified as Claude, responded.
“Don’t wander too far,” Slice said and sighed. “Our food should be out soon.”
I nodded. “Fine.”
My assholery hurt Effie. I didn’t mean to fucking snap at her, but it was bad enough she knew some of what I actually did for a living. Not all of it. Just that I was a 1%. I left it at that, which was still too much.
Given her mother’s romanticized view of my life, I couldn’t imagine Effie fully understanding the implications. Most peoplenever figured it out. Fuck, some of our members weren’t clued in until it was pointed out.
