Page 19 of Truth Be Told
I expect him to press me further, to ask if I’ll be okay doing that, if I’ll be able to make ends meet. But he doesn’t.
Instead, he looks down and a tiny smile cracks at the corner of his mouth. Then he clears his throat, pulls his arm down from the back of the sofa, and leans forward toward me. From here, the soft, yellow-gold glow of the fireplace illuminates the side of his face. It brings out the lighter tones of his eyes, a detail which hits me in the gut as he looks deep into my own. He gives a relaxed shake of his head. “Okay. It sounds like you have this all planned out.”
I sit up straighter. “I do. I had enough time to think about it.”
There’s more he wants to say; I can feel it as he continues to watch me, his elbows resting on his knees and his hands holding each other as though mirroring mine. So why isn’t he saying it?
He sits up again and rubs his palms against his pants. “Well then–”
Oh, no. I know what he’s doing. He’s about to show me out.
“You don’t seem like the kind of guy who would go to a strip club,” I say suddenly. The words were a desperate attempt to keep the conversation flowing, and they escaped me without thought of consequence. I feel like hitting myself.
He pauses, looking at me with that same, now familiar half-smile of his.
“I mean…”
“I know what you meant.”
“I know you already admitted that it doesn’t fit you, and I agreed, but it’s just so obvious now.”
“It’s obvious? How?”
I look around. “Well, this is high class.You’rehigh class.”
He laughs. “High class men don’t go to strip clubs?”
“No, of course they do. That’s not what I mean.” I wait for him to step in, to explain my own thoughts for me as he seems to be so genuinely good at doing. But he doesn’t. He lets me finish. “I just mean that you’re… classy. Classy is very different from high class.”
His hands are still unmoving from where he’d placed them on his knees, ready to get up.
“Oh, God,” I say as I realize how ridiculous I must sound. “Pleasetake that as a compliment.”
His gaze hasn’t broken mine this whole time, and it doesn’t now. “I’m pretty sure that’s the best compliment I’ve ever been given.”
That leaves me speechless, but something else suddenly catches my attention. Something is moving behind Cohen. I shift to the side to get a closer look over his shoulder. Snowflakes. It’s snowing, and as I watch for a moment, they quickly become larger and begin to fall more heavily. They’ve already formed a thick coating on the ground and my car.
Cohen turns to see what I’m looking at. “I didn’t know it was supposed to snow tonight,” he says. He doesn’t seem too concerned.
Me, on the other hand? I’m a different story. I can’t stand driving in the snow. Like, I really, really hate it. It gives me anxiety.
He turns back to me. “I should have asked earlier, but would you like a drink?” He thumbs in the direction of this room’s exit, no doubt toward one of the dozens of rooms in this place. “I have a full bar. Whatever you want.”
“No, thanks. I don’t drink.” At this point, even despite all that I now know about him, I still expect him to react with shock, because who’s ever heard of a stripper who doesn’t drink?
But he doesn’t bat an eye. He stands and excuses himself, I’m sure to help himself to one.
The crackle of the fire increases in the quiet now that he’s gone. I get up and walk to the set of full-length windows, then cross my arms when I feel the slightest cold draft seeping through the edges. The snow has picked up, and there’s already a good three inches out there. If I’m going to have a chance at getting out of here, I’d better leave now.
Just as the thought crosses my mind, a wind gust blows a flurry of powdery snow against the window, blinding me.
I sigh. This could be bad.
I make my way around the room, taking in the décor, which I can only assume to be Cohen’s, but knowing that with the amount of money he has, he more than likely hired someone to decorate it for him. I’d be better off not assuming like I did when I first arrived, thinking he might actually maintain his own mansion.
A painting of a man on a horse hangs on an otherwise empty wall, and if I look close enough I can see the actual texture of the paint strokes. I extend a finger to touch them, as inviting as they are, but pull my hand back. If the painting is genuine, I’m sure touching wouldn’t be appreciated. I have to remember to act like I’m in a museum in this place.
When I make it to the mantle above the fireplace, I stop. Another vase of flowers sits in the center, but off its sides are bunches of picture frames. They’re full of smiling faces, all of people I don’t know, but one of them includes Cohen. It’s the last one in the line, and it looks to be a picture from many years ago, judging by how young he looks. He couldn’t have been more than twelve years old when it was taken. I’m sure it’s him though. He has the same blue eyes, the same dark hair and the same strong, distinct jawline. He’s posing with a group of three others, two of which are adults, who I can only assume to be his parents, and one is a young girl, who must be his sister. They’re standing together in front of a shoreline on a sunny day, all of them dressed in their swimsuits, and the picture is a lighthearted one – the girl is smiling sweetly, but Cohen has one arm absently wrapped around her shoulders, the other raised and curled to jokingly show off his muscles, his nose scrunched at the camera.
