Page 45 of Riot Reunion
Elodie shoots me a look that I suspect might mean she’s calling my intelligence into question. “Would the Pax you knew six months ago have tolerated you getting on the plane with him if he didn’t want you to come?”
“No,” I concede. “He would have bolted into a taxi and disappeared off into the night without even mentioning where he was going. We wouldn’t have seen him for dust.”
“Hmm.” Elodie huffs in a self-satisfied sort of manner that I think is supposed to highlight her point. “If Pax didn’t want us here, we wouldn’t be here. He’s getting better at masking what he wants and needs, but he’s also letting the chinks in his armor show, too. You just need to know where to look for them.” She lifts her napkin out of her lap and drops it down onto her plate. “You just need to be looking, is all.”
“I’m looking.”
“You’re looking to me, Wren. Always. And I adore that you are. You make me so incredibly happy. I can hardly breathe around how happy I am these days. But you need your friends, too. They’re your family. You’retheirfamily. Pax needs you just as much as Presley needs me. I’m not going home yet. Not until I know both of them are okay.”
I watch her solemnly as she gets up and leaves the table. She doesn’t storm away. That isn’t Elodie’s style. She heads toward the restrooms, unhurried, head ducked down, focused on her feet. She misses the hungry looks of the men seated at the other tables, as they track her from one side of the restaurant to the other.
Little E is a fascinating creature. Even sad (and currently pissed at me), she’s magnetizing. She shines brighter than the most dazzling star in the night sky. I should be irritated by the dressing down I’ve just received—no one likes a reprimand —but my anger never spikes.
She’s magnificent.
Fucking magnificent.
I love that she’ll call me out on my shit.
Especiallywhen she’s right.
***
I askour server to tell Elodie I’ve stepped out for a breath of fresh air.
Outside, the night sky glitters, studded with diamonds. My lungs complain bitterly against the cold as I drag in a breath, fighting the urge to pat down my jacket for a pack of smokes. I don’t have any on me. Elodie didn’t ask me to stop smoking; she didn’t have to. I caught her wrinkling her nose at the smell of smoke lingering in her hair one day and that was it: no more cancer sticks for me. I was never addicted to them. Just…sometimes, times like right now, for instance, it’s nice to light one up and enjoy the burn while you think.
“Excuse me? Got a light?”
I whip around, hands in the pockets of my jeans, irritation nipping at me; does no one understand the look of a guy who wants to be left the fuck alone for five minutes? A woman approaches, having exited the restaurant after me, and the dumb, animal part of my brain immediately points out that she’s pretty. She’s factory-seconds pretty, though. Discount pretty. Next to Elodie, she looks faded, out of focus—the subject of a photograph left out too long in the sun.
“Sorry. No.” I turn away from her.
This obviously wasn’t the reaction she expected of me. Her glossy, straight black hair is cut into a brutally sharp jaw-length bob. Her green eyes are almond-shaped and slanted like a cat; they lend themselves to the feline, predatorial air the woman puts off. The crimson dress draped over her body showcases a plunging neckline that leaves little to the imagination, the material split from the hip all the way down to the floor, displaying a staggering amount of perfectly toned leg. This woman has been told her entire life that she’s a smoke show; she can’t comprehend that a guy like me might ever look through her like she doesn’t fucking exist.
It snowed all of last night and most of today as well; the small stretch of sidewalk in front of the restaurant is mostly dirty, compacted ice from all of the foot traffic. The owners must take their civil responsibilities very seriously,though, because there’s a decent amount of grit lodged in the ice underfoot, not to mention large chunks of red rock salt that’s stained the sidewalk pink. Good news for this chick, whoever she is, because she makes it to the edge of the curb to stand next to me without issue, despite her four-inch heels.
“Cold tonight.” She hugs herself, rubbing her hands up and down her bare arms. “Beginning to think I should have stayed inside.”
“No offense but I wish you had.” I don’t even want to be talking with this woman. Once, I would have torn off my own right arm for a shot at her, but now every second I spend communicating with this woman who is not Elodie makes my skin crawl. I throw an annoyed sideways look at her—perhaps the sight of my unimpressed expression will end this interaction—and immediately notice that the thin, gathered silk of her red dress has slipped to one side, exposing the better part of her right breast. She steps forward so that she’s closer to me—way too close for my liking—and begins rifling in her small black clutch.
She knows she’s flashing me.
She fucking knows, all right.
Nowayshe doesn’t.
It’s colder than the seventh circle of hell out here, and her skin is pebbled with goosebumps. I huff out a breath of amused laughter, rolling my eyes heavenward, looking off in the opposite direction down the street. “How old are you?” I ask.
“Excuse me?” She purrs like she’s in heat.
“Howoldare you?”
She’s silent a moment, as if considering whether or not she’s going to answer such an impertinent question. But then, “Thirty-one. How about you?”
“I’d say by thirty-one, you should know a little better, wouldn’t you?”
“What’sthatsupposed to mean?” Her tone remains coquettish, but there’s a hint of an edge to it now. A dash of malice that is distinctly unfriendly.
