Page 12 of Fanged Secrets
I blinked. “I’m sorry – what?”
“Actually, that’s not a bad idea,” Jordan chipped in. “I own a restaurant downtown, you could take her there – on the house. Show her a good time. It might help you both chill out a little.”
I scoffed, crossing my arms tightly over my chest. “This meeting has deviated from its intended purpose.”
“Aw, come on,” Jordan pressed on. “You need to drink, she needs to eat.le petit-maîtreis a very accommodating restaurant. And it might do you some good to spend time together outside the apartment.”
“Plus, it’ll give us something to gossip about,” Max chimed in.
“Maxine needs some fresh material,” Hunter added. “River is weird and Jordan is happily married. You’re the next best bet. But your social life, or lack thereof, has been pretty dry lately.”
“Thank you for the vote of confidence,” I drawled, rolling my eyes. “Fine, I’ll take her to dinner. But if it goes horribly wrong, I’m holding all four of you responsible.”
Le petit-maîtrewas as high class as it gets. I was not one for romantic evenings at fancy establishments but there I was, sitting across from Amara at Jordan’s vampire-friendly restaurant, picking at the tablecloth and avoiding eye contact at all costs. Amara hadn’t been able to hide her surprise when I approached her about dinner, but she’d agreed to go anyway.
The restaurant was a tasteful mix of modern decor and old-money charm, with intimate dim lighting that cast a warm glow over each decadently laid table. Amara looked as beautiful as ever, all dolled up in a petal-pink evening dress. The Cinderella sleeves draped just off her shoulders, revealing every inch ofher sweeping neckline. She seemed happy enough, if a little uncomfortable, skimming the menu and twirling a strand of hair in her fingers. Occasionally her eyes would dart around, taking in the opulent surroundings with a slight grimace.
We’d been sitting there for around twenty minutes and Amara had barely typed any kind of conversation. I rigidly took a sip of my “wine” – what the restaurant called ‘old vintage’ was cleverly disguised blood to cater to the vampiric visitors that frequented the place. The collar of my suit was chafing and I shifted uncomfortably, tugging at it to alleviate the itch.
I stifled a sigh as I set the glass down. This wasn’t my style. I felt like a fraud, dressed up and trying to play a part that didn’t fit.
Noticing my pained expression, Amara typed into her phone and the mechanical voice spoke. “Nice place.”
I forced a smile. “Jordan has fancy taste.”
She nodded absently, her fingers tracing patterns on the tablecloth.
Dinner passed in a haze of polite conversations and awkward silence. All of my false bravado went right out the window in such a luxurious public space, and I found myself growing stiffer and stiffer as the night wore on. I tried to keep the conversation going, but every topic seemed to fizzle out after a few short sentences and my foot tapped rapidly under the table.
I missed my boots. Without them, I was almost the same height as Amara and that bothered me more than I wanted to admit. But I didn’t have any footwear that would fit with my suit pants save for a pair of black sneakers. I noted, with faint satisfaction, that Maxine would have had a heart attack if she knew I’d paired them with such a fancy suit.
By the time Amara had finished eating – more spaghetti, to my complete bafflement — I was on edge and itching to get going. Amara seemed eager to leave too, and she kept a stiff postureall the way out the door, only relaxing once we’d stepped out into the street. The air was cool and refreshing after the stifling atmosphere of the restaurant, and a light rain had begun to fall.
When I moved to flag down a taxi, Amara stopped me, typing on her phone. “Can we walk? I’d like to look around.”
Dinner had been awkward enough, and a taxi ride home sounded just as painfully tense, so I was happy to oblige her.
We walked side by side, shoulders brushing occasionally. Despite the rain, the streets buzzed with vibrant life. Neon signs reflected and warped in the puddles on the sidewalk and street vendors hawked their wares under makeshift canopies. The aroma of cigarettes and street food mingled with the scent of fresh rain and exhaust fumes.
People moved around us in waves, tourists and locals alike. I caught snippets of conversations, punctuated by the occasional car horn and rumbling hum of traffic. Music spilled from open doorways in a medley of genres. I noticed Amara looking wistfully at a street performer lovingly caressing the keys of his saxophone.
Her head was flicking left and right as we walked, sending her curls flying. She would slow to inspect some greasy street food, pause to peer through the dark maws of the city’s nightclub entrances. I realized that something as simple as walking through the city was a novelty for her, a taste of freedom. No wonder she hadn’t liked the restaurant. Don was a wealthy man with equally expensive taste – she’d probably spent all her life frequenting fancy establishments just like that.
Halfway home, the rain began to pick up. Big, splashing droplets quickly morphed into a downpour and we hurried to take shelter in the doorway of a nearby club. Amara lost her footing as we ran, and I snaked out an arm to grab her waist, yanking her upright and against my body.
For a moment we stood there, soaked to the bone and breathless.
Amara was pressed against my chest, gripping my suit jacket, wide eyes bright and glinting in the street light. The sleeve of her dress had slipped right off one shoulder and her wet hair was pasted to her neck. Rivulets of rainwater trailed a path down her collar. My eyes followed them further down her chest.
Amara blushed, a soft pink creeping across her cheeks. Slowly, she detangled herself from my grasp and we stepped apart. I rubbed the back of my neck, quietly collecting myself and blinking rainwater from my eyes. “Uh, we should probably get out of the rain now.”
Amara giggled nervously and nodded, allowing me to guide her off the sidewalk and into the nightclub. The humid air of the club hit me like a fist. We pushed past bodies, Amara taking shelter under my arm as I shoved sweat-slicked dancers out of the way. At the bar, I waved down a bartender and ordered a drink for Amara, hauling out a stool for her to sit on.
We settled in our seats and Amara pulled out her phone. This time, she typed into her notepad and slid the cell over to me so I could read her words. “I haven’t been to a club in years, it’s so lively.”
I chuckled and typed back. “Yeah, it’s been a while for me too. Jordan and River used to drag me out all the time, but I was never very good at the socializing part.”
Amara’s drink arrived and she sipped pensively before typing into her phone again. “I used to go out with my sister, Aliyah. She was a social butterfly. I was more of a stand-in-the-corner-and-watch kind of butterfly.”
