Velvet Devil

CAMILA I'm ninety nine percent sure this is the worst date in history. "You said you studied literature?" Reggie asks in the voice of a man who wasn't aware that women can in fact read. "Isn't that pretty useless? Did you just dream of being a McDonald's cashier, or what?" Make that one hundred percent sure. Since we sat down, Reggie's eyes have spent roughly equal time divided between my cleavage and the ass of the girl refreshing our water glasses. I heave a bitter sigh. I shouldn't have listened to Brianna when she told me to go with the little black dress. I shouldn't have listened to her about the choice of venue, either. This restaurant is fancy, which means the service is slow, which means I'm stuck here for way longer than I'd like with Prince Not-So-Charming. Strike two for my dear sister. "There are plenty of good jobs out there," I say to Reggie. "Teaching, for one-" "Yeah, but who in their right mind wants to be a teacher?" I bristle instantly. "Well, I do." He laughs out loud. At least he has the decency to realize-a few seconds late, but better late than never-that I'm actually being serious. And also that laughing in the face of someone's hopes and dreams is a pretty dickish thing to do. I glance at my fingernails and sigh again. Thirty-five bucks plus tip wasted on a manicure for a guy who pronounces "Françoise" the same way you say "Boise, Idaho." My life is a cosmic joke. "You look really sexy tonight," Reggie says, changing the subject abruptly. He grins with wine-stained teeth. "No, seriously. That dress is, y'know... God fuckin' damn!" The older woman with the pearl necklace at the next table over snaps a disapproving glance in our direction. I duck her eye contact-and as I do, I catch sight of someone reclining in the corner booth over her shoulder. Instantly, it's like being hit by a lightning bolt. A head-to-toe jolt of crackling heat. Even though the man is sitting down, he's obviously tall. And that face-all angular and cruel, with sharp cheekbones like a fashion model, plus a Superman jaw. His suit moves fluidly with his languid motions. It's not hard to tell that the fabric is ludicrously expensive. He has the gleaming watch to match. I can't look away. That is, until he glances over at me and catches me gawking. Shit-shit-shit! Turning away a little too fast, I feel like a complete moron. I can only hope that the blush on my cheeks isn't too obvious. "You okay?" Reggie asks. "I'm fine!" I screech, way louder than I mean to. Luckily, I'm saved when the waiter comes over with our meals. He sets the plates down in front of us. I stare down at my squid ink ravioli with no appetite and the strange inkling that someone is watching me. "Smells great, eh?" Reggie asks, digging into his steak immediately. He saws off a big piece and devours it before I've even picked up my fork, then continues chattering with a mouth full of food. I take the moment to glance across the restaurant. Partly so I don't have to watch Reggie's molars at work, and partly so I can sneak another surreptitious glance at the man in the booth. But it doesn't turn out to be so surreptitious after all. A fissure of electricity rushes up my spine when I realize he's still looking over here at me. His gaze is direct. Unapologetic. Unmerciful. I turn away with a shudder and try to concentrate on my pasta. Reggie is yammering on about the hardware store he co-owns with his two older brothers. I nod and smile, hoping he doesn't catch onto the fact that I'm not paying the slightest bit of attention. You're acting like a lovestruck teenage girl, I scold myself. Get it together. The ghost of Susan B. Anthony is probably going to haunt me for the rest of my life for giving up on all my feminist leanings the moment a handsome guy deemed to glance in my general direction. But what he's doing to me isn't ideological-it's biological. It's bypassing every part of my brain that knows how to think. Talking straight to the heat low in my belly. It's strangely thrilling. Oddly unsettling. And very, very annoying. "Cami?" I turn to Reggie. I don't like the fact that he's used the pet name my sister and her family call me by. It feels way too intimate and familiar coming from him. But I'm too focused on finishing this dinner as quickly as possible to bother offering a correction. "Sorry. What was that again?" He sets his fork down with an irritated clank. "Is something distracting you?" he asks. "It's pretty rude to ignore your date, you know." "No, sorry, nothing," I reply quickly. "Just... tired." "Oh?" "I had a couple of job interviews I was preparing for." Which is not exactly a lie. "And I was up late last night." Also not exactly a lie. Although "late" in this instance just means "late for me," which means 9:05 instead of 9:00 on the dot. "Job interviews, huh?" he asks. "Cool. Anyway, like I was saying, I..." I retreat beneath the surface of a perpetual smile-and-nod. "Putting my screensaver on," as Brianna calls it. It's easier that way, and Reggie doesn't need much input from me to keep prattling on. "You know, I've always thought you were hot as hell," he says, burping to punctuate his attempt at a compliment. "Real fuckin' smokeshow. Girl like you needs a guy like me. Self-made businessman, you know? A go-getter. And I'm pretty good in the sack, too." I resist the urge to roll my eyes. It's at least the dozenth time tonight he's mentioned how "self-made" he is. Although I'm pretty sure he inherited the hardware store from his dad. Before I can figure out how to wriggle my way out of this particular conversational impasse, Reggie looks up and snaps his fingers for the waiter. When no one notices him in the zero-point-two seconds he's willing to wait, he raises his hand to his lip and whistles. "Hey!" I hiss, mortified at his behavior. "You can't whistle." He looks positively dumbfounded that I seem to have a problem with it. "Why?" "It's rude!" "Rude?" Reggie repeats, as though I'm speaking a foreign language. "Nah, babe, it's friendly. You just aren't used to guys taking you to nice places like this." I slink down in my seat, cheeks flushing with embarrassment. Maybe if I scrunch my eyes closed really hard, I'll turn invisible. Worth a shot, at least. "You can clear our plates, hon," Reggie orders the waiter when she comes to our tableside. "And get us the dessert menus." "Actually, that's not necessary," I say quickly, giving the waiter an apologetic smile. Please don't hate me, I'm saying to her with my eyes. I want this to be over just as badly as you do. "Just the bill, please." "What?" Reggie asks. "C'mon, party's just getting started!"