Landon walks us to a fancy black car and opens the side door for me to get in. I slip into the luxury leather seat and notice the vehicle is loaded with dials and buttons. A small screen sets in the dash. This car puts Chasen’s truck to shame.
“Wow,” I whisper.
Landon climbs into his seat, the smell of sweat and cologne filling the space as he starts it. He’s wearing a gray dress shirt and black slacks—sexy and sophisticated, as usual. Tove Lo’s “Talking Bodies” starts blasting through the speakers. The lyrics of the song have me biting my lip and looking at Landon from the corner of my eye.
He looks over, his face empathic.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
I inhale a deep breath, and smile softly. “Yeah, I’ll survive.” I’ve had to push pervy men off me before. I once woke up to an old guy standing over my bed, fondling himself. I kicked him in the nuts and ran to the phone to call my social worker. The guy’s name was Mr. Jenkens, and he was my foster parent at the time. He told everyone he must have been sleep-walking. That he ran out of his sleep aid and it made him do things in his sleep. Needless to say, nothing was done. I was moved to another home, but not before I was told I couldn’t seem to live anywhere without having a problem of some kind.
Life’s a bitch that keeps dishing out free life lessons. I clearly fail most of these lessons, but it doesn’t mean I give up. I push back and make my way through it, every time.
“Those boys won’t be coming near you again.”
I turn my head, shocked at the danger and promise laced in his voice. A primal need rushes through my bloodstream, a craving that has me holding my breath as I stare at Landon’s bright green eyes. My body sways toward him on its own accord, Chasen and his buddies’ acts of aggression soon forgotten. Landon smiles a boyish grin, little dimples popping up on each side of his mouth. I close my eyes and turn my head to stare out the window.
The pull I have toward Landon is strong. I feel like a precious metal, and he’s the strong element that draws me toward him, even when I know it’s wrong… like now.
Landon takes us to a very upscale bar which sits just beneath an elegant hotel. A man in a red vest opens my door, helping me out as soon as we arrive.
“She’s with me, Franco,” Landon informs the man standing outside the glass double doors to the bar. Franco is wearing a black tux, sunglasses on his face even though it’s nighttime. Once inside, the place isn’t what I expected for a bar. Small tables with red cloths draped over them are dotted around the room, little candles sitting in the center of each one. A man plays a piano at the front of the room, and a bar sits at the back with people wearing suits and cocktail dresses drinking along the counter. I’ve never been in a bar, but whenever I thought of one, I imagined grimy floors, the smell of booze and vomit, and music so loud you had to shout to one another.
“Sit,” Landon commands, pulling a chair out. I comply, taking a seat and crossing my legs.
“This is not what I expected for a bar.” I laugh nervously, looking the place over.
Landon raises an eyebrow, rolling the cuffs of his sleeves up to his elbows. The candlelight shines off his distinguished jawline, and I notice dark stubble growing along his face, his sharp cheekbones fierce as he looks at me with hard eyes. I stir in my seat; the way Landon looks at me could be compared to a caveman witnessing a female for the very first time.
An initial glance at Landon and your first thought would be he’s handsome and sophisticated, but really looking at him up close, you can see the small sliver of a scar slicing the cupid bow of his upper lip. It’s small, but there. Landon’s not as clean-cut as he wants the world to believe. He’s something darker.
“And what did you expect, exactly?” Landon grins deviously.
“I dunno.” I laugh. “People drunk, singing karaoke. Something dive-y.”
Landon chuckles, running his large hand over his cheeks.
“How old are you, Charlie?” Landon lowers his head, his green eyes pinning me in my seat. I shift my legs, an unbearable throb heightening in my core.
“Old enough,” I reply, lifting an eyebrow.
“Right,” Landon responds, not giving anything away with his tone or body language.
“What can I get you, sir?” a waiter questions, breaking Landon’s severe gaze toward me.
“I’d like a Manhattan, and a martini for the lady,” Landon orders. The waiter bows and walks away. Silence falls between us, the man playing the piano a filler for the awkwardness.
“I told you those boys were trouble,” Landon reminds me, sitting back in his seat.