"Do you have a thing for watching people eat?" she asks me sharply.
"Nope." I sit back, shove my empty plate aside. "Just for you."
We make small talk over steak and fries; the pretend first-date chatter amuses me. Leo tells me about growing up in England—the things she misses, like good breakfast tea and clotted cream—and I listen, like the articles told me to. It's even interesting.
When she asks me about how I grew up, however, a prickly shiver claws at my throat. "What do you mean?"
"I just wondered. You know. What your parents do—I mean, did. How things were."
A voice spits up in my mind; Leo, lying beneath me, the gun to her throat. You deserve it. Not just Rachel. Your mother, your father...
She can speculate about what happened to my parents, nothing else. The only person who knows the truth is me.
"Sorry." She looks away. "I shouldn't have asked."
"My mother didn't work. Trust fund. I never saw much of my grandparents, but for all their sins, they set her up pretty well. Dad...my father was a music teacher at a boarding school."
"What did he play?"
"Loads of instruments. All kinds of stuff. But I loved it best when he played piano. He used to do all this rockabilly shit, crazy riffs and rhythms."
Her lips twitch at the edges; she doesn't know if she should smile. "Do you play?"
"Chopsticks. And badly."
Her face brightens. "Really?"
"Uhuh." I find myself fiddling with the collar of my shirt, rolling it between my finger and thumb. "You play an instrument?"
"Oh God, no. And I can't sing. I'm terrible."
"That makes two of us."
She takes a sip of beer, raising her eyebrows. "This is turning into some sort of confessional."
"No, it really isn't." I catch her hand again. "Trust me."
"Oh?" She digs her fingernails into the flesh of my palm. "I feel bad because I still have two parents when you don't have any."
"I'm willing to bet at least one of your parents is a complete cunt, so don't pity me too much."
She squeezes harder. This is becoming a contest. "I should have thrown those freak roses back in your face."
"But you sent me a pretty quote instead."
"I should have called the Police when I found you in my apartment."
"But you didn't."
"I shouldn't be here. Rachel—"
"But you are here. Leo." I lean in, almost whispering. "Don't confuse should with want. All it does is make you miserable."
She won't look at me. Her nails press so hard into my palm that they sting like nettles.
I go on. "The trick is manipulate one for the sake of the other. Know the shoulds, consider the shoulds, but only comply when they lead to a want."
She gives a bitter laugh. "And that's how the world works, is it?"
"You want to tell me it doesn't?"
"No." Her eyes are bright and black beneath long, curled lashes. "But I probably should."
The hostess chooses that moment to appear with dessert menus, but I wave them away and pay the bill instead.
Leo peers at me, her cheeks flushed with anticipation. "I thought you wanted pudding?"
"I do." I get to my feet, my jacket slung over one arm and my free hand offered to her. "At your apartment."
"I'm not going to fuck you," she mutters.
The hostess passing by nearly drops her tray.
We spend the cab journey to her building in silence. Lights flash past. Sirens blare. I reach across, catch her sweat-damp hand, knot our fingers tightly and press her palm to my thigh. Flesh on flesh, separated by a thin layer of fabric; fabric we should wear to obscure the skin we want. Heat flares between us. Crackles in nerves and licks old wounds. I half think I'll cut off her circulation, and she winces...but doesn't pull away. Just sits and trembles and when we arrive, refuses to let me pay for the cab.
"You paid for dinner," she says quietly.
"I also pay your salary. Don't be crass."
She rolls her eyes and turns to leave the cab. I don't want to make a scene—not out in the open—and so I toss the driver a couple more bills.
"Give me twenty minutes," I tell him. And then I make a swift exit.
At her door, she fumbles with her key so much that I'm half tempted to get out my copy.
I stand behind her, pressing my chest to her back. My mouth is just inches from her ear. I stroke away honey waves—partly because it pleases me to touch her, and partly to check for one of her pesky little cameras—and lean in to whisper. "Don't panic, sweetheart."
"I'm not panicking." She shoves the key into the lock. "Beer makes me anxious sometimes."
"You're a terrible liar."