“I’m surprised we got a table. It’s packed.”
“This is my table. No one sits here ever. I have reserved tables at all my locations. When is the family dinner, Violet?”
I shake my head and before I have to answer, a server comes over with a tray holding drinks and Caesar salads.
“Good evening, Killian. Hello, I’m Kay and I’ll be your server, Miss. Killian ordered you both salads, steaks, loaded baked potatoes, and said you’ll be skipping dessert. I know you two have theater tickets, so everything has a rush on it and we’re watching the clock. We have Killian’s preference already but how do you want your steak cooked? They’re about to fire it now.”
“Oh. Medium. Thank you. Do you serve sweet potato fries? If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like that instead of baked potato.”
“Absolutely. Pink Moscato for you, right?”
“Perfect.”
“Johnnie Walker Blue Label for you, Killian?”
He nods.
“Anything else right now?”
“We’re good, Kay,” he says.
“Thank you, Kay,” I echo.
She smiles and moves away.
“So, the theater after this?” I ask.
“Yes.” He stares at his phone.
“What are we seeing?”
“A play called Bluff. It’s about poker of all things.” He pockets his phone.
I shudder with a sour expression.
“Sound interesting to you?” he queries. And his lips quirk. He’s fighting a smirk.
“Never heard of it,” I say, not that I’ve been keeping tabs on what’s happening in the theater district. “But why? Why are we going out like this?”
What’s he up to here? I’m confused.
“I figured a night out would take your mind off the fact that tomorrow is Thursday.”
I lean back and look at him.
And it dawns. I told him I liked crappy movies, crappy musicals and plays. Is that what this is? Did he find us a shitty play to see?
“Then why aren’t we going to see Cats?”
“Or Wicked?” he throws in.
“Or Les Miz?” I add. “Because a musical play about poker ain’t likely to take my mind off tomorrow.”
His expression gives nothing away, so I take a sip of my wine.
“It’s, uh, a poker game acted out via interpretive dance.” His effort at being impassive fails and mischief sparkles in his green eyes as he lays his burgundy linen napkin across his lap.
My jaw drops.
“Let’s just have a fun evening, how about that?” he suggests.
“I don’t think anything can take my mind off the fact that tomorrow is Thursday. But… ” I say and fight a smirk of my own. “Have you read the reviews? Is this a badly reviewed play?”
He smiles. “Your eyes are dancing. If it is, does this make you happy?”
I chortle. “I told you about that when I was drunk.”
“Maybe.”
I dig into my salad. And it’s delicious.
“I skipped lunch today and didn’t realize how hungry I was. This is good.”
“We’ve got a great chef.” He forks up some salad.
I take a few bites and suddenly, I’m feeling panicky. This feels like a date. Dinner. A bad play because I told him I love going to them? My heart flares, but then I reprimand it.
No. No, no.
“This place is great,” I say. “You’d never know people are here probably betting money they can’t afford and having their lives ruined.”
His back goes rod-straight as he looks up at me from his salad. “Is it up to me to make sure people can afford to gamble before they come in?”
“Of course not,” I huff. “It’s just that it destroys lives, doesn’t it?”
“Picking a fight with me, Violet?”
He’s right. I am trying to pick a fight now. I know it’s a bad idea while I’m doing it, but I’m doing it anyway.
I’d never pick a fight intentionally with Ray in the past year, closer to two years. That I’m doing this with Killian must say something about me feeling a bit more like myself, feeling like I can safely pick a fight with someone. That I’m trying to pick one with a guy who’s got a reputation of being dangerous? I might be losing my mind.
“Is gambling destroying your life or is it suddenly bringing you a bit of freedom?” he adds.
And then he studies me.
I draw in a long breath.
He’s right, and we both know it.
I exhale. “I apologize. I’m feeling a little blindsided here and…”
“Explain. Carefully.” He gives me a look that I can’t mistake as a warning. Of course he doesn’t want anyone to know the situation here.
“Well, you…” I lower my voice, “are in control of this situation. I’m not. I’m clueless here. And the clock is ticking. But we’re on what feels like another date.”
“It is another date. And my taking control of this situation has gotten you out of what you described yourself as a bad situation. Right or wrong?”
I frown. “You can’t fault me for being worried about the fall-out.” I look down at my plate and stab a crouton with my fork a little aggressively.