It’s awkward—as I would expect it to be with a complete stranger—but somehow comfortable at the same time. There’s no overt pressure, no prying. In fact, he seems content to sit here and let me stew on myself for as long as I want.
The bartender sets a fresh glass of ice water in front of me—a pointed choice I made given that I’m on the verge of a huge breakdown and in the presence of someone I know virtually nothing about—and I heave a sigh as Flynn stares blandly at the TV above us. There’s a game of some sort on, but I can’t tell for the life of me what’s actually going on. I think it’s something European.
Rubbing my lips together roughly, I swallow once before finally clearing my throat, turning a little bit on my stool to face my companion, and I find my voice.
“I guess you’re probably wondering what would possess a person to go screaming from a hotel in the middle of the night and hop on some random stranger’s motorcycle, huh?”
He lifts his eyebrows, turning away from the TV to look at me directly, and I can only imagine the things he’s thinking. Probably that I’m reckless with my own well-being and maybe that I’m needlessly wild with my life at all times. Maybe he thinks I sleep around or prostitute myself or something. I mean, who knows at this point? I wouldn’t blame him.
His blue eyes are calm, kind even, but as far as what’s running through his mind, they give nothing away.
I nod to myself, answering for him. “Well, of course you are. I know I would be.” I scoff. “I’d be half tempted to call the police on my crazy ass, to be honest.”
He smirks, and a nervous niggle makes my chest ache. Oh God, I hope he doesn’t call the police. They’ll report me to Immigration, and if I’m convicted of a crime, they’ll never give me another visa!
I calm down briefly by reminding myself that he’s a big, tough guy and probably doesn’t have nearly the hair trigger about calling the police that a petite woman like myself would. On that thought, I lay out my thinking for him to digest. Plus, it’s always good for a man to get a little reality check about life as a woman.
“Not that you’ve got as much to worry about as the average woman does. Statistically, nearly one in every five women is raped in their lifetime, and that fact doesn’t even take non-sexual assault into consideration. I mean, mugging and murder and all that included, it has to be like one in three, right?”
“I’m not gonna call the police,” he says easily, and I’m almost surprised his voice isn’t scratchy from disuse.
“Oh. Well, that’s good. For sure. I don’t want to be at the Wynn right now, but I don’t necessarily want to be in jail either, ya know?”
He almost smiles, sitting back in his seat and rotating his body slightly to face me. It’s a small change physically, but mentally, I feel as though he’s placed a big, warm hand on my thigh and squeezed. I shift and fidget a little under the extra attention. It’s so intense, it almost feels like scrutiny.
“Jail would be really bad, actually,” I state with a shake of my head. “Pretty sure it would make everything worse.”
“It usually does.”
“Ha!” I laugh. “Yeah, you’re right. It does. But in this case, I’m pretty sure it would mean I was completely and totally screwed, like, no take backs ever. And right now, I’m just in the utterly fucked department.”
His forehead wrinkles slightly, but if it weren’t for that, I’d swear he didn’t even care to know what was going on with me at all. I don’t get it. If some stranger shanghaied me like I did him, I’d be doing the million-question march right now.
I rub at the condensation on my water glass and sigh. Maybe he really wants to know, but he’s not asking out of politeness. Maybe I just have to be the one to break the ice—to offer up an explanation so he doesn’t have to come digging for one. Resolute in my conclusion, I nod, pushing my glass away slightly and turning to face him so our knees just barely rub each other’s. “Okay, I’ll tell you. It’s not like telling you is going to change the situation, but maybe it’ll feel good to get it off my chest.”
He shrugs, jerking up his chin as though to tell me to proceed.
So, I do. I proceed like a goddamn spinning top that can’t slow down once its momentum gets started.
“I, well…I’m Canadian…from Canada. I mean, I don’t live there right now. I live in LA. But I was born in Canada and came here because I got offered my dream job a year ago. Well, one year and two months, to be exact.”