“Look at that. Kismet.”
“Right? I just got lucky. Right place, right time.”
I drove down a narrow one-way street and found a gap in the cars parked along the sidewalk. I did a quick parallel park job and hopped out. I helped her climb out and offered her my arm again.
“What a gentleman,” she said.
“That’s me. Real gentle.”
She flashed me that easy and dazzling smile again. “Something tells me you’re not always so gentle, though.”
“Yeah? What makes you say that?”
She chewed on her lip and looked away. “Never mind. I shouldn’t say.”
I barked a laugh and nudged her. “Come on. Say it. Can’t turn back now.”
“It’s, just, the tattoos,” she said, nodding at my neck and my hands.
“Tattoos,” I echoed. “That’s right. I forgot about those.”
She gave me a look and I grinned back at her.
“They make you look hard,” she said. “And you’ve got a hard look in your eyes.”
“You mean handsome.”
She blushed a little. “That too.”
“I like when you blush. It’s cute.”
“Okay, calm down now,” she said.
I laughed and steered her toward a small restaurant at the end of a row of brick front Philly homes. The front was all glass with heavy velvet curtains covering the windows and the word ANGELINO’S stenciled in fancy cursive letters across their length.
I opened the door for her and she stepped inside. The carpet was plush and wine red. The closed curtains gave the place a hushed feel though the tables were all packed. A long wood bar, lots of intimate candlelit tables, and waiters and waitresses in all black.
“Nice,” Elise said.
“Can I help you?” the hostess asked.
“Table for Tanner,” I said.
She checked her little iPad then grabbed menus. “Right this way,” she said.
I let the girl lead, mostly because I wanted to get a good look at her ass.
The hostess took us through the main dining area. Balding guys and their loud wives shoveled huge portions of pasta into their faces. Regulars sat belly-up at the bar with glasses of beer ringed with condensation in front of them. I thought I heard Frank Sinatra piping in through the overhead speakers.
We got a corner booth, best spot in the house. Elise slid in and I sat across from her. The hostess left without a word.
“Good table,” Elise said.
“I called in a favor.”
She gave me a look. “What did you say you do again?”
“Construction,” I said, looking at my fingernails. “Buying and selling, you know.”
“Buying and selling what?”
“Stuff,” I said. “Objects of value.” I opened the menu. “Should we get a bottle of wine?”
She eyed me for a tense moment. I met her gaze and flashed her a smile. I wanted her to wonder about me, wanted her to question what the hell she was doing with me. I wanted her on edge.
That made things more fun.
“Can I ask you something?” She put her menu down.
“Sure,” I said. “Although I thought you already were.”
“Why do you use LoveRocks.com?”
I snorted. “Isn’t it in the name?”
She rolled her eyes. “Seriously.”
“I could ask you the same question.”
“But you didn’t.” She tilted her chin just a bit. “You don’t seem like the kind of guy that would be into online dating.”
She was right about that.
“You want the truth?”
“No, I think I want you to lie to me.”
My turn to give her a look. She grinned back at me.
“I’ve been through a lot of women in my day,” I said. “I won’t pretend like I’m some virgin saint.”
“So you’re a man-whore,” she said.
“You could say that.” I spread my hands. “What can I say, women love me.”
“Ah, a man-whore and very modest.”
“Look, you wanted the truth.”
“Okay, so you’re experienced. So, what? You’re jaded now?”
“Pretty much.” I ran my finger down the menu. It was covered in fake leather and textured. “I’ve had a taste of the wares. I’ve sampled what’s available. And now I want something more stable and permanent.”
“Can’t find that where you frequent?”
“No,” I said, smiling a little. If she only knew. “No, I can’t, not at all.”
“All right then,” she said and picked up the menu like she was satisfied by my answer.
“So same question to you,” I said. “Why are you on the site?”
She glanced at me. “Same answer. Men love me. Big slut. Ready to settle. That sort of thing.”
I grinned at her, she grinned back.
When the waitress came, I ordered a bottle of wine.
We talked for a while. She told me about her job, about learning how to be in the business. I told her about my work, or at least one aspect of it.
I couldn’t just outright tell her that I murder people for the mafia.
Instead, I fudged the details a bit. I pretended that I was an independent contractor and did whatever handy jobs people needed doing. She didn’t really press for details, and I didn’t offer any.
The meal came and went. Mussels in a thin white wine sauce heavy on the garlic. Chicken parm with crispy breading, tart red sauce, and browned cheese on top.