The Baddest Bad Boy

2

Troy

* * *

Lebanon is one of my favorite countries to visit. The food is amazing, the views are fantastic, and the women are exotic and beautiful. In particular, on tonight’s menu is a gorgeous woman named Sharon. I met her at the airport by chance. She sneezed while we were in line at the newsstand, and I was there to hand her a tissue. It was fate, I say.

Now, Sharon’s back from a fashion show in London, and she’s ready to have a good time.

“Hey doll,” I say when I pick her up at her apartment complex. I’m driving a sleek black rented Mercedes. The airline always pays for my accommodations when I have to spend the night in a city and they often throw in a luxury car as part of the deal.

“Troy,” she pouts in a Lebanese accent. “I’ve been waiting ten minutes for you to show up.”

Sharon slides her long legs into the leather seat next to me and I don’t even bother to hide my stare. The woman’s wearing a dress that barely covers anything, and if I look hard, I’m sure I can see into that cleft between her thighs. But I merely smile and turn back to the wheel.

“I made reservations at the Palazzo Misti. I hope that’s okay. Do you like Italian?”

“Perfect, Troy. It’s perfect.”

Sharon runs her fingers up and down my arm as I drive to the restaurant, humming with a secret smile on her lips. Damn, she’s doing a great job of getting me turned on. That is, until we get to the restaurant.

She swans in, loving that people are checking her out, but when we sit down, the complaints begin.

“It’s so bright,” she exclaims, literally shading her eyes. “Do I need to put my sunglasses on?”

I look around perplexed. If anything, it’s quite dim.

“I’m sure it’s just this big candle here on the table,” I say. “Here, I’ll blow it out.”

But the litany of complaints continues.

“Oh, I don’t need to see the menu because I’m watching my weight,” she says. “Can’t afford to put on any pounds.”

“Okay no problem,” I say, though it’s not entirely true. “A salad then? Bread?” Secretly, I hate when girls refuse to eat on dates because it makes me feel self-conscious about eating too.

“Bread?” she lets out a cackle. “What, are you crazy? Haven’t you heard of keto or Atkins? Bread is the devil.”

Okay, we’ve gone off the deep end, and I’m already starting to regret bringing her out. But instead of arguing, I order a steak for myself when the waiter comes, adding on some fries and greens for good measure. Just because Sharon is on a diet doesn’t mean I have to be.

“I’ll have a salad, no dressing. Please bring a bottle of Prosecco as well. Make that two actually. Or three,” my date commands.

The waiter nods discreetly before backing off. He’s surely served women like Sharon before – afraid to eat but alcoholics at the same time. It’s an odd mix because alcohol is sugar, so her consumption seems somewhat paradoxical.

But I can’t be her psychologist, dietician, or nutritionist. Instead, I merely smile politely.

“So, how are you Sharon? Long time no see.”

The sexy blonde smiles coyly, toying with a strand of hair.

“I’m good. You? Have you been traveling a lot?”

I smile dryly.

“Well yes. I’m a pilot, so it comes with the territory.”

She lets out a high-pitched giggle.

“Goodness, you Americans! I love your sense of humor! But yes, I’ve been to Paris, London and Bucharest lately for fashion shows. It was all très chic and I got myself quite a few pieces while I was at it.”

“You look stunning, Sharon.”

She giggles as the waiter brings the wine over, pouring it delicately into her glass. But instead of waiting for both of us to be served, the blonde lifts her glass to her lips immediately and guzzles the gleaming amber liquid. Then she puts it down with a satisfied smile.

“So Troy, have you been enjoying your job?”

I decide not to say anything about her poor manners and merely nod while sipping at my glass.

“Yes. It gives me the opportunity to travel and see new places. And meet new people.”

But Sharon merely ignores my comment and moves on to talking about herself. I don’t understand people who ask questions if they aren’t going to listen to the answer, but evidently, there’s such a thing as seen and be seen. The Palazzo Misti is filled with exquisitely dressed men and women, and my date makes it a point to smile and wave at several other diners, all the while toasting them with her wine glass.

Finally, the food arrives and I bite into my steak with relish. My date is chattering nonsensically about this and that, but I no longer care. Clearly, Sharon will be sleeping in her own bed tonight because her personality is tiresome and one-dimensional. This was a huge mistake. Why did I even bother coming out? I should really start vetting these women better.