Liar Liar

‘What makes someone as pretty as you be so cynical?’

We all turn to the deep voice to find the working girl’s entertainment—or was that the other way around?—standing at the side of our booth. I was right; he is good looking. He’s also French, though his accent is a lot less pronounced than Charles’s. My final observation? Judging by his languid expression, this is a man who has no trouble with self-perception.

‘Did anyone ever tell you it’s rude to listen to other people’s conversation?’ I answer when it appears my companions have been struck mute.

‘Yes, my mother.’ He shakes his head in the vein of one who knows he’s a trial and is pretending to give a damn about it. ‘I am a grave disappointment to her,’ he adds, sliding himself into the seat next to me.

‘Sit down, why don’t you.’ I sneer, wriggling my butt closer to Charles, who, in turn, shimmies closer to Fee while looking like he’s ingesting prunes.

Charles, my friend, I think your gaydar needs a reboot.

‘My mother also taught me that beautiful girls have sharp tongues,’ the stranger says. ‘But I find that just makes them all the more fun.’ His gaze is bold as it sweeps over me. I find myself glancing at my friends, sure my expression reads can you believe this dipshit?

‘I’m Benoît, by the way.’

‘And I’m not interested,’ I retort, my tone flat.

‘You prove my point for me.’ He looks up, shooting Fee a cheeky wink. ‘Your friend doesn’t like me.’

‘Oh, I’m sure it’s not that,’ Fee answers with a brightness that seems almost brittle.

‘Benoît.’ He holds his hand out across the table to her, half standing, repeating the process with Charles. I’m just about to ask why they get the polite version, and I get hit on when Charles, his hand still in Benoît’s, speaks.

‘We know who you are. We work for Industries Du Loup. All three of us.’

‘You work there, too?’ I ask, turning my head his way.

‘Don’t sound so excited about it. I should tell you, the meaner you are to me, the more I like it.’

‘There are names for people like you,’ I mutter, meaning asshole over masochist.

‘Yes, names like boss,’ Charles murmurs under his breath, covering his next words with a cough. ‘Also owner.’

My head swings Charles’s way, a denial on the tip of my tongue.

‘I wouldn’t expect you to be nice to me just because I own a little of the company.’ Something tells me that’s exactly what he would expect, cemented by his actions as his arm feeds along the seat behind me, his thumb lightly brushing my spine. It’s such a light touch but somehow intimate. And unwanted. ‘It’s the weekend, and you’re not working now. Have you ever been in the VIP suite?’ Benoît directs his question to Fee, who shakes her head.

‘This is only my third time here,’ she answers.

‘What about you?’ This time, he directs his question to Charles this time.

‘Non, but I have heard they serve nothing but Dom Perignon. Is this true?’

I can feel Benoît’s gaze crawling over me, though I refuse to return it.

‘In the VIP suite, you can get almost anything you want.’ Was I the only one who caught that tone? ‘You should join me,’ he adds quite suddenly, as though the idea has only just occurred to him. Yeah, right. ‘All of you.’

‘That’s very kind,’ Fee protests. I wonder if she’s reading my expression or if she has her own reservations. ‘But—’

‘But we’re waiting for my boyfriend,’ I interject.

‘Then he should come, too.’ He stands and pauses briefly. ‘I’ll leave your names at the door and see you there soon, I hope.’ And then he’s gone.

‘Dammit,’ I announce as soon as he’s out of earshot. ‘I thought that would’ve put him off. No way I’m going to hang out with the creepy boss.’

Fee grimaces. ‘He’s not really creepy . . .’

‘Oh. My bad. He’s just a douche.’

‘I know. I’m sorry. God, he was a little intense, wasn’t he?’

‘If by intense, you mean creepy, yes.’

‘Maybe he’s drunk?’

At Charles’s interjection, I turn to him. ‘How did you not realise you were staring at our boss?’

‘I don’t have in my lenses,’ he protests, holding up his hands.

‘What?’

‘I wore my new sunglasses earlier. Remember? They are prescription!’

As an explanation, I find this baffling.

‘So, what, when it got dark, you decided you didn’t need to see? How does that even work? Well, I’m not going in there,’ I add mulishly. ‘The dude has my creep-o-meter going off.’

‘But Rose.’ Fee reaches over the table to take my hand. ‘How can we not?’

‘We just don’t go. He’s partying. His eyes were glazed, so he’s probably on something. He’ll probably forget he even asked us.’

‘And if he doesn’t?’ she asks carefully. ‘And we see him at work, and he remembers we ignored him?’