“Just making sure.”
This time, the pause was all mine. Until—
“Rebecca,” he accepted the challenge, “I’ll see you there.”
Chapter 6
Karaoke with Marcus Taylor…there really are not words.
I lay in bed the next morning, staring up at the ceiling with an arm thrown across my forehead. Basking in the afterglow. Playing scenes over in my mind. Trying to decide if it had really happened, or if it was a cautionary side effect of drinking too much tequila.
Marcus had met us at the club. And by club, I mean a little hole-in-the-wall dive bar in the middle of Korean-town reeking with the stench of soy sauce and yesterday’s saké still dripping down the wall. He wore a white collared shirt—pulled open a few buttons—and dark jeans. Nothing flashy. Nothing that would make him stand out.
Nothing except the priceless look on his face.
Handsome features aside, I think I could have picked him
out of a crowd based on nothing but his twitching, petrified expression. He looked like prey.
“Hi guys,” he said robotically as his eyes drifted up to the stage.
A black painted stool was perched in front of a microphone and a large speaker. Directly in front of the stage, ten or twelve tables of noisy, laughing collage kids were throwing back shots and shouting back and forth—daring each other to try.
The more they drank, the more they yelled, the more Marcus’ eyes dilated in abject terror. A thin layer of sweat appeared on his forehead, and he started tugging nervously on the cuffs of his sleeves. With how much I’d already had to drink, I actually felt sorry for him.
“How about we get some shots?” I asked helpfully as Amanda and I snagged a table in a corner near the back.
Marcus mumbled something about that being a good idea and disappeared to find a bartender. The second he was gone, Amanda grabbed my wrist over the table.
“Okay, mission abort. I feel bad.” Her eyes followed him sympathetically.
He was standing awkwardly at one end of the bar, seemingly unaware of the proper etiquette if one’s server wasn’t wearing coattails. With a drunken grin, I crossed the room to help.
“Hey!” I yelled loudly, hopping up onto the counter and leaning on my stomach. “Can we get some drinks down here?” The frazzled bartender flashed me the ‘one second’ sign, and I grinned, turning back to Marcus. “What’s it going to be?”
“Whiskey,” he said without pause. There was a faint tremor in his hands as his eyes flickered back to the stage, and I felt myself suddenly soften as well.
“Hey, listen.” I put my hands on his shoulders, and for the first time since arriving, he actually met my gaze.
His eyes widened as they travelled down my body in one fell swoop. Amanda and I had dressed up for the occasion. And by dressed up, I mean, dressed down. I was wearing ink black jeans that hung low on my bony hips, and the shirt I was sporting wasn’t really a shirt at all. It was more of a halter-like scarf that stretched to cover anything important before falling in a stylish knot down my back. In short, he was probably seeing more of me now than he had when I was in the bikini.
“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.” I cocked my head toward the stage. “I was drunk and vengeful, but now… Well, I don’t want to be spending the next few months with you if you’re stumbling around suffering from PTSD.”
He didn’t register a word. I could almost feel the heat from his gaze as it traced a slow line from my collar bone up my throat to my lips. His eyes rested there for a moment before flashing back up to my face.
“Sorry—what were you saying?” He shook his head and leaned closer to hear me over the noise. I flushed a little and stretched up on my toes, bringing my lips to his ear.
“I said you’re off the hook. You don’t have to sing anything.”
He leaned back and stared at me speculatively. I could almost see the desperate battle warring just behind those eyes. But after a moment, he flashed a faint grin and shook his head.
“I proposed to you in front of the world.” The flashing lights made his look of remorse even more pronounced. “The least I can do is crucify myself in front of these people.”
The waiter returned. Before I could say a word, Marcus ordered a fifth of Jack Daniels and two waters, slapping his money down on the counter.
“Water?” I asked petulantly. Amanda was sure to be displeased.
“Yeah,” Marcus said distractedly, eyes locked on the stage. “Rebecca, you realize the whole time we’ve been talking, you’ve been standing on somebody’s purse, right?”