"Can I buy you a drink?" He asks.
"Umm–"
"You having dinner with someone?" His face looks tight.
"A private party."
"So you don't have to get back right away then?"
"Well–"
"What do you drink?"
Just like outside Club Lotus, every woman in the waiting area and adjoining bar seems to be gazing at the stranger. Drooling over him. It's actually quite interesting to watch. I had no idea that women really acted like this. It's ridiculous. I mean I've gawked at a few men over the course of my travels too, but nothing as overt as how they are ogling his entire body. Flipping their hair. Licking their lips. He must be used to it though, because he barely seems to notice or care at the moment. I'm sure he can get a woman into his bed at any given time. No need to concern himself with it now.
"Red wine is fine." I say.
I wonder if he's surprised. Women my age don't usually opt for wine. Most of my friends would have ordered shots or something fruity and frozen, but I grew up sneaking sips of my mom's nightly glass of cabernet, so it is familiar to me. Something I know I can order and enjoy. Plus I've always thought that wine was a very classy drink to order.
I watch carefully as the stranger grabs us a high top table with two stools. I don't like how awkwardly I'm carrying myself. Like the new kid at the lunch table looking for the right words to say. I bravely look up into his eyes thinking maybe the words will come, but now I wish I hadn't.
"What's wrong?" He asks gently.
"What–"
"You're in pain." He observes.
I clamp my mouth shut. My wrist was hurting a little from trying to break my fall. Plus I'm not sure that I'm totally healed from the attack. Sometimes I wake up with aches in weird places. I must have fallen harder than I thought to the ground when I was punched in the jaw.
He pauses for a moment then grasps my arm. "Did you hurt yourself when you fell?"
I flinch slightly when he handles my arm. Not so much from the pain, but because I'm still skittish. When he notices my reaction, he abruptly stands and strides over to the bar to grab the bartender's attention.
"One second Elizabeth."
The bartender is a tall bleached blonde wearing a tight black t-shirt and leggings. Her face isn't overtly pretty, but I can see how men would consider her attractive. She immediately flirts with my stranger, as he appears to be placing a drink order. At least I think that's what he's doing. They're doing a lot of damn talking for just a simple drink order. I think what irritates me the most, is that it almost seems effortless between them. The conversation. The smiles. Her hair flipping. Her chest lifted high and forward with confidence. I have limited experience with guys; I wouldn't know how to flirt with a guy if my life depended on it. Not like she's doing. It's actually pretty sad.
The flirty bartender leans over the counter and whispers something in the stranger's ear, and he immediately looks back at me. I wonder what she's saying? Embarrassed that I'm gawking at the two of them, I swiftly bow my head and start fiddling with my phone. Not smooth at all. I know that I've been caught like a kid digging up her nose. That's why I'm startled but a little relieved when my phone actually buzzes to life. It's a legitimate distraction. It's a text from Sloan.
Sloan: Hey hooker
Me: Hey
Sloan: What's up?
Me: You're not going to believe this
Sloan: What!!
Me: I'm out with the family at a restaurant and HE'S here
Sloan: Who?
Me: The stranger from the club
Sloan: Oh. My. God. Is he fucking stalking you :)
Me: Did you type a smiley face bc I have a stalker?
A strange, prickly sensation flutters across the back of my neck.
Damn, he's back already.
Me: I gotta go
Sloan: Wait we didn't–
I quickly put my phone to sleep, because he's definitely back and standing very closely behind me with two glasses in his hands, along with a man in an ill-fitting oxford shirt and khakis standing next to him.
"I was just finishing a text to a friend." I start explaining like the bumbling idiot I am. As if he cares.
"I see that." He sits in the chair on the left side of me and hands me a glass of wine. "This is Mr. Edmonds. He's the manager of this fine establishment." He exaggerates the word fine as if it's anything but.
"I heard you had a slight accident in the waiting area Miss–"
"Elizabeth." I take a sip then set my glass down.
"Elizabeth. On behalf of management I'd like to extend my deepest apologies. It's our fault that the area was so crowded. We have to do a better job of managing walk-ins and getting folks seated faster."
I dip my head in agreement, but I honestly don't really believe this is the restaurant's fault. I fell down completely on my own, but I can tell by the manager's bleak face, that he wants me to accept whatever he has prepared to say, so that he can get on with the rest of his night. He seems nervous. Perhaps because the stranger is giving him a steely look that would scare the hell out of just about anyone. So I just let poor Mr. Edmonds continue on with his totally unnecessary spiel.