The Resistance(72)
“I don’t think we’ve gone on an actual date. I know we’ve talked about it, but this might be the first time.”
He turns away, staring out into the night. Just when I think the conversation is over, he says, “I’m an asshole.” Standing up straight, he turns back to me and takes my hand. “I’m sorry, Holliday. You deserve better than that.”
“You don’t have to apologize. I just… being with you like this is new.” I squeeze his hand. “I guess our relationship has been a little unconventional.”
“Unconventional,” he repeats, rolling the word around in his mouth several times. “I need to make this right.”
“I don’t need right because what we are isn’t wrong. It’s us and I like it. It just feels different tonight. That’s all.”
We’re interrupted by two giggling teenagers holding their phones up to him. Two men come from around the corner and start to say something to them, but Dalton stops them and nods. He poses with each, then thanks them. When they leave, the two men remain, checking the premises.
“We should go. Are you hungry?” Dalton asks, taking me by the arm. His grip is firm, possessive.
I stop and resist. Pulling my arm back, I ask, “What’s going on?”
He looks around, causing me to look back over my shoulder. The two men are eyeing him and Dalton says, “It’s best if we leave now.”
The doors to the elevator open and we walk inside. Other people try to get in, but are stopped by the large men. After they step in and the doors close. I ask, “Are they bodyguards?”
Dalton stares straight ahead. “Yes.”
“Why do you have bodyguards?”
His reply is a hard glare. My stubborn side takes over, and I venture a guess, “We weren’t alone when I thought we were, were we?”
My statement sets him off. “Holliday, I can’t be alone in public. You’re not dumb. You live in the land of celebrities. You know how this works.”
“I didn’t know because we’ve been holed up at my place or yours anytime we’ve been together. So, although it’s very obvious to me now, it just surprised me to see them here.” I have a flashback of the first time we met at the bar with that drunk guy who hit on me. The security team that rushed in to escort him out… I look at the men standing in front of me now and it becomes clear. “They were in Vegas.”
“They’re almost always with me.”
The bell dings and the doors open. A few flashes go off, but the bodyguards keep any inquisitors at bay as we head for the car. The door is shut and there we sit in silence in the back of the car as it speeds away.
He sighs. “Are you mad at me?”
“No. I have no reason to be mad. I’m trying to process the level of your fame that you need bodyguards around you all the time.”
“I can’t even process it. I can’t do normal things. I told you this early on. I can buy whatever I want in the world except my freedom back. The memories of walking down the street and not being recognized are long gone.”
“But Cory and Rochelle. Their lives are normal and they don’t live in a gated communit—”
“I’m the front man. I’m the face of The Resistance.” He’s leaning his head against the window, his hand between us. “I pay the price so they can live like normal people. Rochelle helped orchestrate that early on. I didn’t mind at the time… I may sound bitter. I’m not.” Turning to look at me, he says, “I’ll never have what they have, but most days, I’m grateful for what I’ve been given.” He looks out the window. “This is the part where you decide if you can be a part of this life or not.”
My hand finds his and I slide across the seat. Leaning my head on his shoulder, I say, “I want to be a part of your life. This side of your life is new. I’m used to the bubble we’ve been living in.”
He wraps his arm around me and holds me against his side. With his lips pressed to my hand, he says, “Let me take you to dinner, a real dinner date.”
“I’d like that. But the guards don’t sit with us.”
He chuckles and it’s good to hear. “They’re actually good guys and they do protect my ass, but no, the guards won’t sit with us.”
The car stops outside of a bistro that is packed with people. Dalton hops out first, then offers his hand to help me out. When we enter the restaurant, he walks straight back and to the right to a rounded booth in the corner with glass and wood partitions on two sides. The maitre d’ follows quickly behind, greeting us in French then switching to English for our benefit. “Bonsoir, Monsieur Outlaw et Mademoiselle. Our specials are listed on the menu.” He doesn’t waste time with chit chat but leaves us alone to peruse the menu.