The Unlikeable Demon Hunter (Nava Katz #1)(38)

Poppy fell back with her friends, chattering brightly.

As we passed Samson, my place at Rohan's side cemented, he acknowledged my play with a slow head tilt.

I lifted my chin and sailed on.

Samson's pick of bar was slick, pretentious, and exclusive. Quelle surprise. I handed off my jacket at the coat check and waltzed inside, Rohan by my side. "Gawd. Too much blue lighting, too many high-gloss surfaces, too many high-gloss people," I said.

"And here I had you pegged as such a lover of humanity," Rohan replied.

"Thank you for understanding that when I say I don't like people, I'm not doing it to make polite conversation."

"You know that's not actually considered polite conversation, right?" With a small head shake, he strutted off.

After taking a moment to imprint the image of his tight ass on my retinas, I headed straight to the bar, ordering a shot of vodka from the pouty androgynous bartender. Instinct told me that if Samson didn't approach me here I'd played my hand wrong. I pushed down my anxiety, imagining myself as an empty vessel, filling with confidence. When that didn't work, I knocked back my drink. The booze burned sharp and clear down my throat. I liked it better served cold and smooth, but maybe the bite was for the best.

"Get you another?" Samson appeared at my side. He could have graced any magazine cover in his fitted chocolate brown shirt that made his blue eyes pop. It left me cold. He crowded me into the bar with his wide-legged stance.

Your cock doesn't take up that much room, sugar. I clamped my lips together so I didn't say that out loud and nodded.

He got the bartender's attention, pointing at my drink. "Interesting design you got there." Said casually but his eyes were sharp on my sunburst. "What's the story?"

Alea iacta est. With a mental finger-cross that this roll didn't come up snake eyes, I kept my expression impassive, pulling my neckline down a bit more as if to better see the entire design for myself. I traced a finger around the rays, letting it linger a moment on my cleavage.

Samson only had eyes for the design.

"Ever heard of Louis XIV?" I asked.

"Wrestler, right?" He laughed at my dismay. "Kidding. I manage to break up my Hollywood lifestyle of hookers and blow with the occasional book."



       
         
       
        

"Phew, because I had no way to politely lead you back from that level of ignorance."

"Politely?" He sounded dubious.

"You got me. You were going to get a shit-ton of scathing." Samson grinned at me and my knees went weak. Was I really that relieved that I was finally getting through to him?

"Okay, smartass," I said, full up on males getting under my skin, "did you know this sunburst was his symbol? Louis was a pioneer in branding."

The bartender slid my booze to me. Craving more of Samson's smile, I wrapped my trembling hands around the drink. No mean feat with a shot glass.

"Put it on my tab," Samson said.

The bartender gave a brusque nod, moving away to help another customer.

Samson leaned an elbow on the bar. "Let me guess," he said. "You went to Versailles and realized there just wasn't enough gilt in modern society."

My heart caught in my throat. Guilt, as in, there needed to be more negativity in our world? No, wait, he meant the other gilt. The gold leaf one. Good catch, self. "Obviously. That and wallpaper. Really busy wallpaper."

"Preferably covered in self-portraits?"

"See, you get it."

His expression turned pensive. "I've been talking to my interior designer about that exact look for my new place. I'm thinking I'd rock portraiture."

I laughed, relaxing. "I actually inherited Louis' innate sense of style, being descended from the guy."

"I hate to break it to you," Samson said, motioning the bartender back over, "but I think Marie Antoinette gets the credit for that."

"Fine, if you're going to be technical about it." I took a sip of my vodka. "One thing that was definitely all him, and that I can totally get behind, were his ideas on world domination. Pretty ballsy."

Samson ordered a scotch for himself. "What's your definition of world domination? Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition? Or no. You want to act." He sounded disappointed.

"Dancer, actually. Total stage whore when it comes to performing." The longing infusing my voice was real. "But that's not my plan. I like to think of myself as a taste-maker. People want guidance on what to covet, how to be an early adapter to the newest trend in order to feel cool or relevant, and they want a seal of approval from someone they perceive as infinitely cooler." I gave him a saucy wink. "That's me."