The Cruelest Stranger Page 6

  Or maybe this is all payback for the emails.

  Maybe he’s messing with me.

  Tossing back the remainder of my drink, I slide off the barstool and fling my purse over my shoulder.

  “Where are you going?” he asks, looking me up and down.

  “This isn’t cute, this thing you’re doing,” I say. “You’re not charming. You’re not anyone I remotely feel like spending my Saturday night with. I’m going somewhere else.”

  “Stay.”

  “I’m not a dog.”

  “I see that.” He sips his drink, his stare boring through me, all but nailing me in place. “Still, you shouldn’t leave. Not on my account.”

  “Do you speak to everyone you meet this way?” I’m not referring to the formality in which he speaks—which reminds me of a young Rudolph Valentino or even a Clark Gable. This man isn’t a “bro” or a “bruh” type. He’s on a level all his own.

  “What way?”

  “With contempt and condescension,” I say.

  “Yes.”

  Rolling my eyes, I place some cash on the counter and swipe my coat off the back of my bar stool.

  “You’re not seriously going to leave, are you?” He watches me. “Let me buy you a drink. I feel awful you didn’t get to enjoy your first one. You all but chugged it the second I sat down beside you.”

  Impressively perceptive.

  But still an asshole.

  “If I let you buy me a drink, will you leave me alone?” I eye the Manhattan beside him, with its melting ice cubes, wondering if his fragile ego craves attention to soothe the burn of being stood up.

  For a moment, I see him as a damaged human and not a blatant jerk.

  My adoptive mother used to say, “It takes all kinds,” which I always interpreted to mean that the world would be boring if we were all the same. And I agree. But that doesn’t mean I need to subject myself to this particular non-boring individual.

  It’s too bad, really. I gave him the benefit of the doubt. My heart broke for him.

  And then he sent that email …

  I contemplate his offer, lingering in an indecisive gray area for several long and obvious moments before he reaches for my wrist and tugs me closer.

  “I don’t want to ruin your night.” A wolf-like glint resides in his pale blue irises.

  A second later, he flags the bartender and points to me and my empty flute.

  I couldn’t tell you why … but I decide to stay.

  My seat is still warm and his stare is more intense than it was before, and when I finally dare myself to meet his gaze with one of my own, I’m almost positive I see something else in them—something all too familiar.

  My lemon-sweet cocktail arrives within minutes and Bennett Schoenbach lifts his glass to mine.

  Something tells me we’re toasting to the same thing.

  Loneliness.

  12

  Bennett

  “I don’t hate anything. Or anyone,” the attractive blonde beside me declares as she sips her third cocktail. We’ve been talking—bullshitting about nothing and everything—for the last hour while Jax’s Manhattan wastes into water beside me. The bastard got held up with his clingy girlfriend and he isn’t coming.

  So far she’s told me she loves old movies.

  Anything old Hollywood.

  She volunteers on the weekends (surprise, surprise).

  But I’m more interested in what she doesn’t like—those are the kinds of things that tell you what you need to know about someone.

  “Liar. Everybody hates somebody.” I sip my whiskey, my gaze trained on her luscious, peach-colored pout.

  Disagreements make for the best foreplay, and I have every intention of taking this ray-of -sunshine home with me tonight and hate-fucking her into multiple orgasms before calling her a cab and praying we never meet again because I don’t do repeats.

  The more I get her to find me cerebrally repulsive, the hotter the sex will be.

  She’s already attracted to me, that much I can deduce. The way her eyes skim over me, the way her gaze lingers on my mouth, the way she touches her hair when she thinks I’m not looking. The way she rolls her eyes when she laughs.

  Fight as she may, she wants me.

  And we haven’t even exchanged names.

  “You say that with such conviction.” She squints. “But you couldn’t be more wrong. I’ve never hated anyone in my life.”

  “Liar.”

  I focus on her bee-stung mouth, wondering how her lips would taste between my teeth, and when she reaches for her glass, I steal a glimpse of her legging-covered thighs, imagining her cashmere skin beneath my palms.

  “Life’s too short to hate anyone.” She shrugs. “Plus, you get what you give, you know? If you go around hating people all the time, they’re going to hate you right back.”

  “And what’s wrong with that?”

  “Everything.” Her words are breath-filled and certain.

  “You have no idea how freeing it is to not give a damn what anyone thinks of you. You could tell me you hate me and I won’t feel a thing. I’ll go home and sleep like a baby.”

  She squints. “I don’t believe you.”

  I sip my drink and face forward. “I don’t need you to.”

  “Deep down you want to be liked, loved, whatever. But you’re scared. So you wear this asshole suit of armor that makes everyone immediately detest you because then you’re in control. You get to decide if someone likes you or not.”

  I flag down the bartender, lifting my empty tumbler. “What makes you think that?”

  “Because nobody is this awful in real life.” She reaches for another drink, giving me side-eye. “And I refuse to believe you’re as awful as you’d like people to believe.”

  “Do you charge by the hour for this? Thought we were just a couple of strangers sharing a drink. Didn’t realize you’ve been psychoanalyzing me this entire time.”

  “I’m sorry but this thing you do, it’s a defense mechanism. Lots of people do it. And in my experience, the harder someone is on the outside, the softer they are on the inside.” She offers a humble shrug but wears a buoyant smirk on that fuckable mouth.

  She thinks she has me figured out.

  She couldn’t be more wrong.

  “In my experience, playing armchair psychologist is a complete fucking waste of time.” I burst her bubble.

  “Can’t help it. It’s what I do.” Her eyes glint, the palest marbled blue, and she bites her lower lip to stave off a smile. “I find people fascinating.”

  “You find me fascinating?”

  “People in general,” she corrects. “Which, I guess if you want to get technical, you fall into that category.”

  “Why did you really come here tonight?” I change the subject because the magnetism between us is clearly intensifying and it’s time to stop playing around. I was screwing with her earlier when I accused her of coming here to ‘fish’ for men, but I’m beginning to suspect I wasn’t that far off. She’s a gorgeous woman alone in a popular hookup bar on a perfectly good Saturday night, entertaining flirtations from a man who hasn’t even bothered to get her name.

  “Why does it matter?”

  “It’s just a question.”

  She lifts a shoulder. “Wanted to get out of my apartment. This place is within walking distance. You?”

  “Was supposed to meet a friend for drinks.”

  “She stand you up?”

  “Never said it was a female friend.”

  Her gaze falls to her napkin.

  It’s too dim in the bar to tell if she’s blushing, but I can only assume.

  I take this as confirmation that things are absolutely headed in the right direction.

  I trace my fingertips across the top of her knee. “Have to say … I can’t remember the last time I had a real conversation with anyone here.”

  It’s a lame move and an even lamer line, but all I can think about is taking her home, and my impatien
ce is getting the best of me.

  She peers at me through a fringe of dark lashes before her gaze falls to my hand. “You’re not as smooth as you think you are, Casanova.”

  A moment later, her palm rests over mine, and she returns my hand with the gentleness of an angelic virgin.

  “You’re right.” I toss my hands in the air for half of a second. “It’s just another one of my … acts.”

  Her drink is almost finished. Judging by the sullen turn our conversation has taken, a fourth is likely out of the question.

  “Will you excuse me for a second?” She slides off her bar stool, hooks her purse over her shoulder, and heads to the back of the bar, leaving her coat to hold her spot.

  I sip my vodka and watch as she bumps into the owner’s daughter on her way. Ophelia DeGrasse is one of those people who can talk to you once and the next time you run into her, it’s like catching up with an old friend.

  Also, she exclusively dates women.

  Either she’s merely being friendly with my ray-of-fucking-sunshine because they know each other … or she’s hitting on her.

  Hard to tell from all the way over here, but I suppose it doesn’t matter because I’m sure as hell not getting ass from her tonight.

  I knew better than to make a move so soon. I should’ve kept the conversation going. Feigned interest in getting to know more about her. But the Russian liquor coursing through my veins has evidently thrown me off my game and my impatience got the best of me.

  My effervescent, out-of-reach bubbly blonde disappears into the ladies’ room.

  I order water and text my driver.

  I refuse to sit here wallowing in rejection when I’ve got dozens of women in my phone who would Uber to my place in a heartbeat if I said the word.

  I’m half-finished with my water by the time she comes back. Clearing her throat, she takes a seat and tosses back the rest of her drink. We sit in silence over the longest two minutes of my life before she turns to me.

  “You haven’t even asked my name,” she says.

  “What?”

  “You’ve been flirting with me all night, buying me drinks. You put your hand on my knee. And you’ve yet to ask my name.”

  “I don’t need to.”

  Her eyes catch on mine and she studies me. “Ah. So you already know it.”

  I smirk. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I should go.” She slides off her seat. “Thanks for the drinks.”

  My phone lights with a text from my driver.

  He’s almost here.

  I rise, slip my phone into my pocket, swipe my jacket, toss some cash on the counter, and head outside first.

  God forbid she thinks I’m following her.

  I’ve never chased after a woman in my life. I’m not about to start now.

  I stand beneath a black awning, my breath turning to milky January clouds under a clear blue-black sky.

  Sliding my phone out, I decide to check my work email while I wait for my ride. With it being a Saturday, I’m not met with anything urgent, and I’m about to close out of the app when I spot a reply email from Anonymous Stranger.

  My thumb hovers above the delete button for half of a second before I decide to see what this audacious person has to say this time. Because I’ve never believed in letting anyone get the last word (and because I’m cheaply entertained by these exchanges), I fully intend to respond the next chance I get.

  I’m three sentences deep when I realize this woman is giving me a novel’s worth of some sob story, likely an attempt to justify her decision to insert herself into my family’s tragedy.

  She was a foster child …

  She never met her father …

  Her adoptive mother died …

  Her fiancé died …

  A bona fide country music song—all that’s missing is a runaway Blue Heeler and a broken-down Chevy on the side of the road.

  There’s no fucking way any of this is true—and yet I continue reading anyway, waiting for the part where this madcap is about to ask me for money. It’s when I get toward the end that the amused smirk on my face fades and everything around me turns black.

  The woman in the bar, the woman who eye-fucked me all night and then suddenly and inexplicably lost all interest … is none other than Anonymous Stranger.

  And she fucking knew the entire time.

  She thinks I’m cruel?

  She hasn’t seen anything yet.

  A moment later, the door swings open and Astaire joins me, buttoning her ivory pea coat and slipping her delicate hands into skin-tight leather gloves the color of baby’s breath. The faintest waft of her sweet perfume cuts through the cool night air as a car coasts by, tail lights reflecting against wet winter pavement until it vanishes over the hill.

  Our eyes lock.

  She begins to say something, but I silence her with a kiss … soft and slow, the kind that makes her melt against me, exhaling her sweet breath as my fingers trace the side of her cheek, her back against the brick façade of Ophelia’s.

  She doesn’t resist.

  In fact, her lips part to accept my tongue, gifting me the subtle tang of sugared citrus and champagne with a hint of pomegranate lip balm.

  She’s every bit as sweet as I expected.

  As if on cue, my driver pulls up, parking next to the curb.

  I end the kiss, brushing the pad of my thumb against her lower lip. My thousand-yard stare bores into her and I step away.

  “That’s my ride.” I nod toward the idling SUV.

  “I’m not going home with you.”

  “That wasn’t an invitation.” There’s a chill in my voice that makes her expression fade.

  With that, I disappear inside the satisfying warmth of my backseat and leave her on the sidewalk, in the brutal January cold.

  13

  Astaire

  “Astaire, there you are. Was hoping I’d catch you before the bell.” Mrs. Angelino, who teaches third grade down the hall, ambles into my classroom Monday morning, apple-shaped coffee mug in hand. “What happened last week? With Garrett? He said you never showed?”

  I’d been meaning to catch up with her, to explain what happened, but she was out sick Friday, and I didn’t want to bother her at home over the weekend.

  “I’m so sorry.” I was just about to check my email, but I close out of the log-in screen. “I got caught in the rain Thursday night, so when I got to the bar, I went to the ladies’ room to clean up. When I came out, the bartender told me he’d left. I didn’t have his number or else I’d have—”

  She chuckles, batting her hand before toying with the clay, star-shaped necklace hanging over her sweater-covered bosom. “Oh, sweetheart, that’s my fault. I’d meant to give you his number but it must’ve slipped my mind. Here he thought you stood him up. He’s going to get a kick out of this when I tell him you were just primping and preening in the ladies’ room. You want to try again this week? Same place, same time?”

  “Um, sure.” I force a smile, not sure if I’m in the mood for a do-over after the events of the past week.

  To be honest, I’m still reeling from Bennett Schoenbach’s kiss Saturday night—mostly struggling with how much I enjoyed it, but also trying to wrap my head around his PG-rated “f-you.”

  I get it—he was angry that we’d flirted all night and I refused his advance … but the way he looked at me when he pulled away, like he was shooting daggers into my soul, is burned into my mind. I’ve replayed that kiss, that look a hundred times since that night and for whatever reason, I can’t get it out of my head.

  I can’t get him out of my head.

  “Could we try a different place?” I ask. “Something besides Ophelia’s?”

  “Honey, of course. That’s up to you two. I’ll email you his number when I get back to my room and you guys can sort everything out.”

  The first morning bell chimes and the hallway begins to fill with shuffling sneakers, bouncing backpacks, and giggling youth.
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  Mrs. Angelino leaves me with a finger-wave before scurrying out of my classroom. With five minutes until the tardy bell, I decide to check my email. I spent the entirety of yesterday talking myself out of it. Telling myself once he discovers that I knew who he was Saturday night, that I was the anonymous sender of the emails, no good could come of that.

  But curiosity has chipped away at my resolve and I’m finding it difficult to focus—a problem seeing how the school day starts shortly and my kids deserve my full, undivided attention.

  I type my password and press enter.

  No new messages.

  Exhaling, I’m not sure whether I’m relieved or if this puts me more on edge as I anticipate an unknown inevitable.

  Either he’s yet to read it, he’s read it and deleted it … or he’s biding his time until he comes up with the perfect response.

  If it’s the latter, something tells me it isn’t going to be kind.

  14

  Bennett

  I re-read my response to Astaire on Monday morning, my index finger grazing the return key.

  TO: AnonStranger@Rockmail

  FROM: Bennett.Schoenbach@SchoenbachCorp

  SUBJECT: RE: re: re: Condolences

  Astaire,

  Congratulations—you’ve managed to render me speechless for a record thirty-two hours and change. Now that I’ve had some time to wrap my head around this fucked-up situation you’ve placed me in, I had a few thoughts of my own I wanted to share.

  Never in my thirty years have I met someone with such an impressive ability to weave a pithy, trite fiction tale with the audacious intentions of inserting themselves into a complete stranger’s personal affairs.

  But you didn’t stop there.

  You proceeded to show your face at Ophelia’s again, accepted drinks from me, acted like some ethereal, light-bringing Virgin Mary despite eye-fucking me for hours—all the while knowing that it would be a brief matter of time before I would read your email and know exactly who you were.