Connected (Connections, #1)(31)
HOLD MY HEART
How long until I see what you see
Until I see through your facade
Stop bringing me to my knees
And tell me you’re everything you say you are
And how long until I let you hold my heart.
There are some things I expected when I landed in Las Vegas this morning: casinos, alcohol, video gaming, slot machines, crap tables, neon lights, and even River Wilde. What I didn’t expect was the bitter exchange that just took place in the cab.
Grabbing my hand, he leads me to the elevator inside the large glass building. As we stand in silence, I take the opportunity to collect my thoughts as we rise the forty floors to the restaurant. First, he remembers me. Second, he is, was, I’m not sure, upset with me for leaving that night. Finally, he went to the Kappa Sigma party to look for his sister after leaving the USC Campus Bar and saw me with Ben.
The facts are easier to sort than the underlying feelings accompanying them. It’s my feelings I can’t seem to get a handle on. They are growing, almost intensifying with every word he says to me. And although I don’t really know him, this doesn’t dampen the unspoken truth that I feel more connected to him right now than any other living man.
These are the feelings driving me to stay here, to not walk away. But the biggest reason keeping me here is I actually get him. He’s mad right now, but what I see are his struggles between his emotions and his charm. I can see through his anger to his wounded pride at being jilted. I can also see a little hurt there too. The fact that I get him intrigues me, it captivates me, and makes me want him more.
Facts and unanswered questions are swirling in my head as I exit the elevator into the restaurant. We are hand in hand and I’m wondering how this can be real. Doubts start to cloud my reason. Is he on the up and up or is he trying to get me back for leaving that night? Is this all a game? If it’s not, can we put the past behind us? Can I tell him about Ben? What is his motivation in asking me to stay, while pushing me away at the same time? My doubts mix with my certainties, but what I’m most concerned about is why do I feel every time he looks at me he can see through to my soul?
I’m desperately trying to shut thoughts of Ben out of my mind, but for some reason the conversation keeps leading back to him. Not literally in terms of using his name, but figuratively in that all outcomes of this conversation lead to Ben.
As the hostess leads us to a secluded U-shaped booth, I notice the beautiful view of Las Vegas. Our booth faces the interior of the restaurant, and a wall of glass is to our right. Sliding into the booth, I turn to look out at the view and long for the tranquility it offers.
I stay very close to the edge of the booth, not allowing River access from my end. He smirks at me when I don’t move in but doesn’t say anything. He just nods as he gets in from the other end and sits down.
The restaurant is dimly lit, but there is an ominous glow coming from the candle in the center of the table and I swear from River too. As we sit in silence, I know he’s staring at me. I can feel it, but I don’t look at him. Instead, I shift my eyes down to study my menu.
When the waiter approaches, he asks what I would like to drink, and I order my trademark cocktail. “A filthy Grey Goose martini with extra olives, please.”
River orders a bottle of beer and starts chuckling.
Looking at him for the first time since we sat down, I ask, “What’s so funny?”
He’s staring at me, and my gaze shifts to meet his eyes as he says, “Filthy. That sounds really dirty and really hot.”
I smile coyly at him, but I don’t break our eye contact. I actually allow his stare; almost welcome it. I decide to join in the banter and ignore the sexual undertone of his statement. “I only drink three types of drinks.” Then holding one finger up in the air, I say, “Beer with ice.” Holding a second finger up in the air, I say, “Martinis.” And finally, holding a third finger up, I finish with, “And champagne, but only with a strawberry.”
Then smirking, I decide to go for it and throw a detail from our first meeting at him. Without any perk or animation I say, “And oh yeah, an occasional shot, but then you already knew that.”
Running his hands through his hair, he raises an eyebrow. “Yes I do. I remember that very well actually.”
And there it is again. A ménage of shuffled signals where words and body language aren’t always in sync, but emotions and body language seem to be oddly connected. With my mind and body having had enough of the chaos, I let it out. I just say it.
“River, what kind of game are you playing? Is this your way of luring me in, because if it is, I’m not interested? I’m not a groupie!” I finally manage to say what’s been on my mind, and I feel relieved.
He moves toward the center of the booth. He’s inching his way closer to me, but he’s still a good distance away. Putting his fingers on the table, he starts tapping it. He looks at me intently and says, “Dahlia, I’m not playing any game. I’m just interested in you, and I know you’re not a groupie.”
His fingers stop tapping the table, and he reaches over to where my hand is clutching the hem of my skirt. He takes it and rests both of our hands on my leg, his over mine. I notice he hasn’t laced our fingers together though. He clears his throat before saying, “I’m just trying to figure that night out. Believe me, the facts are pretty clear, but it’s the whys I’m struggling with.”