Beautifully Cruel (Beautifully Cruel #1)(41)

“I think it’s time for us to go.” Dave looks at Carla, who smiles uncomfortably.

“Naw, don’t go!” Tyler claps Dave on the shoulder. “Party’s just gettin’ started, bruh!”

Through a clenched jaw, Dave says curtly, “Carla.”

“Yes, time to go!” she says nervously, sending me an apologetic glance. “Thanks for a really fun dinner, Tru. This was a great idea. See you at work tomorrow!”

She and Dave rise from their chairs just as the waitress returns with dessert menus.

“Would anyone care for after dinner drinks…” She smiles at Ty. “Or something sweet?”

Ty grins like an idiot, while an obviously disgusted Dave pulls out his wallet. “Not for us, thanks. I’ll take care of the bill.”

I’m about to protest that that’s not necessary, but the waitress says, “Oh, it’s already been paid, sir.”

Everyone looks at each other. When it becomes clear no one is going to take credit for it, Ellie squeals happily at Ty, “Honey! Did you do this?”

“No.”

“Oh.” Crestfallen, she looks at Diego. “You?”

“Nope.”

The waitress says, “The owner took care of it.”

Diego looks puzzled.

Ty mutters, “Woulda come here sooner if I’d known it’d be free.”

Carla says hesitantly, “How nice,” like she’s not sure if it’s nice or not.

Because Dave doesn’t look happy at all about this development. And not just unhappy—furious.

He sends me a hard stare. “The owner a friend of yours?”

Feeling defensive, I lift my hands in the air. “I have no idea who owns this place. This is my first time here.”

Dave and the waitress share a look. Smiling stiffly, the waitress sets the dessert menus on the edge of the table and says, “I’ll just leave these here, then.” She hurries off.

Carla looks confused. “That’s weird. Why would the owner pay for our dinner? Are they running a contest?”

Dave grabs her upper arm and pulls her closer to him. He glances around suspiciously, like he’s expecting armed gunmen to leap out from under nearby tables. “We’re leaving. Now.”

“Okay, honey, take it easy! What’s gotten into you?”

“Liam Black just bought us dinner is what’s gotten into me,” he snaps.

My heart freezes to a stone inside my chest.

“Who?”

Carla doesn’t know who Dave’s talking about, but apparently Diego does, because all the blood drains from his face. He stares at me in horror.

When Ty says loudly, “Who the fuck is Liam Black?” Dave drags Carla off without another word. They’re in such a hurry, they don’t even say goodbye.

Still staring at me, Diego asks Ty, “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“I’m from L.A.,” Ty says proudly.

Diego stands and quickly scans the restaurant and dance floor. “That explains a lot.” He grabs my wrist and pulls me to my feet. “Get your purse. We’re outta here.”

Diego knows who Liam is. Chills run down my spine.

I grab my handbag, wave goodbye to Ellie, and let Diego lead me past the dining tables and through the crowded dance floor to a pair of double doors on the other side of the restaurant. They’re swinging doors, the kind with round windows at eye level.

I don’t know why, but we’re not going out the front…we’re headed to the kitchen.

He shoves open one of the doors and pulls me inside.

The kitchen is much larger than Buddy’s, with about half a dozen chefs sweating over sizzling pans and shouting directions to the line cooks and runners. Wait staff scurry around like rats, holding plates aloft. Bus boys zoom in and out, carrying armloads of dirty dishes.

It’s barely-controlled chaos. No one spares us a glance.

“Diego, slow down! Why are we leaving through here?”

“So the bouncers at the front door won’t stop us on the way out.”

“Why would they stop us?”

Ignoring me, he tugs harder on my hand and jerks his chin in greeting at a young Latino chef standing behind a steaming six-burner stove. Diego says something to him in urgent Spanish. The chef nods and tilts his head to the right.

We turn in that direction. I assume it’s an exit, but before we go ten more steps, we skid to a stop.

Because six huge men in black suits are filing through the door we were headed to.

They flank out to stand in formation, three on each side of the door, with their hands clasped at their waists and their legs spread. Bulges in various places under their suits hint at an arsenal of concealed weapons.

Unsmiling, they stare at us.

The noise and frenzied activity of the kitchen fades instantly to breathless stillness and silence.

Until Liam strolls through the door.

He stops and folds his arms over his broad chest. He looks at Diego. He looks at me.

Eyes burning, he says softly, “Good evening.”

Then every cook, bus boy, and waitress in the kitchen turns around and runs out.





16





Tru





My heart slams against my breastbone. Adrenaline turns my blood to fire. Beyond the swinging doors, the music thumps, but inside the kitchen, it’s as silent as a tomb.