Bang(7)

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Not telling.” He says this with no interpretable body language as he pulls out of the parking lot.

“Why?”

“Because you argue too much.”

Feeling like a scolded child with his tone, I want to defy him just to piss him off, but instead, I’ll play his game. I’ll give him the cooperation he wants.

It’s time to start testing the waters.

The drive is short and quiet, and I’m surprised when he turns this luxury car into the lot at the Over Easy Café. I can’t even hide the smile on my face at the contrast of this picture as he parks in front of the modest diner.

“Is something funny about this?” he asks when he shuts the car off.

Shooting my narrowed eyes at him, I say, “Your mood is really starting to scathe me. I don’t know why you’re so pissy, but I wish you’d just cut the shit,” before opening my door and walking towards the building. When I look back, he’s standing there with an almost proud grin on his face. What the hell? I can’t figure out what this guy wants, sass or obedience.

Once inside, the place is busy with busboys clearing tables and people chatting loudly while eating. We are quickly served with coffee, and when I pick up the menu, Declan finally speaks, saying, “I figured you hadn’t eaten in a place like this in a while, so I thought I would take you somewhere low-key. Don’t worry; you’ll like the food. Order the blueberry crunch pancakes.”

His eyes are soft, as well as his voice, when he says this, and I ask, “Why are you suddenly being nice?”

“I’m cutting the shit. Take it while it lasts because I’m not a man who likes to take orders.”

And now, I read him clearly.

With a smile, I give him a sliver of obedience when I say, “I’ll have the blueberry crunch pancakes then.”

After our waitress stops by to take our order and fantasize about riding Declan’s cock, she giggles as she walks away.

“Do you get that a lot?” I ask. “Women feeding your ego as you watch them blush in your presence.”

“You always dissect everything like that?”

“You always avoid questions like that?”

Leaning his forearms on the table, he says, “No more than you do.”

“You realize, unless we’re discussing business, we talk in circles, right?”

“Okay then. No circles. Ask me a question,” he prompts and then takes a sip of his coffee, waiting with curious eyes. Emerald ones rimmed with his dark lashes. I can’t blame our waitress for her reaction. I wonder how many women go home after meeting him to f*ck their fingers or vibrator before their pitiful husbands return from work.

Cleaning my thoughts, I ask the most innocent question I can think of, even though I already know the answer. “Where are you from?”

“That’s your question?” he laughs, and when I glare at him, he swallows it and says, “Edinburgh.”

“Scotland?”

“Do you know of another?”

Smartass.

“I thought you were cutting the shit and being nice,” I say as I lean back and pick up my coffee mug.

“Momentary slip. My turn. How long have you been married?”

“A little over three years.”

“How long have you been together?”

“Four years. And that was two questions,” I lightly nag.

“I’m not good at following rules either,” he says and then continues before giving me a chance to speak. “Sounds like a speedy path to the altar.”

“What can I say? When Bennett wants something, he wastes no time in claiming it.”

When our waitress returns, I watch as she nervously makes eyes with Declan while she serves our food. I laugh and he takes notice, shaking his head.

“See what I mean?” I ask after she walks off.

“Does that bother you?”

“Why would it bother me?” I question and pick up my fork to cut a piece of my pancake.

“Then why even mention it?”

“Circles, Declan. We’re doing it again,” I say and then take a bite of the granola-filled pancake as he watches.

“Okay, no circles. You have any kids?”

“No.”

“Do you want kids?”

“I can’t have kids, so it doesn’t really matter what I want.”

He takes a pause, not expecting that answer, and then asks, “Why can’t you have kids?”

“That’s none of your business,” I tell him and then take another sip of coffee.

“Do you love him?”

Swallowing hard, I clarify, “My husband?”

“Yes.”

He takes a bite of his eggs as I straighten my back and look him dead on. “Your assumption that there could be a possibility of more than one answer is offensive.”

I notice the slight upward turn of the corner of his mouth, and he holds his stare for a beat before saying, “Funny how you chose not to answer that question, but instead, avoid.”

“Of course I love him.”

Lie.

“So he’s it?”

I hesitate, making sure he takes notice, and then respond with a simple, “Yes,” careful to ensure a slight tremble in my voice.