For Papa, a beer is his go-to. Sawyer orders a highball, though he seems uncertain about it. White orders two lemon sours, shooting me a sly smile as he does. I hesitate, uncertain if this is a gift for me or if he just really enjoys drinking. I sip my cherry cola nervously.
The men talk amongst each other, sometimes about me. Despite numerous attempts to incorporate me into the conversation, I keep quiet. I know it's rude, but I find myself sorting through various apps on my phone, unable to commit to anything seriously as I half listened in on them.
When the drinks arrive, White slides the extra Lemon Sour to me, smiling intently. Though I try to decline, he insists.
"Th-thanks, Mr. White," I smile politely at him.
Alarm bells start ringing in my head as his fingers graze mine on the stem of the glass, he takes the opportunity to linger there, my heart racing as he does. I'm well aware of the fact that he's trying to get to me, and yet I allow myself to react like this for some reason.
"You can call me Ledge, sweetheart." His tone is so sickeningly sweet, his smile toothy as a shark.
All I can do is stare in surprise as an initial reaction. He begins to gently wrap my fingers around the stem of the glass and, as he does, I feel my heart pound in my chest. I leap back in surprise as I come to my senses– CLANK! Alcohol spills everywhere on the table, onto the napkins and Papa's phone, off the sides and onto my dress.
"Ah! Shit, sorry–!" I gasp at the havoc I've wrecked.Tears swell in the corners of my eyes and I hurriedly slide myself out of the booth, dashing for my coat and things.
"Oh, calm down. Calm down, you're fine. It's fine," Papa exclaims.
His words fall on deaf ears as I slip my coat on and dash out the door.
When I get to my car I fumble with the keys and collapse into the driver seat. I can't handle all of this. I'm not a people person. I'm not a social butterfly or a cold stoic. I've been raised for this job and yet I'm a failure in every aspect. My phone buzzes several times and I ignore it. All I can do is cry in my car like an idiot.
"What are you doing in there?" A tapping came upon my window.
Quickly I rub my eyes, looking up with messy make-up and a runny nose at the man who put me into this situation to begin with. Stupid smug bastard. If he didn't exist, I wouldn't have to. I roll down the window, glaring up at the flatly lit figure before me. Even in a parking garage he's vibrant, like a walking marquee.
"Come on, don't cry," he reached in to cup my cheek in his hand, leaning down to rest his arms on the car window. "Look at you, so pretty in white," he smiles, bringing his voice down to a low whisper.
I smack his hand away. "Fuck off."
"What are you so mad for?" He laughs, "Is it the shoe thing? How was I supposed to know you would end up being so cute up close? All I ever see is a crying little lump on the top of the roof every so often." He glides his hand over the hood of the car as he waltzes over to the other side, popping open the door and inviting himself in. "I imagined you driving something nicer," he comments casually.
I stare in surprise at his immense audacity. Aggressively I wipe my face of tears and snot before I correct him. "It's a nice car. It's the same one from Detective Dorset! It's the same car, not even the same model, but the same exact one they show in the movie," I exclaim in frustration. "You should be grateful to even touch it!"
"Haven't seen it."
"It's a classic!"
"Never heard of it."
"That says a lot about you, then!"
"Let's watch it together," he adds.
"No!" I nearly scream at him.
He turns up the radio, evidently checking to see what I've been listening to. "You love everything old, damn," he laughs as the radio springs to life with swing music from nearly a hundred years ago. "How old are you?"
I hesitate, then ask outright: "Do you like me or something?" My cheeks burn red, but I'm not the type of person to waste time. "Are you the type to be mean to girls you like?"
He pauses briefly to think on his response, or perhaps to analyze me. Perhaps both. I can see the thoughts parsing in his head as stare into those deep blue eyes. It's undoubtable that the reason he's so successful is due to seakind's innate nostalgia for the abyss we came from.
"Have I been mean to you tonight? You can't bring up the shoe incident, you already had your revenge for that," he smiles politely. The air has shifted, but I can't quite identify how exactly.
"Y-you've been… weirdly touchy! And I daresay suggestive!"
He leans in again, this time far too close for comfort. I feel a heat rise in my chest, my body burning as this angel from the ocean drew so close I could feel his breath.
"You," he began, "really aren't fit for this line of work, are you?" He exhales.
When he's up close like this I'm able to smell tobacco on his breath. I can't take my eyes off him, despite his bitter smell. Wait, is he insulting me right now?
"Do you," he continues, "even want this life?"
I shake my head instinctively. Just because I was raised for this doesn't mean I want it. That being said, I can't imagine my life any other way. Before he can say anything else, I change my answer to a nod.
His hands caress my cheeks, my head spinning from this newfound intoxication. I've never been this close to a man before. I've never touched a man before, never kissed, never… Wait– Don't think about that right now!
He smiles down at me, his forehead pressed to mine.
"Let's make a deal."