Page 66 of Brutal
I realize I don’t even know if Drake is into sports. He might bet on them, but he’s never watched a game that I’ve been aware of.
He’s still waffling about whether to abandon me or not when I notice something in the mirror. I frown as the woman just inside the mirror frame holds up her phone.
I twist my head—and the stylist makes a sound of complaint—and point at her. “What’s she doing?”
Drake follows my gaze, then he moves to stand in front of me, his back to the woman. “Must’ve recognized me,” he grumbles. “Fuck.”
“Are you a celebrity?” the stylist blurts out, only to look chagrined when he scowls at her.
“No,” he hedges.
“But most people know who he is anyway,” I say, frowning.
The woman with the phone meets my gaze, but she doesn’t stop snapping pictures. Other people are starting to notice, and they crane their heads to see what caught the woman’s interest.
I tense at all the extra attention. I don’t want people seeing me here with Drake. I don’t want the scrutiny or the eventual rumors or whatever it is people do with the girlfriends of the rich and desirable.
“I’ll take care of it,” Drake says, and while his expression stays thunderous for a moment, I can see it as he forces that back. The darkness recedes, and in its place is the charming man who’s used to being in front of cameras.
Still, he keeps his body between mine and the cameras as much as he can.
I’m not sure if he’s doing it to protect me or himself, and this isn’t the place to ask.
“Hey,” he says to the closest woman. “You caught me on my day off. You can take a few photos of me, but I’m not dressed for the occasion.”
“Oh, that’s fine,” the woman says, blushing hard. “Drake Brutal! I didn’t know you liked to visit Mer d’Or. Are you looking for a tour guide? I know my way around here.”
“I love to travel, even just for day trips,” he says, shoving his hands into his pockets. “It’s nice to get away from the grind sometimes.”
“Oh, are you on vacation?” she asks, seeming emboldened by the casual interaction.
I can’t see his expression, but I’m sure he’s having a hard time keeping it pleasant. “You caught me,” he tells her with a laugh.
I roll my eyes, but there’s nothing else I can do right now. I settle back into my chair. “You can continue,” I tell the stylist.
It’d be a little funny if Drake abandoned me now for another woman. I’d be free of him—and also stuck with the huge hair bill. It might be worth it anyway. The other woman is welcome to Drake.
Except my stomach churns, and I think about Drake’s puppy eyes and his eagerness and the fact that he was actually willing to be bored for a few hours while I got my hair done in my dream style.
None of that cancels out the fact that he bought me.
Being nice a few times because he got a little bit attached to me doesn’t counteract the hell he’s put me through.
He split my feet open!
And yet.
I close my eyes and force myself to concentrate on the hair stylist. She’s almost done applying the last layer of blue dye.
Drake is chit-chatting with the woman, and it isn’t until I hear “my girl” that my attention returns to their conversation.
“…the best hairstyle,” he’s saying. “You can’t take pictures of her, though. She’s all mine.”
There’s a beat, seemingly where the woman is absorbing his words, then I hear her say, “Oh.”
It’s a very, very disappointed sound.
I’m not sure how I feel about the fact that he’s claiming me publicly — that he’s turning down someone else who’s more than eager to be around him, someone who wouldn’t psychoanalyze him or annoy him.