Page 21 of Never Let Me Go
I would have expected something completely different. David shrugs, throwing a wry smile over at me.
“Mom always played it. I guess I picked up on her tastes.”
I nod along, that makes sense. I’m not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
“Why do you like it?” I seize the opportunity of him being so open. Normally it’s only by chance I discover things. For instance, the other night he dropped the tidbit that his favorite movie isSaving Private Ryan. I only know that because he was rolling his eyes hard at the rom com I had on and asked why I didn’t put a real movie on. When I had innocently asked for a suggestion, he suggested that one. He said it was his favorite, and he re-watched it every year.
“It’s nice,” I offer after we both sit quietly, listening to the song. “Is it your favorite?”
It’s an innocent enough question, but David snorts and grins at me.
“No,” he raises his eyebrows. I stare at him impassively until he sighs.
“Do I have to have a favoriteeverything? I don’t know,” he scowls at me. “Superman, by Lazlo Bane.”
I quirk a brow at him. “The theme song toScrubs?”
He grins, leaning back in his chair and surveying me with interest. “I like that you know that. I guess you could say thatScrubsis my favorite TV show.”
Ohh, another personal fact? This is my lucky day. I have to push my luck and see if I can get any more.
“So, is Lazlo Bane your favorite band?”
He slowly shakes his head with a lazy half-smile, pointing a finger at the ceiling.
“Miles Davis Quintet.”
I tip my head to listen to the soft music again. I should have probably guessed that even if his “favorite song” wasn’t a jazz one that his favorite band would be.
We sit in companionable silence for a while until I gather my courage.
“Why did you send Christine for me? You could have called me.”
David glances over at me in surprise, a slight pink tinge on his cheeks. “I didn’t want to presume.”
Oh, presuming means getting Christine to track my phone number and call me. I bite back a smile. I’m pretty sure getting a message or call fromDavid Brooks Westerhavenwouldn’t exactly be putting me out.
“You can call and message me,” I laugh, tapping my fingers on the arm of the chair. Should I give him my phone number, or assume Christine will get it for him? “Was there anything else?”
David studies me for a long moment, slowly shaking his head. “No, you can go.”
I shove out of the chair, heading to the door. Christine is watching me from her desk when I emerge, a tight smile on her face. I wonder what her problem is.
David
Patricia, the catalog model, sits across from me, flicking her hair, drinking her ridiculously expensive cocktails, and batting her lashes at me. After my conversation today with Anica, I have tried to engage Patricia in a conversation about music while we ate our entrees. She has no clue who Miles Davis is and as far as she’s concerned, if it’s not Justin Bieber, the Kid Laroi, or Five Seconds of Summer, it’s not music worth knowing.
Christ, I take a large slug of my whiskey. I hope this date goes better than the one I had two days ago. When I suggested going back to her place afterwards, she threw her drink in my face. I’ve learned my lesson. I won’t mention it until we are out on the street. There’s nothing to throw at me out there.
If Patricia’s foot moves any further up my leg, it’s going to be in my lap, which is a good sign. Maybe she’s finally going to be the one who is fine with not going back to my place. Sadly, it’s wishful thinking.
“My place? Are you fucking kidding me?” she shrieks, slapping me across the face and storming off. I watch her go in shock. You know, I’m really over these fucking dates. Antonio watches her leave with wide eyes, opening the door as I approach him. He better not mention it, or he’s out of a fucking job before I even offer him one. Like he can read my mood, Antonio simply holds the door for me, closing it and climbing into the front seat, smoothly pulling into traffic. Huh. Maybe I should have Christine reach out to him for a job offer this week.
I stare moodily out the window as the town car takes me home. I wonder if Anica is still awake. If she is, I can ask her how much fucking longer she’s going to be here and when she’s going to fuck off back to Chicago so I can have my home and life back. Again, I know it’s not rational to be irritated at her when Uncle Bill laid down this ridiculous rule, but I don’t care right now. I’m one cold shower away from losing it.
Anica is indeed awake when I return. She appears at the bottom of the stairs from the rooftop balcony as I stalk through the living area, and she’s carrying a wine glass and an empty plate. The kitchen is once again showing signs of use, so she clearly cooked dinner and ate upstairs.
“Hi,” she calls absently over to me as I come in, moving to fill the sink so she can wash up her dishes. I have a dishwasher. I’m not sure why she doesn’t use it. I’m still pissed off, so I stride over to the kitchen and slide onto a barstool at the breakfast bar, watching her wash the dishes.