Chicago
Kevin Hartley stared at the woman seated across the table from him, knowing his face was twisted in anger and embarrassment. This is exactly why I don’t do relationships, he thought, watching as she dissolved into crocodile tears. So much for hoping a public setting would keep her from making a scene. Mimi had never met a tantrum she was afraid to throw, and this one would likely be epic. Especially since his words meant she wasn’t going to get what she wanted.
“What do you mean, I can’t come with you?” Her voice rose in pitch, capturing the attention of everyone at the nearby tables. “You’re going to Paris, for God’s sake.” This was a near shriek, and he closed his eyes.
Maybe if I pretend hard enough, she won’t be there when I open them, he thought, seeing a vision of red slippers for a moment. The private joke caught him off guard, and he made the mistake of snickering. He only allowed a single snort to escape, then clamped down on his humor. It was only one, and it was quiet, but she caught it. Of course, she did.
“Why are you laughing at me?” She had moved past shrieking and was now well into wailing territory, and he waited, eyes closed, confident the restaurant’s manager would be the next voice he heard.
“Madame.” The smooth voice came as if on cue. Bingo. “Is there something wrong?” With a sick feeling in his gut, he knew that when he opened his eyes, everyone would be looking at him. Because, of course, it had to be the big, mean man’s fault the precious, pretty lady was crying. It couldn’t be her own selfishness driving the noise levels. Surely, that could only be the product of betrayal from the male at the table.
Okay, he thought, time to try to contain the toxic spill. Save the chefs and children first. He was aware his internal dialog wasn’t providing the most enthusiastic pep talk he could have hoped for, but honestly, it was the best he could muster. Mimi’s posturing frustrated him to no end, and he desperately wanted to maintain his cool, because his good news didn’t deserve to be polluted with aggravation.
She hadn’t always been this abrasive. He could remember a time only a year ago when they would not have been seated across the table from each other, but would have been pressed tightly side-by-side. During their meal, it would have been a toss-up to decide whose hand would disappear underneath the tablecloth first, touching and teasing the other to a quiet orgasm, no one the wiser.
Her small hand, working at the fastenings of his pants with a sure touch. Then his breath would catch at the feel of her soft fingertips sliding down the planes of his stomach and into his briefs, the backs of her fingers trailing up the length of his already hard cock. Moving only her hand and wrist, jacking him to completion, a napkin strategically placed to contain the evidence of her mastery of his desire. The struggle to keep his breathing even, to answer the waiter’s questions, to remain silent instead of voicing his pleasure.
“Mimi, please, don’t cause a scene,” he muttered, opening his eyes to see not only the manager but also the maître d’hôtel and their waiter all clustered near her chair, granting her their support. Obviously ain’t no bros before hos in this establishment. He snickered again at the incongruous thought of Mimi being a ho. No, she would never stoop to that. Now, a high-priced escort? Sure, she would contemplate that if it brought her enough money. Or a trip to Paris.
“Don’t make a scene? Kevin, please.” She swept her hand out, knuckles smacking the poor waiter right in the Johnson. Kevin winced as the man bent double, sucked in a breath, and then quietly, tastefully turned green. No other way to do it in this kind of joint, he thought, but tasteful teabagging is a skill I do not want the chance to develop. Mimi, oblivious, churned on. “You tell me you’re leaving me and I’m not supposed to make a scene?”
“Slight exaggeration, don’t you think, Mims? I can’t be leaving you if we’re not a couple, and if I remember correctly, we haven’t been a couple since you dumped me six months ago. On my twenty-third birthday.” With some validation, he noted the men moving slightly away from her, but then snorted again when he realized he wasn’t sure if it was in support of him, or because she was again throwing her arms around. “You only asked me to lunch—” He glared around at the occupants of the nearby tables. Yeah, she asked me to lunch, and then I get this crap when I give in and agree to show. Finishing his thought, he said, “—because you heard I was accepted into the program.”
“Le Cordon Bleu,” she breathed, and he nodded, pleased when all three men turned to look at him. Less pleased when he recognized the distinct looks of surprise on each face. Yeah, that’s right, this giant oaf got into the most prestigious cooking school in the world. He knew they saw his size more than who he really was. “Paris,” she continued, emphasizing the word reverently, and that right there was the reason for the tantrum today.
“Yes, to both,” he said. “And no, you won’t be going with me. I’m astonished you’d even ask.” Pushing back from the table, he motioned to the waiter. “You have my card on file, please place whatever charge there is from today.” He gestured to the still-empty table, devoid of anything except their still-unfilled water glasses. “Tip yourself, but don’t go big, I’m a student, remember?”
“Surely you aren’t simply going to leave me sitting here, are you?” She actually asked this question. He could not have begged her for a more deadpan delivery of what he considered the best straight line in the world.
“Yes, I’m leaving you here. And, please, don’t call me Shirley,” he said, turning and walking out of the restaurant and onto the busy Chicago sidewalk. With a glance, he took in the building across the street; modern in design, it was all glass and chrome, and several stories tall. The name on the building, Mason Corporation, etched in the granite over the glass doors.
There was a roaring sound that seemed to come from right on top of him; startled, he jumped backwards as nine or ten motorcycles rode up the street. One column of the bikes close enough to the sidewalk he could have reached out and touched the riders’ shoulders as they passed. With envious eyes, he watched them moving along, going to the next intersection and turning left, quickly pulling out of sight. That was something he had always wanted to do, learn to ride a bike. If I do well enough in Paris, he thought, that can be my reward. I’ll buy myself a bike and join a gang. He snickered again, but thankfully, this time, Mimi wasn’t around to hear him.