Beautifully Cruel

7

A little shiver goes through me. It’s my body’s acknowledgment that though this man I’m sitting across from is wearing a couture suit and a watch that could probably pay off my student loans, he’s anything but civilized.

My pulse flying, I whisper, “Why are you, then?”

For a moment, he’s all heat and hunger, so focused on me I think he’s about to lunge across the table and eat me whole. Nothing else in the world exists, just me and him and this crackle of attraction electrifying the air between us. This weird little bubble of wanting and need.

He opens his mouth to say something…but stops.

His full lips tighten. His mouth takes on a ruthless slant. The warmth leaches from his eyes until he’s staring back at me in flinty coldness. It’s like watching a door slam closed.

He stands abruptly and stares down at me, his gaze flat and dark. “It was a pleasure to meet you,

Tru. I hope you have a nice life.”

Understanding that’s a goodbye, I sag back against the booth and stare up at him for a moment in disbelief. Then I huff out a small laugh. “You, too. It’s been real.”

He takes one long, final look at my face before he turns around and walks out.

4

TRU

s I rise from the table and make my way toward the counter, Diego watches from the kitchen with a frown. Before I get even halfway across the dining room, Carla rushes over. The Spanish Inquisition begins.

“Holy s**t, girl, what did he say to you? What did you say to him? What’s his name? Did he tell you why he’s been coming here so long without asking you out? Did you get his number? Did he get

your number? Did you make a date? Why the hell aren’t you saying anything, I’m dying here!” I snort. “Oh, is it my turn to talk now?”

Following me as I walk, Carla pinches my arm. “Quit being ugly. What did he say?”

Back at the counter, I shove the coffee pot into the machine and wipe my hands on my apron. “Cliff Notes version—he said hi, I shouldn’t be here, do you have a boyfriend, take down your hair, it’s been nice knowing you, so long. Then he left.”

She groans in exasperation. “Oh no. You talked about your family again, didn’t you?”

“Not even a little bit. He ran away all on his own.”

From the kitchen, Diego calls out, “Good riddance. That guy’s bad news.”

We ignore him. Looking puzzled, Carla says, “Wait—he asked you to take down your hair?” “Yeah.”

She eyeballs me. “And you didn’t?”

“Of course not. I don’t even know the man’s name.”

“Pfft. I don’t know his name, either, but I’d still take down my hair for him if he asked. I’d take off all my clothes and lie down spread eagle in the middle of the dining room floor if he asked.”

“Charming.”

She shrugs. “Big Daddy’s been slacking in the bedroom department, if you know what I mean. My lady garden hasn’t been fertilized in forever.”

Big Daddy is Carla’s nickname for her husband, Dave. I’m not sure if it’s a real daddy s*x fetish thing, or if she just enjoys watching people squirm when she says it, but I am sure I’m not going to ask.

They’re an attractive couple, but I don’t need to be haunted by details of my friends’ s*x lives. My imagination is vivid enough without visual aids. My best friend in high school once mentioned her mother was a screamer, and I could never look the woman in the eye again.

I start a fresh pot of coffee, actively ignoring Carla as she launches into a gripe fest about her s****l dry spell. Eventually, she gets bored with my inattention and wanders away to help the elderly couple who drifted in while she was busy cross-examining me about the wolf.

“Chica.”

I look up to find Diego standing on the other side of the counter. He’s leaning with his arms on the stainless steel shelf where he puts the plates when they’re ready to be served, looking at me with concern in his eyes.

“I don’t like that guy.”

“Carla’s husband?”

“No, knucklehead. That vato in black who just left.”

I’m about to tell him he doesn’t have to worry about it because we’ll never be seeing him again, but curiosity gets the best of me. “Why not?”

He shakes his head. “I know guys like him.”

I wait, but he doesn’t add more. “I see. Thanks for that detailed explanation. That helps a lot.” Sighing, he pushes off the shelf. Then he folds his arms over his chest and gives me a sour look.

“Fine. You wanna know? I’ll tell you. I wasn’t always this good boy you see now. In the barrio where I grew up, they called me a matón. El pandillero.”

I say drily, “How fascinating. If I spoke Spanish, I’m sure I’d be very impressed.”

Diego’s gaze grows serious. “It means thug, Tru. Troublemaker.”

Thug. I think of the tattoos on the wolf’s knuckles, and that shiver of recognition passes through me again.

But that’s silly. Tattoos being something only for thugs is an outdated prejudice. These days, it’s more likely a guy with lots of tats is a chef at a trendy restaurant who makes a heavenly short rib poutine served with a side of truffle mac and cheese.

Also, I don’t see a single tattoo on Diego, who just claimed to be a former thug himself.

“You haven’t ever spoken a word to the man, Diego. It’s not fair to make a judgment on his character.”

“Fair’s got nothing to do with it. A shark can always smell another shark, no matter how far apart they’re swimming in the ocean.”