Ten

Never Make Exceptions

By the time we land, I’m so over the shoes. As gorgeous as my pumps are, I can’t wait to kick them off. No matter that I’ve been sitting the entire time; these shoes were not made for pressure-bloated feet. Outside LAX, we hop in a cab to reach our hotel, and I have to muster all my willpower not to kick the stilettos off during the ride and reach for the flats in my suitcase. No pain, no height.

Indira chose a nice hotel in Santa Monica, near the ocean and with a stunning view of the pier. We check in and agree to meet in the lobby in an hour for dinner. The room is cozy if a little nondescript—a typical hotel chain with standardized furniture. But the view is everything.

A quick shower, and it’s already time to get ready for the night. To pack light, I’ve picked out all my outfits in advance. The designated one for tonight is a sheath bandage dress in a shimmering metallic gold-bronze. The bandage’s horizontal stripes and thick fabric are body-sculpting and make sure everything hangs just right.

But the real stars of this outfit are the shoes. As I take them out of their travel bag, I smirk. If Richard liked my pumps, wait until he sees these beauties. Knee-high metallic sandals with eight narrow straps, toes-to-knee, of which I have to individually buckle the last six. Not a quick job, but worth the trouble.

The soles are cushioned enough for me not to need gel inserts. Since the shoes are already such a statement, I keep the makeup light and natural.

In the lobby, I’m rewarded for my efforts with a long stare at my lower legs and two raised brows as I walk down the hall to meet Richard.

I smile. “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself,” Richard says. “Fancy dinner near the beach?”

“Couldn’t think of a better place.”

If May in New York is mild, in California it’s already summer. I don’t have much time to enjoy the warm evening breeze, however, as we hop in a cab right outside the hotel.

Richard gives the driver the name of a restaurant and we zip off into traffic.

“You know why Indira picked a hotel in Santa Monica when the gala is downtown?” he asks.

I suspect it was her idea of a joke. The beach being more romantic than skyscrapers.

I pretend to be clueless. “She said no one comes to LA to sleep downtown.”

Richard doesn’t ask me any other questions, and I’m too on edge to spark a conversation. The protracted silence makes the journey seem even longer. By the time the driver pulls over, we could’ve traveled from New York to Philadelphia for all I know. But I guess LA has a different spread than Manhattan. Everything seems broader here.

The driver kills the engine. “Sorry, but you’ll have to walk from here. The boardwalk is pedestrians-only.”

I step out of the cab, breathing in the sea air. Our destination looks a lot like the pan shots they do of Venice Beach in movies, even if I’m sure we’re in Some-Other-Name Beach. Wooden buildings litter the concrete promenade on one side. On the other, it’s tall palms then sand, and finally the ocean where the last sunlight is sinking below the horizon.

Richard leads the way to… oh, no. No! A steakhouse. Story of my life. Guys love meat, and I’m vegetarian. Maybe we’ll skip the whole why-don’t-you-eat-meat-oh-I-could-never-live-without-bacon drill. I’ll order the one pasta dish on the menu, politely decline Richard’s suggestion of bone-in filet or New York strip, saying I’m not in the mood for a steak, and I might get away with it.

That chance shatters five minutes after we’re seated when a server arrives at our table parading a tray of bloody cuts and starts explaining the various merits of the differently sliced cadavers.

The sight of raw meat makes me slightly nauseous, so I sip some water to stop my stomach from heaving.

Richard notices. “Are you okay?”

“Mm-hmm,” I mutter, staring away from the tray of death. “Could we skip the visual presentation, though?”

The server gives me the I-know-what-you-are-you’ll-order-the-cheap-pasta-and-cut-my-tip-in-half evil eye, but he takes the hint and shuffles away.

Richard blinks. “What’s the matter?”

“I sort of… don’t eat meat.”

“Like ever?”

No point in circling around it. “I’m vegetarian.”

Richard scoffs. “You should’ve said something. We could’ve switched places. I thought vegetarians were supposed to tell you.”

Now I get touchy. “Why? Did you introduce yourself saying, ‘Hi, I’m Richard. I’m carnivorous’?”

“I was talking about the joke.”

“What joke?”

“How do you know if someone is a vegetarian?”

I stare at him blankly.

“Don’t worry, they’ll tell you. And… you aren’t laughing.”

His discomfort is so genuine that I crack a smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll have the pasta. Steakhouses keep it on the menu to save dudes like you from first date fiascos… N-not t-that I think we’re on a date.”

“Imagine that.” Richard chuckles. “I’d be sweating cold right now. So why the meat aversion?”

“Do you really care?”

“Is it a sensitive subject?”

“Not for me, but sometimes people get defensive-aggressive about their right to eat meat.”

“I won’t bite, I promise.”

He meant it as a joke, but the phrase only makes me imagine the touch of Richard’s lips on my neck as his teeth graze my skin. Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. I forcibly pull my degenerate brain away from neck-biting scenarios and back to meat-avoiding diets.

“Well, there’s the animal cruelty, of course,” I say. “The fact that meat is actually bad for our health. And the staggering amount of pollution and water consumption it takes to feed, grow, and slaughter a cow.”

Richard is looking at me with a weird expression, his lips contracted and eyebrows drawn together. I’m not sure if he’s embarrassed, or if he’s trying too hard not to laugh. The latter, I suspect.

He clears his throat before speaking. “Is it just meat or everything coming from animals you don’t eat?”

“I’m vegetarian, not vegan. Otherwise, you’d be totally screwed as I wouldn’t eat a thing in this place. Anyway, I try to steer clear of dairy, but I eat eggs if they come from happy chickens.”

Richard’s lips twitch. “And how do you assess the happiness of chickens?”

“If they’re free-range chickens that eat real grass and are not stuck in a cage all their lives, they’re happy chickens.”

The boss roars with laughter. “I’m sorry,” he says between chuckles. “But before today, the welfare of chickens was a foreign concept.” Still smirking, he adds, “And I don’t mean it in an insensitive way.”

The server arrives with our salads.

Richard takes a forkful of his bacon-covered lettuce wedge and asks, “So you’re never having a bite of meat ever again in your life?”

I take a second before answering. Never eat meat is part of the list, but so is never make exceptions. I’ll make the exception to stay a vegetarian and cross out the two.

“Nope.”

After the potentially rocky introduction, the conversation flows between us for the entire evening. Our food arrives—T-bone for him, mushroom fettuccini for me—and we eat, drink wine, and chat happily.

“So how was it growing up in England?” I ask at one point. “Did you do all that cool Harry Potter stuff?”

Richard stops cutting his steak. “You mean battling the most powerful dark wizard of all time and destroying his soul bit by bit?”

“No.” I giggle. “I meant going to a fancy boarding school in a castle somewhere with houses and everything…”

“Ah, that part. Then, yes. I told you boarding school is where I met Chris.”

“Was it as cool as Hogwarts?”

“If you can compare math to charms and chemistry to potions…”

“I guess being away from your parents was a plus too.”

The boss frowns. “Not really. Okay, being away from home was an adventure at thirteen, but I missed the old folks.”

“I would’ve given everything to leave home at thirteen instead of having to wait five extra years.”

“Why?”

I hesitate. “Well, my parents’ marriage wasn’t exactly a happy one…”

“They argued a lot?”

“No, more… politely ignored each other. And they were so strict with me. Don’t do this, don’t do that…”

Richard smiles. “Now I’m beginning to understand that list of yours.”

I drop my fork and cover my face with both hands. “I still can’t believe you read the list. I try to forget about it.”

“Besides getting drunk and arrested, how’s the conquering going?”

Liquid courage, help me. In one gulp, I finish the wine in my glass and Richard pours me another one. “I bet I could still win at Never Have I Ever.”

He throws me an interrogative stare.

“The drinking game?”

The boss shakes his head. “How does it work?”

“All participants take turns in saying something embarrassing or daring they’ve never done. All others who’ve done that particular deed have to drink a shot. I never took a shot.”

“So your new life’s goal is to get wasted at a drinking game?”

No, apparently it’s digging my own conversational grave. “Of course not. I’m just saying that if I were to play, I’d still end up sober because I’ve done nothing that interesting.”

“Besides getting arrested.”

“I wouldn’t call that interesting.” I need to change the subject, fast. “But enough about me, tell me more about England.”

That gets him started on boarding school, his college years, and eventually the move to the big city. Richard is in the middle of telling me how much he loves London when I ask the wrong question.

“So why base Inceptor in New York?”

The boss shakes his head and looks far away into another life, mouth tense, lips pressed in a sad line. The easy-going atmosphere drains away from the table, only to be replaced by a thick emotional wall between us.

Richard stares at his plate and takes a sip of wine. “Something happened, and I needed a change of scenery.”

He doesn’t look at me as he speaks, and I don’t know what to do. I’d like to ask more, but I sense it’d be an awful idea. Especially with him sending me mind-your-own-business vibes so strong I’m tempted to run to the restroom and hide there. Hello, brain? Please provide something to say. But I was never good at improvising.

Richard proves better. “How was your pasta?” he asks.

“The fettuccini were delicious,” I say, glad he came up with a conversational decoy.

“Good.”

There’s a weird look in his eyes. Surely, fettuccini—tasty as they are—can’t make the boss this emotional.

“What?” I ask.

“I’m just glad you don’t eat burgers.”

That’s a weird thing to say. “Why?”

He shakes his head again in that resigned way. “It’s a long story.”

Uh-oh. Was the ex a meat-eater? A burgers-lover? She must’ve been.

“It’s getting late,” Richard says, shifting the topic completely. “We should probably ask for the bill.”

No sooner has the word bill left Richard’s lips that our server magically appears next to us. Is the table bugged?

“Would you care to have that boxed, sir?”

Richard and I reply at the same time.

Him: “No, thank you.”

Me: “Yes, please.”

The server stares at us, confused.

“We’ll take everything,” I say. “Please box the bread as well.”

The server boxes our leftovers and hands me the bag. “Can I get you anything else? Coffee? A dessert?”

“Just the bill,” Richard says.

The server takes it out of his apron and drops it on the table. “Please take as much time as you like.”

Richard slips some dollar bills into the leather folder and gets up. I follow.

“I thought you didn’t eat meat,” he says, jerking his chin toward the doggy bag in my hands.

“No, but since the poor beast has already been slaughtered, I’d like to put the sacrifice to good use.”

Near the low wall separating the beach from the promenade, a homeless man is sitting on the floor with his back against the barrier. Balancing my tight dress and spiky heels, I crouch in front of him, feeling Richard’s gaze burning a hole in my back.

I give the food to the poor man and try to ignore the filth on his hands as he shakes mine to thank me. Trying not to fall on my butt, I straighten up and turn around ready to be taunted.

“Go ahead,” I say. “Call me goody two-shoes all you like.” The remark has stayed with me since he bailed me out of prison.

Richard gives me a long stare. “I wasn’t going to.”

Something in his gaze makes it impossible for me to keep eye contact, so I walk away.

Richard falls into step next to me. “That was very generous. Such a simple way to help, but the thought never even crossed my mind.”

I look at him, searching his eyes for any trace of mockery. There’s none.

“These people… it’s so easy for them to disappear. We become so used to seeing them on the streets that they become invisible, but they each have their stories. You’d be surprised by some.”

“You know many homeless?”

“In a way. I volunteer at my neighborhood canteen for the poor once a month. When I have time, I sit down for a chat.”

“That’s remarkable. You’re putting me to shame.”

“A day a month is nothing. I bet you did more good with your donation for tomorrow night.”

“Maybe, but that’s just money. Devoting your time to a good cause is different. Come here, Walker”—Richard slips an arm around my shoulders—“let’s go get some sleep.”

Together? I don’t think he meant it like that. Pity. Anyway, it’s the first time he’s called me by my last name—I like it—or touched me beyond a handshake. I’m not sure if it’s a gesture of camaraderie or… something else. I let my shoulders enjoy the weight of Richard’s arm and try not to read too much into it.

At the hotel, we stand awkwardly in front of my door to say good night. I-had-two-glasses-of-wine me wants to haul Richard into my room and onto the bed by the collar of his shirt, but it would probably require I-had-two-bottles-of-wine me to do something like that. So I politely say good night and agree to meet him in the morning for a day of sightseeing. I slip under the covers, alone, feeling a disproportionate euphoria at the idea of touring LA with the boss.

Indira was right; I’m in so much trouble.