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NIK REMINDED ME OF Darren, one of my many dating disasters. I don’t suppose it was fair to make that comparison. Nik had never done anything wrong to me. It was just that devilish, carefree smile, the sexy bedroom eyes, and the fact he didn’t have a real job.
Darren was a friend of a friend, and she—the friend—thought we’d be perfect together. I reluctantly agreed to a date after said friend badgered me half to death. Darren picked me up in his beat-up 1996 Ford Ranger that stank of gas and had springs poking me through the seat. By the time we got to the restaurant, I was sick from the fumes, and I had a bruise on my backside the size of a small country.
The restaurant was in a low-rent neighborhood with seriously shady characters wandering the streets, but Darren ushered me past them without a second glance. Inside, we were seated at a table in the middle of the restaurant. The plastic tablecloth was red-and-white checked, and the fake flowers in the center needed a good dusting. The food was decent, and I started to relax and enjoy myself. At least until the accordion player arrived.
The rotund man had about three strands of hair on his head and an enormous black moustache. The minute he saw us, he made a beeline for our table, looming over me while he struck up a chord. He played with a flourish and, worse, sang along to Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You.” Next thing I knew, Darren had joined in. It was like Karaoke from Hell. I stared at my plate, willing our singing waiter to leave. Quickly.
After he left I could finally hear myself think, but I couldn’t think of a thing to talk about. I was too embarrassed. Darren just grinned at me, preening at the anemic applause from the other patrons.
“You know,” he said, “I thought about pursuing music as a career. I really could have been a big star, I think. But I like something with a bit more edge to it. I like a real challenge.”
“Really?” I couldn’t imagine what could be more challenging than trying to make it in the music industry. “What do you do?”
“I play online poker.”
Was that synonymous with “gambling addict?” Because that didn’t sound great. “That’s your only job?”
“Yes.”
“Is there money in that?”
“Oh, there can be,” he assured me. “I’ve met guys online who make thousands a day.”
And I had a bridge in Arizona to sell. “Well, that’s... interesting. I take it you’re not making thousands a day.”
“Not yet. But give it time.” He seemed smugly confident.
At some point I excused myself to use the restroom. When I came back, he completely ignored me. He was too busy chatting up the girls at the next table, bragging about his poker playing, awesome voice, and various semi-famous acquaintances (who I’d never heard of). After several minutes I was getting sympathetic looks from the girls. I wasn’t sure if that pissed me off more than getting ignored by my date or not. I waved over the waiter (not the singing one) and asked for the check.
Darren made a big deal over giving the waiter his credit card, making sure everyone saw it was a gold card. “I got this, babe,” he said loudly, gaze sliding toward the girls at the next table. “I know how to treat a woman right.”
I guess if treating a girl right meant ignoring her, embarrassing her, and flirting with other women in front of her, then yeah. He was a star.
The waiter came back with an apologetic look. “Sir, I’m sorry, but your card has been declined.” He handed the well-worn plastic to Darren, who shrugged nonchalantly.
“Guess my latest winnings haven’t come in. Sometimes it takes a while. Babe, will you get it?”
I ground my teeth and dug in my purse while I calculated my portion of the bill in my head. I handed the waiter a twenty. “This should be enough to cover my half and a tip.” I stood up, gathering my purse and jacket.
Darren frowned. “What about the rest? Somebody’s got to pay that.”
I shot him a deadly look. “Guess you’ll have to wash dishes.”
Then I strode out the door and down the street past the dodgy characters. It took me two hours to get home on the bus, but I’d rather ride home with smelly drunk people on public transit than spend one more minute with that loser. I never did find out if he had to wash dishes.