Anger mottled his cratered face and he made to take another step toward me when a large, masculine hand wrapped around his bicep and shoved him none-too-gently back.
My gaze flew up to the taller man, my fury now mixed with suspicion and confusion. It was my original song stalker from last week. Except this time, he was close enough for me to see the genuine anger blazing from his dark eyes as he stared down the shorter, older man.
“I think she told you to piss off.”
To my increasing annoyance the older man, who had not been intimidated by me in the least, seemed to shrink under my rescuer’s gaze. “My mistake,” he muttered and hurried away with his bloody umbrella up like a shield.
Little cowardly shit.
“What do you want?” I snapped at my unwanted rescuer.
He was staring after the sexual predator and slowly turned to look at me. Although his jaw was still hard, those dark eyes softened and for a moment, I was held suspended under them. Everything about him seemed carved in stone. Implacable. Cold. But his eyes were a warm, dark brown rimmed with thick, long black lashes. They were smoldering, bedroom eyes, and completely at odds with the rest of him.
Then he spoke, breaking whatever spell his eyes momentarily had me under. “You’re an idiot.”
The words were harsh with irritation.
“Gee, thanks,” I said, the words suspiciously American. I turned away from him to collect my large backpack.
“You keep this up, you’re going to get hurt.”
“Is that a threat?”
“No.”
“Look, I’ve got to go.” I turned and tried to brush by him.
This time it was my arm he took hold of.
Renewed anger and fear lashed through me and I glowered up at him, ignoring the heat of his closeness, the smell of cologne and shower gel. He smelled clean, he felt warm. All the things I wasn’t. I envied him and hated him in equal measure, forgetting for a moment that I’d put myself in this position.
Without me having to say a word, he let go, holding his hands up, palms out. “I’ve already said I don’t want sex from you. I just want to talk. Let me buy you dinner.”
As if on cue, my stomach grumbled and I could feel my defenses crumbling. It was go to bed drenched through and hungry or merely drenched through. Tempting . . .
“They have hand dryers in the bathrooms of restaurants. You could dry off some of your things.” He gestured to my drowned rat–like state.
Dammit.
I knew this guy wanted something from me, I just didn’t know what.
However, the priority right now was getting fed and dry.
It was five o’ clock in the evening, it was Saturday, and the busy streets of the city center would not only soon fill up with club-goers but also the accompanying police. There was nothing this guy could do to me here.
“Fine. TGI Fridays.” They served salads and actual meat, not the processed shit I’d been eating lately.
Thankfully, he didn’t offer me a smug, triumphant smile. He gestured toward the restaurant up the street as if to say, “After you.”
I walked, far too aware of him as he fell into step beside me. I shot him a look out of the corner of my eye. He must not have gotten caught in the rain because his clothes were dry, so where had he been? I hadn’t seen him in the crowd as I sang.
This was weird.
“Can I carry anything for you?” he offered.
“No thanks.” Nobody touched my stuff but me.
He didn’t reply but rather strode ahead to open the restaurant door for me. The gesture almost caused me to stumble up the steps. It had been a while since anyone had held a door for me.
I refused to acknowledge the little tingle of warmth it gave me, just as I refused to acknowledge that I missed anything about the time in my life when I wasn’t one of the invisible.
The hostess at the podium raised an eyebrow but was immediately distracted from whatever she was going to say as the stranger pulled up beside me.
I realized I didn’t even know his name.
“Table for two,” he said.
She smiled. “Do you have a reservation?”
“No.”
I snorted at his abrupt manner. What a charmer.
The hostesses smile dimmed a little. “Well, you’re in luck. We have a table. Right this way.” She grabbed a couple of menus and led us through the busy restaurant. I was assaulted by smells: burgers, barbecue sauce, ketchup, beer, all of it clenching my stomach with need. And noise: loud chatter, laughter, clinking of cutlery, and clash of dinnerware that made me flinch, the sounds making me feel slightly claustrophobic. I was used to crowds but out in the open air. It felt like forever since I’d sat in an enclosed space with so many other people.
She took us toward a tiny table where there would be no room to put my stuff. The stranger touched her shoulder to halt her.
“The booth.” He gestured to an empty booth behind us that would take all my stuff and the two of us.
“That’s reserved.”
He reached toward her and I caught the glimmer of money in his hands as he discreetly tucked it between her fingers on top of the menus she held. She glanced down at it and then gave him a wide grin. “Right this way.”
I slid into the booth first, putting my guitar on the floor at my feet and pushing the backpack toward the end of the booth. In hindsight, I should’ve slid in after my backpack, using it as a barrier between me and the stranger, a thought that occurred to me too late as he moved in beside me.
As it did among the small crowds that stopped to listen to me sing, his presence seemed to swell over the table, and I felt more than a niggle of annoyance as he sat close enough for me to feel his body heat.
I tried to shift inconspicuously away from him as he looked at the menu but was caught when he shot me a quizzical look out of his periphery.
Not wanting him to think he unnerved me, I turned to my own menu and immediately felt almost faint with hunger. I wanted to order everything. EVERYTHING.
Silence descended over us as I was lost in the heaven of choice.
“Don’t order too much,” the stranger suddenly said. “You’re too thin and I imagine not used to eating large portions. You might make yourself ill.”
Disappointment filled me because he was annoyingly right, so when the waiter came to take our order, I only asked for sautéed sea bass and not the wings, loaded skins, nachos, and ribs I wanted as well. Saliva was building up in my mouth.
“Why don’t you go dry off while we wait?” the stranger said once the waiter left.
I immediately glanced down at my expensive guitar.
He grunted. “I’m not a thief.”
“Then what are you? What do you want?”
“Get dry first.”
I nodded, but when I got out of the booth, I swung on my backpack and grabbed hold of my guitar case. I trusted no one. He got the point, seeming almost amused by it. Now hungrier than ever, more irritated than ever, I almost snarled at him as I passed by the booth to make my way to the restrooms.
Now that the panic of going hungry wasn’t messing with my mind, I remembered I had dry clothes in my backpack from the laundromat this morning. It was amazing what fear could do to you because in that moment, I’d completely forgotten about them. Relief flooded me, and I grabbed a bunch of paper towels before I ducked into a stall to change. Once I’d stripped down, I dried off with the paper towels. I luxuriated in the feel of dry underwear and clothes as I pulled on fresh pants, jeans, socks, T-shirt, and hoodie. I folded up my wet clothes and raincoat, refusing to put them back in the backpack because they’d only get the rest of my socks, underwear, and books wet. Feeling naked without it, I tucked my fedora into my backpack.
When I returned to the main restaurant, I put the folded-up wet clothes beside me on the bench, my underwear tucked out of sight.
I couldn’t meet the stranger’s eyes as I reached for the Diet Coke I’d asked for, savoring the taste. On tour, I’d needed lots of energy so I’d eaten well and drank plenty of water. Soda was a treat at the best of times. But I hadn’t had a Diet Coke in months, and it tasted great.
“Excuse me,” my companion’s voice jolted my gaze upward and I saw him wave down a passing waitress. “Do you have a bag?”