“Jesus, Mom. You know what? You’re right. Let’s wait. Yes, we’ll wait and announce it when Imogen is showing and then you’ll really have a scandal on your hands. Listen, we’re only doing this for you because we don’t want to compromise your career. If it were up to us, we’d wait until school was done and the baby was born, then wed in London at the church Imogen grew up in.”
“Do you expect me to be grateful?” Abri whisper-yelled, startling Imogen. “God, this is Ian all over again.”
“Abri,” Henrik said, “enough.”
“It’s,” she began, but Henrik silenced her with a hand on hers.
“I said, enough, Abri.”
Abri looked appropriately chagrined and it made me have a little more respect for Henrik. He wasn’t quite the easy pushover I’d first thought he was. The table got quiet once more when the waiter brought our drinks and took our entree orders.
The meals had arrived and still not a word had been spoken. Surprisingly, none of us were that hungry and we all pushed our food around our plates.
I cleared my throat, inciting the potential ire of Abri, but I didn’t care. “My father’s company owns an island,” I announced to the table. “I can offer you discretion.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Long Street in Cape Town was busier than the French Quarter at Mardi Gras. The street seemed littered with people, a sea of heads donning every inch. Cape Town reminded me so much of America it was scary. The only real difference were the accents and occasionally someone would throw out a vibe that was typically Afrikan but other than that, if I’d captured the scene when I’d first arrived and pitted it next to a picture of Fat Tuesday, NOLA style, you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. Even the Long Street architecture was reminiscent of New Orleans.
I was unexpectedly hit with a wave of homesickness in the moment and sidled closer to Ian as we meandered our way through the crowds. I didn’t know how you could miss a place that utterly defined a horrific life but there you had it. I was overwhelmed with a need to sleep in my bed, amongst my down pillows and Frette sheets. To have Margarite bring me my breakfast in bed. To have Katy, Peter and Gillian over for massage, hair, nails and makeup.
“Do you miss Mandisa?” Ian asked me, interrupting my thoughts.
“What?” I asked, shame heating my chest.
“You looked sad for a minute there. Do you miss her?”
I thought about the baby back at Masego and felt a crushing desire to hold her. Home, comfort, quickly seeped from my conscious and my mind made a beeline toward Mandisa.
“I miss her like mad. She’s my miniature sun.”
Ian wrapped his arm around my shoulder and kissed my neck.
“Stay within these arms all night?”
“You couldn’t pry me away.”
“The street can get a little wild though. Hold tight.”
“That really won’t be a issue,” I toyed.
Ian ushered me like a bodyguard down the street until we arrived at the entrance of a building labeled with an imposing vertical sign that read Goes the Boom.
“This is where my old friends and I would go on Saturday nights. This was pure, unadulterated fun for me. I loved to dance.”
I arched a teasing smiled his direction and wrapped both my hands around the back of his neck. “I have a feeling I’m in for lots of surprises tonight.”
Ian twisted his hands through the hair at the top of my head and stayed them there. “Prepare yourself, Price, ‘cause I’m about to rock your world.”
Too late.
Goes the Boom wasn’t your typical dance club. It was fit within a beautiful two story Victorian with refurbished interiors of recycled dark wood and brick walls but contemporary concrete floors. And the bass was positively bumping, something you’d never expect in the low lit ambience of the sophistication it exuded but it was inviting. I found myself drawn like a magnet to the dance floor but Ian dragged me toward the bar instead.
“What’ll you have?” he asked.
I searched the bar and spotted what I wanted. A bottle of Glenlivet, single malt, aged twenty-one years. “Whisky, neat,” I told him, “that bottle.”
“The same,” Ian told the bartender. “Damn, Sophie,” he said, turning toward me, “I had no idea you drank like a fifty year old man.”
I laughed out loud.
“You're sixteen,” I told him, painting the picture, “your parents lock up their liquor cabinet, the kitchen is manned by people at all times, the only available liquor you can find is hidden away in a drawer in your father’s desk and it’s single malt whisky. What do you think you’d develop a taste for?”
“Coca-cola?”
I laughed again. “Not if your name was Sophie Price.”
“I see,” he said as the bartender set down our drinks.
We both picked ours up, took a slight sip, then downed the entire contents, slamming down our empty glasses, an unconventional approach to finely aged whisky. We stood there, silently daring one another to cough. My eyes began to water. Eventually, I had to clear my throat, had to, it burned so badly. Ian only coolly stared at me, seemingly unaffected. I shook my head at him.
“You’re a Hoss,” I finally relented.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice faintly gruff from the whisky.
My hand reached for my glass and I turned it upside down, spinning the concave bottom around with my fingers. He edged in closer to me, The Fear began to spill from the speakers and we stood in silence, examining the other, until the bass line hit, subtle and resonating through our chests. His hand found mine, stopping the glass mid-spin. The heat of his fingers sent tingles up my arm.
“Another?” he whispered in my ear.
“No, thank you,” I answered softly.