"No," he says. "It's not."
"Dammit, Lyle, I--"
"I'm paying you for your time. This isn't a date," he says, his sharp words making me cringe. Because, damn me, I do keep sliding in that direction. "It's a job. For that matter, it's an acting job. You're going to be working this party, Sugar. And you deserve to get paid."
"Maybe. But I didn't deserve to get paid last night. I mean, you didn't get--what you wanted," I finish lamely.
He stops at a red light, then turns to look at me. Very slowly, his gaze skims over me, and my skin heats in the wake of his inspection, as if it were a physical touch. Finally, he settles on my eyes, then reaches out and very gently brushes my lower lip with the pad of his thumb.
"Didn't I?" he asks, as my heart pounds against my ribs, and my mouth goes completely dry.
I open my mouth to speak, but I can't seem to form words.
"I'm serious, Sugar. Tonight you're my girlfriend. You're playing a role. An important one. And I'm going to pay you for it. Understand?"
I nod, my emotions all in a tangle. "Call me Laine in public," I manage to say, my voice little more than a whisper.
He nods, and I settle back in my seat as the light changes, my breath as shaky as my nerves.
He's right. Tonight, I'm an actor. Just like Lyle.
And considering the way I feel right now, I don't think the job's going to be hard to pull off at all.
9
I've never been to an opening at the Stark Center for the Visual Arts, but I've wandered through the permanent exhibits a couple of times. "I like the photographs," I tell Lyle as we wait in line for the Center's valet to take his car, "but the pop art exhibit is my favorite. I love the bold colors and that zap and ka-pow vibe."
"Lichtenstein?" he asks.
"You like his work?" Pop art icon Roy Lichtenstein's comic-inspired canvases are some of my favorites.
Lyle shrugs. "I lean more toward black and white photography. A friend of mine was obsessed with Lichtenstein, though." I hear the melancholy in his voice and am about to ask him about it when he forces a smile. "Sometimes I think Jenny just wanted to live in a comic book world."
"And you don't?"
He shakes his head. "It's easy to think the world is painted in primary colors when you're young. I guess I grew up and realized there's a lot of gray, too."
"And she never got that?"
His expression closes off so fast, it's as if a shadow has obscured his features. "No," he says, the word clipped. "She never did."
I frown, certain I've touched a nerve. "I didn't mean--"
But a valet opens my door, cutting off my words. And by the time Lyle gets the ticket and comes around the car to join me, the shadow has disappeared, replaced by a genuine, albeit small, smile. "I didn't mean to get melancholy on you."
"That's okay," I say as he takes my hand and we start walking. "Are you all right?"
"I'll be fine. She was a good friend, and she died."
"I'm so sorry." I pause on the first step leading up to the Center, forcing him to stop behind me. Around us, dozens of people in cocktail attire glide up the twelve concrete stairs toward the angular, modern-style building. "Did she die recently?"
He meets my eyes. "Thirteen years ago yesterday," he says. And then he starts walking again.
I fall in step beside him, and as we make our way up the last few steps, that single word flashes like neon in my mind. Yesterday.
I think of the man I met in the hotel last night. A man whose pain was so palpable it hurt my heart. "I'm sorry," I say again, the words seeming small and useless.
"It's okay. It was a long time ago."