Ten minutes later, Lance pulls up in his BMW with a smug expression that reveals how much he delights in having the upper hand. My face is swollen tear-stained, and I feel like a basket case.
With what he probably thinks is a dashing grin, he runs his fingers through his thick blond hair. “I made reservations at the Oyster House for us.”
The sexy grin I’m sure he practices in the mirror makes him look constipated. His face is still roughed up, but I think he’s wearing concealer to cover up his bruises. I stand, defeated, and toss my dance bag in the back as I slide into the bucket seat. I wish he didn’t have to pick the restaurant right next door to the City Center so all the Studio Company members can peep me when they leave.
Lance smells like Katerina as he pulls the car four-hundred feet into the Oyster House valet line. It’s not the first time I’ve wondered if Lance is banging Mother. The thought makes me gag.
“Was my dad home?” I ask casually.
“Your dad’s in Baltimore,” he says, looking at me. “You didn’t know that?”
“I do now,” I say and throw a leg up on the dashboard. Lance looks at my posture with disapproval, and I lower my leg again.
The Oyster House reeks of old money and the prices reflect that. It’s got a dark wood and navy-blue interior with low hanging lights that make the polished tables glow. Cocktails and a raw bar are two of my favorite things. I’d rather share them with a person whose company I enjoy, but beggars can’t be choosers.
I freshen up in the bathroom, which includes splashing my face with frigid water and unclipping my French twist so my hair falls in soft waves onto my shoulders. Maybe I should give Lance a chance. He might not be Prince Charming, but he seems dependable and stable. He doesn’t scramble my brain and my feelings and turn me into a mad woman.
Back at the window table, Lance has ordered us Martinis and a dozen freshly shucked oysters on ice. A bread basket sits on the table, filled with crusty baguette, dry breadsticks, and a glass decanter of oyster crackers for chowders.
I slam into the seat, flip my napkin onto my lap and grab a hearty piece of baguette while removing the martini spear and biting off the olive.
Lance watches me eagle-eyed and looks like he’s biting his tongue.
“What?” I ask him. I sip the ice-cold top of the gin.
“Aren’t you supposed to avoid bread?”
My instinct is to kick him in the balls under the table. Instead, my heart hammers in my chest as I nod politely. I drop the bread into the basket, picking up an oyster instead and dousing it in mignonette.
“Good to know that while Mother’s not around, I have you to enforce the rules in her place,” I tell him bitterly.
“Natayla, come on. I don’t mean it like that. You never eat bread, and I didn’t know if you had to partner later or something,” he says. Lance is trying to back up. He knows he’s being an ass.
“Right, because I might crush them with my fat ass if they tried to lift me. How generous of you, thinking of the other dancers you don’t even know.” I eat another oyster and take an aggressive sip of my drink.
“Stop it, Taye. Now you’re being a jerk.”
“Right, I’m a jerk.” I finish the easily ten-ounce martini in one fell swoop, grab another oyster, and gnash it between my teeth. I think I’ll eat them all and not even leave one for this literal mother fucker who thinks I’ll ruin my career from a lousy bite of bread. “Oysters are a natural aphrodisiac.” I lick my lips seductively and drag his martini over to my side of the table.
“So they say,” Lance sighs.
He digs into the bread basket and helps himself to the largest piece of crusty, flaky baguette, slathering it in whipped butter and popping it into his mouth.
I drag on his martini again and hate-fuck him with my eyes while he chews.
Gin. Oyster. Gin. Oyster. Olive. Gin. Oyster. I lose track and my head swims with heat and frustration. I’m wasted and I still want to bite Lance’s head off. I’m still starving, too. I wouldn’t be if he’d let me eat the bread.
“I think you’ve had enough, Taye. I should probably take you home. Katerina wanted you to stay with her until your dad gets back from his work trip.” Lance shrugs. He looks apologetic, like a guilty kid with his hand in the cookie jar.
“If I puke up oysters in your car, it’s gonna be all your fault,” I tell him.
“Don’t be crass. I’ll get the check.” Lance throws down his napkin and excuses himself.
I look out into the dark restaurant and see how much it’s picked up. This place is the hotspot before and after any shows, be it opera, symphony, dance, or theatre. It’s filled with mostly older art patrons dressed in their finest, the season ticket holders who keep these industries afloat. But there are also young artsy types and performers. The music is turned up and the cocktails are flowing. I take out the last remaining hunk of baguette and push it into the small plate of butter.