Another second’s hesitation. “No, that’s all right,” she says finally, the offer to go elsewhere banishing her reservations. He breathes an imperceptible sigh of relief. “I’d hate to see a couple of good steaks go to waste.”
“Great.” He downs the last of his drink and deposits it firmly on the bar, then waits for Lulu to finish hers.
She swallows the last of it, then hands the glass to him with a smile, before reaching into her counterfeit Louis Vuitton bag—he prides himself on always recognizing a fake—and removing her cellphone.
“What are you doing?” he asks, blocking his face with his hand as she raises the phone to snap his picture.
“Sorry. It’s not that I don’t trust you,” she demurs. “But a girl can’t be too careful these days. We did just meet. If I’m going to go anywhere with you, especially your apartment, then I need to take a few precautions. And I’ll need to see some ID.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“I know it sounds silly, but it’s something I always do. I take a picture, get your address, email it to my friends so they know where I am…”
“And if I refuse?” he asks playfully, hoping his charm will outweigh her demands.
Lulu manages a weak smile. “Why would you refuse?”
“I guess I’m just not used to my integrity being questioned.” His anger resurfaces. He is actually offended by her request.
“Well,” she says, returning her phone to her fake leather bag, “suppose you think it over while I use the little girls’ room.”
Before he can say anything, she is walking away, her every step announcing that she is the one in control. He’d like to follow her inside thelittle girls’ room,drag her big ass into the nearest stall, and force her stupid head inside the toilet bowl. How dare she question him! Someone who looks like her, who might generously register a six on a scale of ten, who could never hope to attract the legitimate interest of a man as handsome as he is—she has the nerve to ask for his identification! No, not ask—demand! “You’ve gotta be kidding,” he mutters, looking around the room, as if seeking confirmation from the other patrons.
He sees Paige Hamilton, aka Wildflower, still engrossed in conversation with Mr. Average. Is it possible she’s forgotten him so soon? He smiles, picturing her hands securely tied behind her back and her lovely neck in a noose.
His attention is diverted by a couple of older women laughing under a Coors Light neon sign, and he mulls going over and introducing himself, giving the old biddies a thrill.
Normally he doesn’t waste time with older women, but what the hell, it might provide an interesting diversion. He’s heard they make great lovers, that their experience more than makes up for their wrinkles. Older women are just so grateful for the unexpected attention, especially the ones over sixty, the ones old enough to be his mother.
Maybe one night it might be fun to give one a try. But not tonight. Tonight he has research to do. He intends to find out everything he can about Paige Hamilton. This is one wildflower ripe for the picking.
He stares toward the hallway that leads to the washrooms at the back. He’s been in Boston three months, and he never stays in any city more than six. Maybe it’s time to consider leaving. Women here are a little more sophisticated than they were in Denver. And they’re understandably cautious, given that two women have been reported missing already. That silly little Tiffany Sleight’s picture has been all over the news for days. Probably what spooked Lulu.
He orders her another white wine spritzer and settles with the bartender. “Wish the fat lady goodbye and good luck,” he instructs the bemused young man behind the long bar. Then he walks purposefully toward the entrance without so much as a glance in Wildflower’s direction, opens the door, and disappears into the night.