Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 78142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
“How are you doing tonight, Diana?” Dragon asks me.
“Great, how are you?”
He nods slowly. “Good. You enjoy the concert?”
“Absolutely. All of it. Even Rory’s operatic numbers.”
“I guess this is her opera swan song,” Dragon says.
“So I’ve heard. She’s going for rock and roll.”
“And she can rock.”
I nod. I’m feeling a little awkward. Dragon holds a beer, and I have a flute full of champagne.
He gestures to the flute. “You like that stuff?”
“Yeah. It’s good. My uncle Ryan does a great job with the sparkling wines. But honestly, I don’t drink much.”
“Really?” He wrinkles his forehead.
“Does that surprise you?”
He cocks his head. “Well…yeah. You’re a member of the Steel family. They all drink. A lot.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“I’m not saying they’re drunks or anything, but look around you.” He gestures to a few nearby members of my family, who are indeed imbibing. “The alcohol is flowing.”
I can’t fault his observation. My family enjoys the finer things in life, and that includes good booze. “Yeah. My dad loves his bourbon, and my brother Dale loves his wine. Then there’s Donny.” I can’t help a giggle.
“What about him?”
“He likes sweet drinks. His favorite is a margarita.”
That gets a low chuckle out of Dragon. “He doesn’t look like the margarita type.”
“I know. But he loves them. Drives Dad and Dale crazy. Especially Dale, since he appreciates all the nuances of the wine he makes.”
“Funny.” Dragon takes a sip of his beer. Then, “Well, nice to see you.” He saunters off.
And I’m left to think about what an enigma he is. First, his name. That in itself is interesting. Second, he’s so quiet. And there’s a definite darkness about him—a darkness that, quite frankly, is very intriguing. Attractive, even.
Then those eyes…
Even under the artificial torchlight in our backyard, they glitter with gold flecks.
I finish my champagne and set my empty flute on one of the trays available for the bartenders to take care of.
And then I don’t think about Dragon again.
Chapter Ten
Dragon
Diana’s quiet, but it doesn’t bother me.
I’m used to quiet.
I like it.
I’m not a big talker myself, especially when people ask me about my past. Or even about my present. Come to think of it, I’m not too keen to discuss the future, either.
During this last rehab, though, I went into some in-depth therapy. It took some time. For the first few sessions, I didn’t say a damned word.
Then I finally realized that Jesse and Brianna were paying for this, so I’d better make the most of it. I owed Jess that much after what I put him through in Europe.
So I opened up, and once I did, the choice was no longer mine.
The memories had to get out because what was inside was eating me alive.
I told that therapist things I had never said aloud.
Things I hadn’t even let myself think about for so long.
Even so… I still kept one big secret to myself.
That one… I don’t think I’ll ever let out.
My thoughts are interrupted when Lexi comes back with our food.
Diana’s chicken fingers look pretty darned good, and the fries look fresh and crispy.
In opposition, my Salisbury steak looks a little gray around the gills. It smells okay—beefy and savory—but I’m thinking about what Diana’s crispy fries might feel like as I bite into them.
Not a problem, though. The special is always cheap, and I’m used to industrial-type food. It’s pretty much all we got at rehab.
“Thank you.” Diana smiles at Lexi.
“Not a problem, sweetheart. You two just let me know if you need anything else, okay?” Lexi flaunts away.
Diana inhales and then grabs a napkin from the holder and places it in her lap. Is she waiting for me to eat?
“Please, go ahead.”
She smiles, picks up her knife and fork, and cuts a piece off one of her chicken fingers.
Seriously? She’s eating chicken fingers with a knife and fork? It’s a little ridiculous, but also just a touch endearing. She’s so well-mannered.
That said, if she does the same with her fries, I may have to say something.
She doesn’t though, thank God. She grabs the bottle of ketchup from the holder and squeezes some onto her plate. Then she picks up a fry, dips it, and takes a bite.
I actually hear the crispy crunch when she bites into it.
And I’m really wanting a fry.
“You want to try a fry?” she asks.
“That’s okay.”
“You sure? Because you’re eyeing them like a dog salivating over a Thanksgiving turkey.”
I avert my gaze. “No, I’m not.”
She lets out a low chuckle. “Actually, you are.” She picks up a fry. “Ketchup?”
I nod.
She swirls it in the ketchup and then hands it to me.
I take it from her—it would be rude not to—and bite off half of the fry. The tomato tang of the ketchup and the warm crispiness of the potato… I close my eyes. Man, I do love fries. I savor it, and then I try the Salisbury steak.