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A sentiment underscored by her best friend, Sam—more affectionately known as Hunt—in their favorite Wapping pub Friday night in London.
“I think I need another pint to get this straight,” said the Tyneside native, disappearing to the bar, and returning with a Newcastle Brown and club soda with lime. Settling into her seat, she shoved the seltzer toward Dillon.
“Alright.” Her umber eyes narrowed, her upper lip glistening with foam from a long draught of her ale. “Let me see if I have this sorted—two nights before your race, a tourist ran you over on your bike—”
“She clipped my tire—”
“You hit herhood—”
“I scraped my arm—”
“You left half your hide in Hana—”
“It’s inconsequential—”
“And,” Sam continued, her Geordie accent thickening with the second round, “in response to her trying to turn you into a pavement pizza—”
“it was anaccident—”
“—you rang her up and invited her to dinner?”
“Like I already told you, Kyle was being a tosser. I called her to apologize, and offered to buy her a pint.”
“After she ran you over?”
“AfterKyle was an arsehole. Jesus—”
Sam snapped up a fast finger, her dark eyes shining and energy wound nearly as tight as the coils of her short black hair. “Now let’s fast forward. You take this girl to dinner—you catch a crush on her—and you ask her out again. This straight, young, wannabe-movie star—”
“I didn’t say she was straight.”
“You said she was surprisedyouwere gay! Haddaway, man! Any queer girl on the planet could look at you and know you were into kissing fish half a mile away. Unless this one’s plain micey, she’s straight. Straight or stupid.”
Dillon busied herself digging the lime out of her seltzer, wondering why she’d ever brought the subject up in the first place. Or flown to London at all. She could be sitting on a beach in Key West right now, swimming in the balmy Florida shoreline. Anything other than trudging through the rain of an English October, listening to Sam’s voice of reason remind her of why she was such a plank.
“So,” Sam resumed after draining her beer, “you go out the next night and drag her along on some romantic hike—”
“There was nothing romantic about it—”
“I know you better than that—now zip it, and let me finish my assessment; you see her making moon eyes at you, you bide your time, pour on your charm, and kiss her.” She paused for nothing more than dramatic effect. “This straight girl. Who ran you over. From Hollywood. And you’re surprised she buggered out the next morning?”
When it was put like that…
But no matter how right Sam might be, it would be a cat in hell’s chance before she admitted it.
“You weren’t there, mate. It wasn’t as simple as that.”
“No, of course it wasn’t. You’re bloody Dillon Sinclair. Nothing’s ever simple.”
Dillon downed her drink, fished a tenner from her pocket, and dropped it on the table. “Good talk, Hunt.”
“Oh, come on, man.” Sam caught her arm before she could stand. “I’m taking the piss out of you, is all. It’s not like you to get up a height. This lass has really wound you up, eh?”
Between the thirty-six hours of travel, jet lag, and her lack of sleep, Dillon didn’t have the energy to deny it.
“I don’t know—she was different. I just…” she shrugged. “I really liked her, I guess.”
Sam sprawled back in her high top stool, a trenchant smirk working its way to her lips. “I cannot lie. I love seeing you flustered. It happens so seldom—”
