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I nod. “Consider us even.”
We’re never even for long. Eventually, one of us owes the other. We’ve founded a relationship based on mutual usefulness and something else: trust. Because I could tell Khalil my deepest, darkest secrets and the bastard wouldn’t blink. I don’t tell him everything, but there’s a great comfort in having a confidant.
“So, tell me more about the Bianchi girl. You think she’s hot, don’t you?”
My eyebrows rise. “Fuck off, Larsen.”
“No, seriously. I’m curious about exactly what you think of her.”
My mind goes back to our conversation in the café. Astoria Bianchi’s definitely not like most other women. With her, you never know what to expect. Which, more than anything, is what turns me off about her. I value clear lines and precision. She’s a disaster waiting to happen.
And yet, I need her in order to get what I want.
“She’s a means to an end,” I tell Khalil.
“But you think she’s beautiful. I’ve seen some pictures and oof.” He whistles.
“Of course, I think she’s beautiful. I have eyes,” I say, only to get him off my back. Khalil’s a dog with a bone when he wants something. Relentless.
He looks pleased at my admission. “Yes, you have eyes. But I’m wondering if you’ve still got a heart buried under all this.”
I have a heart—it’s a shabby, worn thing, probably, but it’s there. I ignore Khalil’s statement and we continue to have a drink, peaceful quiet between us. An hour later, I’m heading home, and my phone pings with a text as I head into my apartment. It’s from Astoria.
Astoria: 6 p.m., Earling Bar. Don’t be late. I can only be there for an hour before I have to head back to the hospital.
I quickly type out a reply and send.
Me: I’m not going to a bar, Ms. Bianchi.
She texts back in all caps to punctuate her frustration.
Astoria: TORI!!
I smirk. It’s kind of entertaining to rile her up.
Astoria: What does your royal highness have against bars, anyway?
I can practically hear the dryness of her tone. My reply is brief.
Me: I’m not a fan of being out in public.
Astoria: Of course you’re not. Suck it up, Carlo. It’s just a bar.
Me: Why is your first choice a place loaded with alcohol? I’m starting to think you have a problem.
Astoria: I really don’t like what you’re implying, Mr. D’Angelo. It’s not like I was planning on drinking!
Despite myself, I smile.
Me: Counterproposal?
Astoria: Fine, let’s hear it.
Me: How about I pick you up after work? You said you have the night shift. I can drop you off at your parents’ home.
She doesn’t reply for several seconds. I drop my phone on the dresser and begin to undress. Once her reply comes, I pick it up.
Astoria: I’ll be done pretty late. Around 2 in the morning. Are you sure you want to forgo your sleep for this?
