Meet Me In The Pit

Chapter Two - Trust Me

Kiera

Score: Midnight Memories - One Direction

I clear my throat, mortification choking me up.

Well, babes, it was too good to be true. Now, let's curl our tail between our legs and take our drink and our weeping vagina back to our room, shall we?

"Do you, uh, work for Brett Events?" I ask him, even though I'm already expecting his answer.

He furrows his brows.

"What?" The strange man asks with a laugh, confusion pulling his eyebrows in.

"Nothing," I say hurriedly, taking my eyes off of him and gluing them to my glass. I can basically feel my whole face going bright pink, and I don't want him to witness my embarrassment any more than he already has.

But the relief, rushing through my system, chases everything else away. He's not one of them. He doesn't even look like one of them.

And why do you care? That small Gollum voice in my head asks. It's not like you're going to do anything.

I slide a sideways glance at him over my glass. He's still smiling and shaking his head, but he doesn't say anything.

"So, what are you doing in Paris?" I decide on a swift change of subject, and what better way than to steer the conversation to the third party in any conversation in Paris, namely, Paris herself?

"I'm here for work," he shrugs his shoulders.

How very uninspiring.

"And you?"

"Same," I say, lifting a brow. The lightbulbs over the bar suddenly turn dark.

"We're closing in ten minutes, Miss Vough," Michel says with a shy smile.

"I know," I say. "Can you just whip me up another one," I lift my glass which now has mainly ice left in it. "And we'll be out of here, I promise."

"Wow," the stranger laughs, a deep, velvety laugh this time, that vibrates under my skin. "You really are thirsty tonight, aren't you?"

"And you really are rude tonight, aren't you?" I cock a brow at him.

"My apologies," he says, reaching with his hand and lifting his baseball cap a little. His eyes are shining with an amused gleam, which makes him look even more devastating.

"So, how do you like Paris?" I say, trying to bring the conversation back to Paris.

Wow. You really are dull, Keira, aren't you?

"I don't know," he says, shaking his head slightly. "I just landed today and was dropped off here directly from the airport."

I look at him, my chest suddenly constricting. He's just like me, I think before I say:

"Yeah, same, I haven't left the hotel for the past three days, and I'm leaving tomorrow."

"Oh, no," he gasps, just as Michel hands me my drink.

"Thanks, Michel. I'm gonna take this to my room." I look at the stranger and his glass. There's still a finger of whiskey in there. "I'm sorry, but we need to leave."

He stands from his stool and I notice just now how tall he is. He must be at least six-foot-four. He picks up his glass and then tips his head back, throwing the whisky down his throat. His eyes water a little, but, apart from that, he doesn't let out any hint that the whisky is burning his throat.

"Ugh," I shudder. "I hate Lagavulin."

He laughs, lifting a brow. "No one hates Lagavulin."

"Well, I do," I say, jumping off my stool. "It tastes like the dentist's."