The Devil Drinks Frappes

Chapter 5

The period of silence was absolutely excruciating (if you necessarily considered throaty sobs and my profuse apologies for getting tears all over the beige interior of his Ashton Martin silence). Warren's jaw remained clenched the entire time, and I couldn't tell what emotion that conveyed.

I was slightly irritated that he hadn't said anything to me after I'd just sat there and vomitted my emotions out. But then again, how did I expect a stranger to respond to a situation like that In my head, I'd imagined Warren whipping a U-Turn and speeding through the City, looking for Nickolas' silver Camry, parking wherever Nickolas stopped, and punching him square in the jaw. Of course, there was a two hundred percent chance that that situation would never occur, so I let it rest. Besides, I couldn't see Warren as being the ind of man that got involved in brawls concerning the honor of a fair maiden such as myself.

By the time I'd stopped waiting, we were parked parallel to a tall, glossy apartment building I couldn't recall seeing before. "I hope you don't mind us going to my apartment. I originally thought our first hang out session would be having lunch or going out to do something that's not, well, this, but I don't believe that we're in the right attire or mental state to do that today." Warren glanced down at his shirt, then smiling at me. 

I grinned. "Completely agreed."

After parking the car, Warren lead me to what he said was the secret entrance to the building. As we walked up the carpeted stairs, a million skeptical thoughts should have been coursing though my cob-webbed brain. I'd known the man for less than a week, and here he was, leading me up a "secret" stairway. Perhaps he was one of those serial killers I'd seen so often on SVU. Maybe he was part of a covert human trafficking system and was used as an attractive, built, witty lure to catch young, small, brunette women that had an Amsterdam appeal to their dooms.

Though these were probably unlikely and irrational, they were still possible.

We stopped at a brown painted door that read 284 with Hall printed underneath. "And he our journey ends, Miss Marjorie Simon. Sorry in advance for the mess. Single, young men in their early twenties will be single, young men in their early twenties. 

I was expecting to walk into a typical bachelor's pad: chrome and black everything, leather furniture, and a cow skin rug - the whole deal. Instead, I felt as if I was walking straight into a copy of Home Decor magazine. The walls were painted some odd, warming shade of red and vermilion, which was an odd mix that somehow worked. A large, olive futon was the focus of the room, and there were couches and a recliner to match. A beautiful rug with threads of orange, teal, green and brown was in the middle of the floor, and gorgeous paintings and photos hung on the wall.  

One picture specifically caught my eye. It was a beautiful shot in black and white of a full figured girl, her back slightly turned to the camera while her focus was on something beyond the curtains that she was holding back with a cautious hand. I was immediately jealous of the shape of her body, the way it curved exactly so. Her hair was dark and styled in beautiful victory curls. I moved closer to the photo, examining it closely. "This is amazing, Warren. Who took this? It looks so much like something Brian Duffy would take."

By this time, Warren had already moved to the couch, lounged back with a look of amusement on his face as he watched me. "I took it myself."

I snorted. "Don't believe you."

He got up, walking over to me. "Look." He pointed towards to lower bottom corner of the photograph where it was signed "W. Hall - 2012."

"I didn't know you were into photography? You see, these are things that a girl would like to know beforehand."

"Yeah, well," he said. He walked behind a marble island into the kitchen.

"Who's the girl? She's mad gorgeous."

"Nobody important," he grumbled.

I raised my eyebrows. Sensing that he was closed off about this topic and that I wasn't going to get any more information about 1) his photography and 2) the girl in the picture, I gave the topic a rest.

Warren emerged with two glasses of what looked like wine. I accepted one from him with a suspicious look in my eye. "If you intend to get me drunk on the first date, it's not going to happen. I'm a lot classier than what you seem to think."

He rolled his eyes. "And I'm a lot classier than what YOU seem to think," he said, taking a sip of his drink. "Just taste."

I drank a small sip. I clicked my tongue a few times, trying to figure out what the drink was. Either this is low quality strawberry wine or you've been keeping an open bottle of wine way too long for anyone's good."

"It's not wine. Its a non-alcoholic punch sparkler. I don't drink," he said, looking at me from the opposite end of the couch where he was now positioned.

"What a softie," I said, downing half of the glass in one swig. "Maybe you just can't handle your drinks like a man."

"You're right. You probably handle your drinks more like a man that I do. But also, I like having my good judgment unclouded."

"Yeah, okay," I said sarcastically.

"So tell me your story, Miss Marjorie. I want to know more about you."

"That's an awkward change in subject."

Warren propped his leg up on the couch, clearly getting comfortable. "Why awkward? Are you keeping secrets from me, Miss Marjorie?

"Of course not," I scoffed, slightly blushing at the way he kept clang me Miss Marjorie. "There's just not much to tell."

"That's what everyone always says, but you're how old?"

"Twenty-two."

"I know that you must have had at least one important thing happen to you in the past few years that's important, and even just telling me those is more than enough."

I thought for a while. "There's not really anything interesting about me. I mean, I led a pretty ordinary life throughout high school." I caught myself lying, and I think Warren caught it too. 

"This is a no bs session. All truth, no judgment."

"Fine. I was a glorified slut during high school, if that's what you want to know. Typical party-hungry chick that had a real problem keeping beer out of her hands and guys out of her pants.I sobered up a little during my last relationship, but-" I stopped myself. I really wanted to avoid the subject of my last relationship.

Warren was staring at me, which made me feel incredibly ashamed all the sudden. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why'd you start being that way? There's got to be a reason."

I'd never wanted to slap him in the face as much as I did in that moment. "What do you mean, why? Do you think I sat there and decided, hm, what a lovely day to become a drunk whore?"

"That's not what I meant."

"You know what?" I said, standing. "It really doesn't matter what you 'meant' anymore. I'm honestly done with you trying to play psychologist while I sit here looking like the fool." I stormed to the unlocked door and flung it open and bounded down the stairs out into the open sidewalk.

I felt tears pushing at the edges of my eyes. Why was I letting Warren get to me? All he had to do was ask me a simple question, and I felt ready to explode. What was I fighting?

Looking at my surroundings, I realized I had no clue where I was. Just great. I did NOT intend to ask Warren for help. I stood there, trying to figure out what the heck I was doing. It was almost as if I had a telepathic connection with Warren because a minute later, I could hear his heavy footsteps behind me, and I saw the lights on his car flash. "I figured you might need a ride." I could almost feel him smiling, and I clenched my jaw. 

We got into his car and drove in silence, him staring at the road and I sitting there with my arms crossed, completely turned away from him.When we pulled up in front of my building, I got out without a thank you coming from my mouth. I saw him shake his head from the corner of my eye. "She'll be back," he said.