It's Like Rain (Orlando Bloom/OC)

Chapter 4: Concessions for the Needy

“Tell me I’m being hysterical.

Tell me something I don’t know.

Tell me lies, when I want to hear the truth.

Tell me you love me.”

8 pm I’m standing by the curb, all dolled up and waiting for Nora to pick me up.

     Why?

     Well, why, indeed!

     My official opinions in this matter are that A) I’m an idiot and B) blind dates are illegal. Or at least they should be. It is stupid, let alone dangerous and illegal, to arrange a blind date for someone. But then again, I think it is even more stupid to agree to go on a one.

     And yet, here I am. Standing and waiting for Nora. I’m so stupid! Ever since Bloom, I’ve been way too easily manipulated, by him and by anyone, because I’m so messed up in the head.

     My teeth start to clatter, while I eye the cars passing by me. The skirt was apparently a bad idea. It’s cold and I’m not wearing a thick enough coat to wait outside when Mademoiselle My-Hair-Ain’t-Bouncing-And-Behaving-Today will gracefully arrive forty minutes late.

     I’m already cursing the existence of all people on this planet, when my phone starts to ring and I hope to God that it is Nora, who has decided to cancel the whole shebang. To my horror, and at this point of the evening it is really a horror, it’s Bloom.

     “H-hello?” I swear my voice trembles, when I answer.

     “Well, that certainly is a non-typical answer from you, Cookie,” he says with a chuckle.

     “Oh? And how did you expect me to answer then?” I have to ask.

     What the hell does he think of me? Or how the hell does he want me to answer to his calls?

     “Something a bit more – kick to it,” he replies.

     “Kick?”

     The International House of Pain, how may I direct your call, Sir?

     “Personal,” he chuckles.

     “Ah, I see. You want me to start talking dirty to you. What’s the matter, Bloom? Not enough girls there to keep your pleasures satiated?” I spat back.

     And I’ve been thinking that he’s got a girl for each finger.

     He laughs. And my blood pressure rises. I hate it when he is like this; like nothing can piss him off, like he’s completely unflappable.

     “What have you been doing in Morocco?” I ask, and try not to mind the laughter. It’s a stupid question, I know, but there must be something other than just continuous shoots and emptying sand from shoes and crevices and cracks that did not exist back in the States and/or The UK.

     “Are you asking that because you feel jealous or because you worry that I don’t relax enough?” he asks.

     “What the hell is it with the ‘20 Questions’ thing?” I groan, “Can’t a girl get a simple answer to a simple question?”

     “There isn’t much to do but work. And annoy you, clearly,” he says with a chuckle, “We’re in the middle of the desert at the moment.”

      There is way too much laughter and joking in his voice. I want to smack him.

     “You mean… the city you’re in at is in the middle of the desert?”