Page 5 of Tap Left
He grunts into the speaker. "No need for that. I can have reservations in an hour."
"My pick," I repeat. “Or nothing at all.”
"Text me the address. I'll meet you at seven."
"Hanging up now," I sing cheerfully.
"Don't be late.”
"Don't be early.”
I hang up. And then text him the address of his favorite pizza place.
Adrian Daire isa walking cliché if I ever saw one. Successful businessman. Eye candy in a suit. An insufferable mastermind who overachieves at everything he does. He is obnoxious, flippant, defensive, and good but not nice.
Simply put, he’s an asshole to a religious degree.
But beneath that veneer of sarcasm, there is much more to Chicago’s esteemed advertising executive. Despite having atmospheric goals, he isn’t one to boast about them. He is eerily quiet sometimes and overly observant all the time. His sense of humor is drier than toast, and you can never really be certain whether he’s jesting or telling the truth when he makes his careless observations. But one thing you can rely on is that when you spend time in his presence, you will always leave feeling like you’ve been hit with a bulldozer.
There’s a certain mystery to Daire, and everyone who’s anyone salivates at the mouth to get a taste of the inner workings of his obscene mind. It’s easy to fall under that spell when you’re only looking at the surface. I know, because once upon a time, I was a victim of his disturbing appeal too.
Over the years, I’ve witnessed him claw his way out of poverty and secure a spot at the top. He holds the keys to his kingdom, and I don’t see him relinquishing that throne anytime soon. I think a part of him loves his success, but a stronger part of him hates the attention it brings too. At least on that much, we can relate. Daire doesn’t want all eyes on him. He’s always been like me in that way, though he’s better at hiding it. The irony is that his brother was the complete opposite.
It doesn't matter how long I've known him, I'll never get used to the way the air punches my lungs when he walks into a room. He makes an impression, whether he wants to or not. Men respect him, and women eye fuck him. He's a wolf in a suit. A three-piece suit, to be exact. A charcoal undershirt and royal purple tie are the only pops of color beneath the black wall of armor he usually dons. He is dark and smoldering and looks utterly ridiculous in this pizza bar where they serve it by the slice, but he sits down across from me anyway.
Beneath the table, he discreetly rests his sleek black cane against the chair. He’s become so uniform in the way he handles it that sometimes I forget it’s even there. Daire is skilled at hiding his pain, but on days when it’s cold or when you really stop to pay attention, you can see it. It only seems fair that within the expensive material of his trousers, there lives a permanent reminder of the pain he has caused.
The day his leg stopped working was the day that his personality changed too. The man across from me now is not the quiet, unassuming boy I once knew. This man owns every situation. If he feels any guilt, he doesn’t show it. He is cold and composed and well put together and the word sorry hasn’t been a part of his vocabulary in a very long time. Daire doesn’t need anyone’s forgiveness because he only thinks about himself, and he does an excellent job of it.
Unlike me.
I'm a hot mess, almost all of the time. Today being a semi-decent day, I spilled chocolate on my dress at lunch and broke my heel on the way here. When I tried to fix it with superglue, I ended up gluing my fingers together instead. Which led to my attempt to pry them apart with a butter knife. And then the subsequent slasher film that took place in the restaurant bathroom followed up with the little mermaid bandages from my purse.
It’s just another ordinary day for me.
"Should I even ask?" Daire nods towards my fingers.
He looks as though I’ve inconvenienced him already. As though I’m too stupid to remember to breathe sometimes. And this is not what I need right now.
"It was a butter knife."
He doesn’t ask for further explanation because he’s come to expect this behavior from me by now. Clumsy, awkward Lola Bell who can never get her shit together.
When the waitress delivers the pizza I ordered us, she takes notice of Daire. I do too when he looks up at her. He’s hard not to notice. His eyes are too pretty, his lashes are too long, and his smile is just unfair. Before the bad blood and forced civility, I wasn’t immune to his looks either.
He’s never had any trouble attracting women, but he’s not one to flaunt them either. I have no doubt that Daire has a warm bed every night, but I can never say for certain. In high school, he had a brief fling with a cheerleader, and to the extent of my knowledge, it’s as close to a serious relationship as he’s ever come.
I’d bet money that every single woman in this place is wondering if he’s available. At six feet two, Daire is a God among men. His eyes are a stormy hazel, and his hair is midnight black, but even that can’t be average. He has a well-placed birthmark that leaves just a scrape of white through the dark. It’s one of those charming freak of nature things that everybody loves.
I’ve always been told that Satan was beautiful.
Daire douses his pizza with peppers and parmesan before tearing into it. "Only you could manage to cut yourself with a butter knife.”
"And only you would wear a suit to pizza."
“I came straight from work, LB. What do you expect?”
I shrug and take a sip from my water. I really don’t know why we do this. I’m nothing more than another item on his to-do list, and he’s a glaring red sharpie scribble in my planner. The silence is uncomfortable, and the conversation is even worse.
