I'll Be Damned (Anna Wolfe Series) (13 page)

“I’m Shane. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says, extending his brawny hand towards Janie.

I flinch, waiting for her to ask him something bizarre, but the only thing on her mouth is a beaming grin. That’s odd. Janie doesn’t goggle over men, especially the pretty boy types. I wonder what she’d do if my handsome stranger walked in right now. It would send her right through the roof.

“I’m Janie, Anna’s older sister,” she responds, happily dropping her hand in his.

“Good to see you again, Kristy,” he says, nodding his head in her direction.

“Nice to see you too.”

When the awkward silence enters the room, it’s my cue to leave. “Why don’t we get going?” I say, looking back at Shane.

“Kristy, Janie,” he acknowledges, nodding his head towards them before turning to me.

I can feel their eyes digging a hole in my back as we make our exit. I glance over my shoulder to say goodbye, and note their matching looks of elation. I shake my head lightly as we walk out the door. The night air is less humid, promising to leave my hair alone for now. I’m pleasantly shocked at his demeanor tonight. He’s charming, romantic and had no trouble gaining approval from my friends and family. He knows how to walk the straight and narrow. We stroll in comfortable silence, past the blooming Cherokee roses, their white, waxy petals shimmering in the silver light of the moon. Shane reaches for my hand and I allow him to take it. A strong current soars through me. Instantly, my arm wants to recoil, but I force it to remain where it is. Weirdness strikes again.

“What a beautiful night,” Shane finally says.

“Yes, it is.” I quickly glance at his face, watching the moonlight reflect on it. How peculiar. The way it moves over and under his cheeks is seamless. It dips in his eyes, exposing strings of yellow and emerald green. I’ve never seen eyes like his before. In fact, I’ve never seen anything like him before in my life. I shake my head, snapping out of the dreamland I am wandering around in. Something about his behavior is disarming. Just the other day, I dreaded going to dinner; and now I’m attracted to him? My mind is drowning in confusion. We arrive at his undisclosed dinner destination, which turns out to be the Vic’s on the River. I have to smile inwardly since I love this restaurant. We pass through the black entrance doors and are promptly escorted to our table, where Shane pulls out my seat. Tea light candles illuminate the table, accenting the lavish china with their swaying flames. French doors across from me are wide open, framing the beautiful view of the Savannah River. I watch with delight as the reflection of the city sparkles on the water like dew in sunlight. The waiter appears within a few seconds, asking what we would like to drink.

“We’ll have a bottle of your Opus One Cabernet Sauvignon,” Shane requests, perfectly comfortable ordering for a woman without asking her opinion.

“Yes sir, very good,” the waiter replies upon exiting.

I glance at the wine menu, curious to see how much the bottle cost. This particular wine is two hundred and thirty dollars. Instantly, part of my counterfeit cheerfulness deflates. I’m positive his purchase was to impress me. Uncomfortable with the price tag, I talk myself out of putting a damper on the night, seeing that I don’t get too many of them. I wonder what two hundred and thirty dollars tastes like. Looking up, I find Shane's stare riveted on me.

“My apologies,” he says casually. “I should have asked what you preferred. I assumed it was a red.”

“Oh it’s fine. I love cabernet sauvignon.” I want to admit that the price bothers me, but I keep my mouth shut.

“Fine never describes my dates. Great is what I aim for. Sometimes when I’m lazy, I’ll settle for good, but never fine," he replies with a devilish grin.

His egotism irks me. One minute he’s charming, the next he’s horribly arrogant. I don’t like switch hitters. I laugh it off and quickly change the subject. “So, what made you move to Savannah?” I question.

"Opportunities,” he smiles. “I’m from Starkville, Mississippi where I taught classes at the university,” he pauses, thinking of what more to offer. “Savannah is a significant prospect in my line of work, so to speak.”

There's that devilish smile again. I don't think I can get used to it. The waiter reappears with the bottle of wine tucked under his arm like a football and two wine goblets in his hands. Stopping at our table, he proceeds to uncork the wine with a series of twists and pulls. The bottle is a dark scarlet with Opus One 2001 written in beautiful script on the buff stained label. He pops the cork, pouring the liquid carefully as if it’s made from threads of glass. He swirls the goblet a few times, outlining the bowl in deep scarlet. Sluggishly, the dense wine slides down the glass the way blood drips on a wall. I shiver as my nightmares creep into my mind. Reaching for the glass, I’m determined to drown them.

“What classes did you teach in Mississippi?”  I inquire, swirling the most expensive wine I ever had the privilege to try. Taking a small sip, I can taste a full bouquet of fruitiness with a hint of wood. Exceptional.     

“I taught an art history class on medieval stained glass, in addition to gothic cathedral designs.”

“Impressive. I appreciate art, but I can’t tell the difference between a catholic cathedral and a gothic one.”

He dives into his past, exposing his underprivileged life. He was an only child, growing up in Louisiana with relatives he barely knew, and fled home at the age of eighteen. It’s a miracle, he claims, that he didn’t live the remainder of his years on the street or hopped up on drugs. There’s something to be said for that. The waiter returns in a huff to take our orders. I opt for the roasted chicken breast with sweet potato fritters and country ham glazed in a sweet tea lemon. Shane orders a filet mignon raw, no sides, without the slightest resistance from the waiter. Since when was a piece of raw meat legal to serve? I try to ignore the nausea churning in the pit of my stomach. 

“You have a captivating life story. I can’t imagine going through life alone. I’d be one shattered soul.”

He laughs. “Believe me, it’s beyond repair.”

I cordially grin, knowing my response isn’t meant to be humorous. The waiter saunters our way, balancing both of our dinners on his skinny arms. My eyes are drawn to the red liquid sloshing around Shane’s plate with every small step. It doesn’t take a genius to know what it is. As the grotesque plate makes its way across the room, people’s expressions contort in confusion.
Get in line,
I think dryly
.
The waiter serves the plates appropriately, remembering who ordered what. Not daring to glance at Shane’s meal, lest I ruin my appetite, I dive in, slicing and spearing my meal, with sporadic bits and pieces of conversation. After Shane finishes, I can finally look up. He cleared his plate, but did not take even a sip of his wine. That’s unusual. Red wine is hailed as the perfect complement to steak.

“You didn’t drink any of your wine,” I point out in a curious undertone.

“Sometimes red wine bothers my stomach,” he replies with a phony smile.

Shane orders an expensive bottle of wine that he doesn't bother to sip? I don’t want to waste energy by dwelling on the growing barrage of red flags, so I stomp them out of my mind. “That’s a shame. I’m sure it pairs nicely with your entree.” As if I have the slightest clue about pairing wines with food. I chuckle inwardly at my naïveté. The waiter materializes out of nowhere, asking if we care for dessert. I feel full and Shane’s eclectic dinner choice makes me nervous about dessert. It isn't typical for someone to eat uncooked meat… ever.

“So, did you enjoy your dinner?” Shane asks, staring at me carefully.

“Yes, it was very good. Thank you,” I answer. “That sweet tea lemon glaze would make Paula Deen jealous.”

“Good, I am glad you enjoyed it. I hope to do this again.”

His statement feels more like a demand than a request. “Yes," I answer with hesitation in my voice. I don’t know what else to say. It’s too soon for him to expect another date and he conveniently omits the entire reason we came here in the first place – for him to give me an explanation of how he knows my family and me. Should I press the subject? Perhaps it’s better I don’t spotlight his stalker tendencies. Besides, something about him makes me feel oily. After a few tidbits of small talk, Shane informs the waiter we’ll be skipping dessert. The waiter places the check in front of him and he pays the bill without batting an eye. Walking out of the restaurant, I glance at the iron clock plastered to the wall. It’s only nine-thirty.

“Would you like to meet up with your friends?” he asks, anticipation dripping from each word.

“I should probably go home… I’m pretty tired.” I lie, hoping he believes me. Judging by his angry expression, I can tell he doesn’t.

“Well at least, allow me to walk you to your car. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you,” he replies.

I nod, remaining silent as we walk. A strange stillness shimmies between us, bringing with it a surge of trouble. His bloody dinner can’t be the lingering reason; it’s something else. My woman’s intuition is playing Double Dutch with the strings in my gut, warning me to leave. I casually lengthen my stride, failing miserably to hide my discomfort. In this very moment, I wish the night and he would exit, stage right. Fear grabs my heart, constricting the walls of my chest. It’s amazing how panic masks everything else. The usual, willowy live oaks house dark shadows that hang from their limbs like twisted ornaments. I shrink unintentionally, afraid they might graze my head. Finally, we reach my front door. Graciously, I thank him for a good night before watching him leave, and exhaling a sigh of relief. I wish exhaling would actually alleviate some of my anxiety. I fumble in my purse, searching for my keys. The cool metal ring slides around my fingers as I pull them out quickly before they elude my grasp. I hate playing the claw machine in my own purse. I unlock the door and hustle inside. With caution, my heartbeat returns to normal after a few deep breaths. The fogginess in my head dissipates as more time passes. I walk over to the couch in the dark, shockingly unscathed. I slide into it, deciding my next move. I need to talk to Kristy or Janie. Maybe they can help me make sense of all of this. I grab my cell phone, delighted to avoid the purse-digging part. I dial Janie’s number first, but it goes straight to voicemail. Okay, one down, one to go. I hold the number two on my phone, listening to the numbers speed-dial Kristy. She answers on the second ring.

“How was it? Perfect?” she questions.

So much for hello. “Perfect? That’s a strong word,” I answer. “There’s something off about him,” I pause. “He ordered the rarest steak I’ve ever seen. It was gross… blood was sloshing all around the plate…” I trail off. Saying this out loud sounds silly. Why does it bother me so much? What the hell do I care how he likes his meat cooked, or not?

“Oh,” she replies disappointedly. “I don’t understand. You’re not interested in him because of his dinner choice?” she asks in confusion.

“I know it sounds ridiculous… really ridiculous, actually. Where are you guys? Are you with Janie?”

“We’re at Alligator Soul, and yes, Janie is here,
and already drunk, by the way,” she sighs in annoyance. “Hopefully we’re leaving shortly to see Martello.”

“Okay, I’ll meet you at Soul; don’t leave,” I reply, hastily clicking the big, red
End
button.

I lock my shop and walk in the direction of the restaurant, glancing over my shoulder every few steps, thanks to the events of the other night. I reach Alligator Soul with relief and a strained neck. Somehow, I manage to spot Janie and Kristy floating in the sea of people by the bar.

“Anna!” Janie yells, waving her arms in the air.

I push through the crowd, receiving dirty looks like I’m jumping a line at a concert. Screw them, I’ve been having too many bad days, and the last thing I need is shit from strangers. “Hey, Janie,” I smile. “Too much to drink already?”

“No! This is only my second dirty martini,” she replies with a tilted grin. She says it innocently, not realizing a martini is all vodka with a splash of olive juice. I crinkle my nose at the thought of drinking spiked ocean water.

“I told her she has to watch them; they have a habit of sneaking up,” Kristy adds laughing, lightly shoving Janie's arm.