“Deadly.” I put my arms around her and pull her close.
“Stop it.” She pushes me away. “I don’t want to kiss you.”
“What?” I gasp. “Why not?”
“Ew . . . you’re not my type.”
“Ew?” I widen my eyes. How rude. “What are you talking about? I’m everybody’s type.”
“Not mine.”
“You don’t even know your type yet. There was only one. Here, I’ll show you.” I reach for her again.
“I like blond, skinny, and sensitive.” She bats her eyelids to be a smart-ass.
The exact opposite of me.
I can’t help myself. I retaliate. “We do have some things in common. I like blonde, skinny, and horny.”
Ugh . . . stop talking, fool.
“Good for you.” She holds her arms out to the crowd. “There are plenty of them here. Go get one.”
What is this woman doing? Nobody has ever knocked me back before.
“Don’t you think we should explore that kiss a little further, do some investigative research?” I ask her.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I didn’t like it.”
“What?” I gasp. “That kiss was fucking hot, Grumps. What are you talking about?”
“Not for me. It was a bit sloppy, if I’m honest.”
I stare at her, horrified.
What do you mean?
“Well . . . that was all your fault,” I splutter. “You threw in the number one thing right before, and I was shell shocked, that’s all. I can do better.” I grab for her. “I’ll show you now.”
“Goodbye, Christopher.” She turns and walks back to that guy on the dance floor.
I stand still, outraged, my hands firmly planted on my hips.
Ha . . . what an idiot. She doesn’t know what she’s missing.
I walk over to the side of the dance floor and size up the guy she’s talking to.
Blond and skinny . . . boring looking. I watch them for a while, and Hayden seems very interested in everything the fucker says . . . I can’t even imagine what dreary shit he’s talking about.
Screw this.
I march off to the bar.
“Oh, Christo.” Bernadette runs after me.
Fucking hell, this woman is killing me.
I need some rat bait.
An hour later I’m standing talking to a group of people, and I catch sight of the kid who works here. He’s walking around and collecting glasses. I watch him for a while: so young to be in an environment like this. He seems totally unfazed and getting on with the job.
“Where are you from, Christo?” a woman asks me.
“New York, originally. I live in the UK now.”
“Oh, I live in the UK. Where are you?” She smiles.
There’s a group of guys to the left of the dance floor, rolling blind drunk and being obnoxious. I sip my beer as I watch them. I’m not sure where they come from, but they are speaking French. One of them steps back and bangs into the kid. He knocks the glasses out of his hands.
“Regardez ou vous marchez, putain l’idiot!” he yells at him. （Translation: Watch where you’re walking, you fucking idiot.） The kid bends down to pick up the dropped plastic glasses. He glances up, but it’s obvious he doesn’t understand the language.