Shutter: Volume Two by Eli Chastain

Author:Eli Chastain [Chastain, Eli]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Amazon: B00O2BJ39W
Publisher: Eli Chastain
Published: 2014-09-28T23:00:00+00:00

THE RESTAURANT PAUL PICKS is perfect. Small intimate tables, but with music and people moving around just enough to keep the atmosphere buzzing. A few people stop to stare at us, and I’m hoping it isn’t because they know my dirty little secret from all the tabloid attention I’ve gotten recently, but Paul convinces me I’m crazy.

“None of these people give a shit,” he whisper-shouts at me. “This is LA; there are way more famous people they could be scoping on right now than you. I mean seriously, Brook, you must think you’re hot shit.” He laughs and it loosens my mood just enough for me to lightly laugh, too.

“Martini, extra dirty, extra olives,” Paul says and points at me. “Times two, and pronto my good man.” He winks at the waiter who smiles in return then quickly disappears to the bar.

“Oh lord, don’t pick up our waiter tonight,” I whine. “I want free Paul time. I need Paul time without you putting on a show for a piece of meat.”

He glides his hand across the table and rests it on top of mine.

“You have my undivided attention, I just thought a little flirting might get our drinks here faster.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s all your intentions were.” I raise an eyebrow at him.

The waiter appears in record time with a total of four extra dirty martinis and a glass full of olives. My eyes widen at Paul, and he wags his eyebrows at me.

“Thank you,” I tell the waiter, but he doesn’t even bother to look my direction.

“Will there anything else right this minute?” he asks Paul.

“Yes,” he says in his best bedroom voice. “We’ll have two of your specials, but no rush on those. We’d like to enjoy our delicious drinks first.”

“Of course, you just let me know when you need me for anything,” the waiter replies.

I stick my index finger down my throat making mock vomiting sounds as the waiter is swallowed by the crowded room.

“That’s just disgusting.” Paul crinkles his nose at my rude noise.

“I’m disgusting, really?” I mock him.

“Shut up and drink your alcohol.”

Several minutes pass and neither of us speaks. We silently sip on our drinks and people watch. Occasionally, one of us points out a particularly funny person and we laugh together, but no real words are exchanged.

“Brook Beckham, I thought that was you,” a high-pitched voice says behind me. I turn to see Kiki—Niko’s Kiki—approaching. I pinch my eyes shut hoping that when I open them again, she’ll be a figment of my imagination. No such luck.

“Well hello, Kiki,” I say meekly as she leans in to kiss one cheek and then the other.

“I wasn’t sure that was you, you really should wear your hair up more often; you have such a long gorgeous neck,” she slyly compliments me, but I’ve been in the LA scene long enough not to be bought off by such things.

“Thank you,” I reply with a tight smile.

“It was what first caught my eye, and the longer my eyes swept over you the more I knew you looked familiar.

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