Read Online Not Looking for Love: Episode 6 (A New Adult Contemporary Romance Novel) by Lena Bourne - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lena Bourne
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from the bar, as we enter, swirling a glass of something brown. Greg's standing by the huge, wraparound windows, and four guys I don’t know are sitting on the leather sofas.
"You made it," Vlado says and gives Mike a hug. I have no idea how to greet him, but luckily he forestalls any action on my part by hugging me as well. It feels like being pressed into a wall.
Up close I realize his eyes are the same color as my mom's were, only much colder, like blue ice. I had no idea I even still remembered the color of my mom's eyes and now this sick bastard's reminding me. I'm not sure how any of this shit could get worse.
Vlado tells us to mingle while we wait for a few more people. I take a drink and wander over to the windows, ignoring everyone there, not caring what they think of that. Sometimes it's better to be mistrusted than liked, and I think this is one such situation.
I missed sunset, but there's still a bright orange band lined with white on the western horizon. It blends almost seamlessly into the dark blue of the night sky, despite being so opposite in color. I wonder which colors I'd have to mix to paint it just right. Blue obviously, maybe red and black. Not too much white. That would have to just be used for the finishing touches. Not that I've actually painted anything in years. The last thing I was trying to learn before I got arrested was how to draw realistically. I never did achieve it, and I'm not sure I'll ever try again.
"It's time to eat!" Vlado yells and I follow the others to the table. Two more guys in suits came while I was gazing out the window. The rest of the company looks a lot like Greg—huge muscles and tattoos everywhere. They're all wearing suits and I wish Mike had been specific as to what I was supposed to wear, but at least I'm wearing a black sweater and pants, and, besides, I don't care.
Mike is sitting at Vlado's right, like some long lost son. They talk like they've known each other for a long time and really enjoy each other's company. The nausea rising in my stomach makes it impossible to even think of food.
Greg's sitting next to me, and keeps casting me looks like he wants to talk, but I'm fine just listening. Though some of the conversation is in Serbian, I presume, and I understand precisely jack shit.
We're sitting at a dark wood table, eating off plates with golden scrollwork worked into the edges. And the silverware looks like it's actually made of silver. The smell of cologne, brandy, wine, meat, beans and onions is mixing into a sickening odor in the air, and I hope someone cracks a window soon.
"You don't like the food?" Greg finally asks, chewing on a piece of the little sausages that are actually made of minced meat. I've cut one of mine into little pieces, but I'm still struggling with the decision to actually eat it. "It's cevapcici," he elaborates, like that means something to me. "Just eat it, it's good."
I shrug and take a bite. It's not bad but I still have no appetite.
I can feel Vlado look at me from time to time, but he's not addressing me directly, so I ignore him.
"You're not very talkative today," Greg remarks.
"I have other things on my mind," I mutter.
"You look it," he says and chuckles. But if he's this far in Vlado's confidences, he can't be my friend.
They're discussing things I know nothing about, so I guess it's not too strange I don't join in. Though Mike started casting me dark looks sometime in the middle of the main course. I ignore him too.
After what feels like days, Vlado finally tells us to go back to the living room for some drinks and smoking. He wanders over to me as I get my second drink, Mike trailing a few steps behind.
Vlado places his meaty arm around my shoulders and leans close to my face. He's shorter than me, but somehow it doesn't seem that way.
"So, how are you finding your first few weeks working for me?" he asks, and I can smell onions on his breath. There's only the barest hint
"You made it," Vlado says and gives Mike a hug. I have no idea how to greet him, but luckily he forestalls any action on my part by hugging me as well. It feels like being pressed into a wall.
Up close I realize his eyes are the same color as my mom's were, only much colder, like blue ice. I had no idea I even still remembered the color of my mom's eyes and now this sick bastard's reminding me. I'm not sure how any of this shit could get worse.
Vlado tells us to mingle while we wait for a few more people. I take a drink and wander over to the windows, ignoring everyone there, not caring what they think of that. Sometimes it's better to be mistrusted than liked, and I think this is one such situation.
I missed sunset, but there's still a bright orange band lined with white on the western horizon. It blends almost seamlessly into the dark blue of the night sky, despite being so opposite in color. I wonder which colors I'd have to mix to paint it just right. Blue obviously, maybe red and black. Not too much white. That would have to just be used for the finishing touches. Not that I've actually painted anything in years. The last thing I was trying to learn before I got arrested was how to draw realistically. I never did achieve it, and I'm not sure I'll ever try again.
"It's time to eat!" Vlado yells and I follow the others to the table. Two more guys in suits came while I was gazing out the window. The rest of the company looks a lot like Greg—huge muscles and tattoos everywhere. They're all wearing suits and I wish Mike had been specific as to what I was supposed to wear, but at least I'm wearing a black sweater and pants, and, besides, I don't care.
Mike is sitting at Vlado's right, like some long lost son. They talk like they've known each other for a long time and really enjoy each other's company. The nausea rising in my stomach makes it impossible to even think of food.
Greg's sitting next to me, and keeps casting me looks like he wants to talk, but I'm fine just listening. Though some of the conversation is in Serbian, I presume, and I understand precisely jack shit.
We're sitting at a dark wood table, eating off plates with golden scrollwork worked into the edges. And the silverware looks like it's actually made of silver. The smell of cologne, brandy, wine, meat, beans and onions is mixing into a sickening odor in the air, and I hope someone cracks a window soon.
"You don't like the food?" Greg finally asks, chewing on a piece of the little sausages that are actually made of minced meat. I've cut one of mine into little pieces, but I'm still struggling with the decision to actually eat it. "It's cevapcici," he elaborates, like that means something to me. "Just eat it, it's good."
I shrug and take a bite. It's not bad but I still have no appetite.
I can feel Vlado look at me from time to time, but he's not addressing me directly, so I ignore him.
"You're not very talkative today," Greg remarks.
"I have other things on my mind," I mutter.
"You look it," he says and chuckles. But if he's this far in Vlado's confidences, he can't be my friend.
They're discussing things I know nothing about, so I guess it's not too strange I don't join in. Though Mike started casting me dark looks sometime in the middle of the main course. I ignore him too.
After what feels like days, Vlado finally tells us to go back to the living room for some drinks and smoking. He wanders over to me as I get my second drink, Mike trailing a few steps behind.
Vlado places his meaty arm around my shoulders and leans close to my face. He's shorter than me, but somehow it doesn't seem that way.
"So, how are you finding your first few weeks working for me?" he asks, and I can smell onions on his breath. There's only the barest hint
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