East Rising (Naive Mistakes #2) Read Free Page B

stuff (hated it, in fact),
it was now a familiar smell that I looked forward to each day. A
freckled red-head with a rounder-than-most ass leaned at a table,
showing her cleavage to the middle-aged man who seemed to be more
interested in the only-just-legal blonde with her elbows on the
counter ahead of him.
    I made my way to that counter, not looking
around but, at the same time, yes looking around, from the corner
of my eyes, for Dorian. And there he was, still sitting back
against a low carpeted wall, long legs crossed, burly arm holding a
pint of something or other (probably Amstel, everyone drank either
Amstel or Guinness here), and with that constant grin.
    I don't know what came over
me. I don't know where the confidence or even the desire to do it came
from, but I went over to him and spoke to him. Surely he'd been
flirting with me, hadn't he? And surely he'd tailed me here. At
that moment — just then, a very precise instant — I lost all
reservations, and I stood next to him. I "showed him my stuff" (as
Dani would put it) and stood with my back extra straight. (Yeah,
OK, that reads: my tits were out a little farther than
usual...)
    The Jolly Roger cotton shirts with the
logo of Fill 'er Up! on the back — accompanied by a winking blonde that looked like
she came out of a sixties advert, holding an overflowing beer mug
with far too many phallic connotations to be comfortable — were not
the hottest things to wear around town, and did little to show what
meager shape a girl might or might not have underneath them, but
that never stopped the guys hitting on us. Heck, two beers and most
dudes in here were hitting on everything from the geriatric club,
here for cheap meal, to the teeny-boppers who'd snuck in without
ID.
    Dorian Brant, however, made
no effort to hide where his gaze was lingering... It was on my
breasts, for far longer than needed to keep any sort of gentlemanly
appearance to him. No, I knew then, as I'd known on the day he'd
first seen me at the Starbucks (no, glared
openly at me!), that Dorian was no
gentleman. He was the worst possible thing for me.
    And I was glad for it. Better the snake that
you can see...
    "I'm Leora," I said,
sticking out my hand formally to shake his. (Give a girl a
break, wouldya ? I
wasn't very good at this, and Dani knew it. And I knew
it...)
    Dorian sipped his beer, let my hand hang
there for a fraction longer than would be considered polite, put
his beer down next to him (my hand was still waiting for his to
meet it) and then, finally, shook it.
    "I know," he said. "I
asked. Caivano, isn't it?" (He'd said it: i'n i' ? No T's, no S's...)
    He knew my name? Who'd he asked?
    Torrents of memories of
Conall hit me once more. I fought them back. Deep down I felt I was
betraying him, lying to him. Get a hold of
yourself, Leora! He's gone!
    My skin went warm at the thought that
monster-sized Dorian Brant already knew my name, that he looked at
me like he wanted to devour me. And at the thought that, I could
see, I would fit entirely within his arms and that his size would
completely engulf me.
    I swallowed, tried to act
cool, tried to say
something smooth. I failed. "Y — y — you know my name already?" I
think I smiled there, maybe. I'd been aiming for a flirty Jessica
Rabbit thing, what I got was something like Kristen Stewart in the
first Twilight movie when Robert Pattinson sits next to her in
class... Very awkward.
    "I know more than your name. I know you live
three blocks away from where I'm staying — Lewinson Avenue, I
believe? I know you take coffee breaks at the Starbucks at Tesco. I
know you haunt hospice and charity stores in this town for the
second-hand books and walk out, each time, with six or seven of
them, only to do it again on, what is it again, Mondays? I know
that you head on out to the shingle and bronze yourself as best you
can on a Saturday when the sun shines (which is not very often in
this godforsaken land.) Only, because it's winter, all you end