𝑉𝐼𝐵𝑅𝛢𝑁𝑇 - B.D.

A Gentleman Would've

//Lexi//
"Blaine?" I mumble as we step out of his office, I feel strangely comfortable around him -- though sometimes I'll see his eyes drift across the room as he slips into his thoughts and I swear they turn five shades darker. There's something pained in that look, it makes his whole face seem cold, calloused, cheerless. It's intimidating. I don't like it when he looks like that.

He hums questioningly in response as he turns to look at me, the corner of his lips quirking up in amusement as he glances down at my shirt, dick. "I'm hungry," I state, he serves brains here right? Surely it won't put too much of a dent in his bank to let me have some breakfast before we leave.

"Got any money on you?" He stopped in front of me, the nerve, I think, my company is payment enough. He sighs at my lack of response and glances up at the clock, somewhere more important you need to be? I'll admit I have a habit of getting lost in my thoughts for far too long but pointing it out so blatantly seems slightly uncalled for.

"Sit." He orders, oblivious to my annoyance as he points toward a booth, "I could do with something to eat too, I'll be back." And with that, the black-clad man who had practically pushed me past a table into a cushioned seat moments ago was gone. Though before the chance for me to slip back into my thoughts could arise he's back, stood in front of me with two plates of brains. They both look identical.

"So..." there's a mischievous grin creeping up onto his lips, oh God, here we go, "my dear Lexi, one of these plates consists of possibly the best brain you'll taste, a musician with exquisite skills marinated in the finest hot sauces you'll find in Seattle..."

"And the other?" I question, what game is he playing?

"The other? " He grins wider, "well let's just say you should pick carefully."

Oh no, oh no. This is not about to happen, I'm not playing this game with him, that other brain could be anything, a murderer, the murderer's victim who was tortured for years, someone who has a creepy kink -- okay maybe one of those options isn't as severe as the others but it still wouldn't be great. Not that my sex life has been tantalising recently anyway, it's pretty much the opposite, maybe a kinky brain would spice things up. I pick a plate and judging by the way he discards the other with a huff I'm pretty confident it's the musician. He shares the remaining brains with me, along with an awkward silence that fills the room, something tells me that if I had picked the other brain we'd have a lot more to talk about. I have to admit though, he was right, this tastes incredible, the metallic tang of the brains subdued to a soft, enjoyable buzz that hits the back of your palette, waves of heat crashing onto the beach that is my tongue with every bite, sharp and bitter, with a harsh and unexpected kick, followed by a sweetness I never thought I'd be able to taste as a zombie. No wonder he doesn't want to give this stuff away for free, it's to die for. He watches me as I eat, which makes the whole situation just that more awkward, and judging by the smug look on his face he can tell how much I'm enjoying it. As long as he doesn't brag. It's not like he cooked it himself.

As soon as we finish he leads me out to his car, so predictable, it's a sleek, shiny, black model. It's modern, sporty, you don't have to know anything about cars to tell it's expensive. I don't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me gawk, he'd relish in that, so instead, I walk silently behind him. To my surprise, he opens the passenger door for me, "Your majesty." He bows slightly and gestures for me to get in, I'd be flattered if his tone wasn't so snarky. I'm not stupid enough to consider him a gentleman for opening a car door, he doesn't strike me as the type to put women before himself. Nevertheless, I thank him as I get in and shuffle to reach for my seat belt as he walks around the car and gets in himself.

"Never been in a car before?" He remarks sarcastically as he watches me fumble with the belt, amused. See? A gentleman would've lent over to help without so much as an odd look. I can't help but notice how his mood shifted since we left his office, he's dreading something, still, no reason to have an attitude with me. You can't open a car door then not help me with my seatbelt when I'm struggling. Silence.

|| * ||

"So what's your address?"

We've been driving for ten minutes and he had no clue where he was going? How had I neglected to tell him? Why didn't he bring it up before now?
God, as if it couldn't get any more awkward in here. I make my annoyance clear to him before giving him directions to my apartment. He doesn't seem to care about the time we'd wasted, then why was he looking at the clock so impatiently back in the bar? He makes no attempt to force conversation, which part of me is grateful for. Though the dense silence filling the car allows my mind to focus on other things. Things that I think I may be better off not noticing, like the way he taps the steering wheel in a poorly paced rhythm every time he slips into thought. It's rough, fast, careless, his mind is focused on something much more serious than the way his fingers hit the tight leather his hands sat on. Or the way he keeps glancing down at his phone, his eyes nervous, despite his attempt to look neutral. It's a call he's waiting for, or a call he's already received. He doesn't seem to care that my eyes are on him, that or he hasn't noticed.

It smells crisp, clean in here, with the faint hint of the cologne I presume he must have been wearing last night. It was warm, musky, if I really strain I can sense something cooler, something minty running through it to cut through the sharp spice. It's a pleasant smell. I wonder if he made any effort to analyse me in the way I did him, I doubt it.

I'm just delaying him, I'm nothing, an errand he has to run.