I reach up to smooth my lavender strands, feeling suddenly self-conscious about my most recent color choice. Last month, I was an ashy gray-blonde. Before that, I was navy blue. Before that… I don’t even remember, if I’m being totally honest. I haven’t seen my natural hue since I was old enough to do something about it.
“So, who are you hiding from?” he asks, a slight slur in his voice.
“Um…” I blink, utterly confused. “What?”
“Simple enough question. Who are you hiding from?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He just stares at me. There’s a perceptive edge in his eyes, despite the fact that his brain is sloshing around in a puddle of Johnnie Walker. Even through a drunken haze, looking into them is unnerving. I wonder fleetingly what this man would be like while in full possession of his mental faculties.
I don’t think you want to find out, Emilia.
Pushing aside the urge to fidget, I set my face in a dispassionate mask and boldly return his gaze. He may think he can intimidate me, but I refuse to be intimidated. In my head, I pick him apart piece by piece, feature by feature, hoping I might discover some fatal flaw. A chink in his armor.
It’s a useless endeavor — even his imperfections are annoyingly attractive. The bump in his nose suggests he’s got a few bar fights under his belt. The small scar bisecting his left eyebrow lends character to a face that would betooperfect, in its absence. And if his dark hair is messy, it’s only because someone has been running her fingers through it all night — or, so I’d guess, judging by the smudge of bright magenta lipstick marring his collar.
What kind of girl left that pink kiss behind?I can’t help wondering as I study him.What kind of girl spent her night with him, her fingers up in that hair, her lips on that muscular throat? What kind of girl would he pick out of a crowd and take home to ruin?
Probably some model-perfect blonde with killer hair and a knockout figure. Certainly not a purple-haired hot mess with streaked eye makeup and a body type that suggests a begrudging-at-best relationship with her gym membership.
“You planning to answer my question any time soon?”
I startle. “Maybe I would if it made any sense. I’m nothidingfrom anyone. And I sure as shit don’t understand why a total stranger would make an assumption like that.”
His head cants to the side, examining me. When he speaks, his voice is soft. Almost contemplative. “The hair.”
I reach up and touch the offending strands, stunned into momentary silence.
“It’s either a disguise or a distraction technique,” he murmurs. “Just trying to figure out which.”
My eyes widen a shade and a scoff flies from my lips. I’m not entirely sure why I feel the need to defend my cosmetic choices to this random stranger — I’m not even sure why I’m wasting timetalkingto this random stranger — but I can’t seem to stop myself. “Look, it’s not some big personal statement. I liked the color. Don’t read into it.”
“Only one reason a girl who looks like you does something like that: she’s hiding. Either from herself or someone else.”
“N— No,” I stammer, going pale. “That’s—”
“People see all that in-your-face purple and never bother looking deeper. That’s the whole point, isn’t it?”
I blink rapidly. “Look, Freud, much as I appreciate the psychoanalysis, you can keep it to yourself.”
“Doesn’t take a shrink to spot a social chameleon.”
“I am not achameleon!” I hiss, feeling my blood pressure rise. “And, for future reference, it’s generally considered impolite to equate people to lizards. Especially people you’ve just met and don’t know a damn thing about!”
His mouth twitches. “I know your type. You’re hiding in plain sight. Under that hair and that heavy eye makeup and those cheap clothes…”
My mouth falls open. “For your information, this outfit is from Zara and—”
“Love, I don’t give a shit where you shop.”
“Then do us both a favor — keep your unsolicited options to yourself, asshole!”
“Bit defensive for someone who claims I’m totally off the mark, aren’t you?”
My hands curl into fists. I strive for a cool tone. “I’m not defensive. I simply have no interest in hearing some deep, bourbon-drenched dive into my psychological profile from a drunk jerk who’s known me for approximately five minutes.”
“Hate to break it to you, but I had you figured out in about fiveseconds, love.”