Made
The Cracks in Blackout Blinds
She remained stonily silent throughout the rest of the journey, with the one respite being a gesture asking if she could smoke. He said yes, though he meant to say no. He was really trying to quit, having grown out of the phase where he thought the cancerous smoke really accentuated his cheek bones.
They made it to Jen's in record time. He had taken some side streets, as recommended by his GPS, to avoid rush hour. It was a gamble, but a good one, and he looked forward to getting rid of the girl.
She tensed up noticeably at the sight of Jen's building. It was gorgeous, stark white and tall, with a pool on top, but he could see her jaw clench and unclench out of the corner of his eye. When he pulled into the parking garage, she lit another cigarette, balancing it delicately between shaking fingers.
"What's wrong with you?" he asked, blunt but not unkind. He was nice, or rather, had the capacity to be. But after that bruise-inducing headbutt, he wasn't sure that he wanted to be. It didn't matter; after one brutal glare his way, she was out of the car as soon as he pulled into a guest space.
He had no trouble catching up to her. Loaded down with the duffle bag and her own short legs, she didn't get as far as the door before he was level with her. Which was lucky, because the doorman was eyeing her suspiciously. He gave the man a wave, and he visibly relaxed. Michael had been at Jen's apartment before, and was well-known for his affable personality and ability to hold his drink. Admittedly, he liked showing both of those off.
"Elevator's this way," he said with a nudge on her shoulder. She was staring in awe at the lobby, decorated lavishly with chandeliers and old art. Jen liked to hang out there sometimes, reading scripts and the like. He'd sometimes join her. It was a very calming place.
But he didn't want to dawdle, he wanted to get rid of her. When she didn't respond, he grabbed her by the arm and led her to the elevator forcefully, with a grin directed at the doorman, who gave a nod in response.
"What's your name, anyway?" he asked, fully expecting to not get an answer. It was a surprised when she answered.
"Laila."
"Huh," he said, pressing the button for the 8th floor. "Like the Clapton song?" That was stupid, and he was pushing his luck. He'd gotten a name to forget, anything else was making more of an effort than was necessary.
"No," she said, startling him. " 'S got an 'i'."
They made it to Jen's in record time. He had taken some side streets, as recommended by his GPS, to avoid rush hour. It was a gamble, but a good one, and he looked forward to getting rid of the girl.
She tensed up noticeably at the sight of Jen's building. It was gorgeous, stark white and tall, with a pool on top, but he could see her jaw clench and unclench out of the corner of his eye. When he pulled into the parking garage, she lit another cigarette, balancing it delicately between shaking fingers.
"What's wrong with you?" he asked, blunt but not unkind. He was nice, or rather, had the capacity to be. But after that bruise-inducing headbutt, he wasn't sure that he wanted to be. It didn't matter; after one brutal glare his way, she was out of the car as soon as he pulled into a guest space.
He had no trouble catching up to her. Loaded down with the duffle bag and her own short legs, she didn't get as far as the door before he was level with her. Which was lucky, because the doorman was eyeing her suspiciously. He gave the man a wave, and he visibly relaxed. Michael had been at Jen's apartment before, and was well-known for his affable personality and ability to hold his drink. Admittedly, he liked showing both of those off.
"Elevator's this way," he said with a nudge on her shoulder. She was staring in awe at the lobby, decorated lavishly with chandeliers and old art. Jen liked to hang out there sometimes, reading scripts and the like. He'd sometimes join her. It was a very calming place.
But he didn't want to dawdle, he wanted to get rid of her. When she didn't respond, he grabbed her by the arm and led her to the elevator forcefully, with a grin directed at the doorman, who gave a nod in response.
"What's your name, anyway?" he asked, fully expecting to not get an answer. It was a surprised when she answered.
"Laila."
"Huh," he said, pressing the button for the 8th floor. "Like the Clapton song?" That was stupid, and he was pushing his luck. He'd gotten a name to forget, anything else was making more of an effort than was necessary.
"No," she said, startling him. " 'S got an 'i'."