He’s the sort of guy it’d be easy to fall in love with. The sort of body to leave you good and distracted for days at a time, eyes that shift between earnest and orgasmic in the space of a heartbeat, a voice to melt resolve and good intentions. Perfect package, at least on paper.
I know what you’re thinking: who would ever kick that out of bed, let alone deny it a romp in the first place?
Me. That’d be me.
He’s talking to me like he’s genuinely interested, his drink forgotten in front of him, ice melting to nothingness and ruining whatever it is he’s been drinking. His breathing is normal, his eyes focused on me, leaning slightly forward as he asks questions. Actual questions. Not the usual ‘wanna fuck?’ type questions, but the sort you ask when you actually want to get to know somebody.
It’s weird. I don’t like it. I certainly don’t trust it. This isn’t how conversations usually go, not in places like this, and it feels like walking a cobblestone street in stilettos. I don’t recommend it. His gaze darts to my lips, just for a moment. He’s smiling, like I’m saying something interesting even though I’m pretty sure I’m doing the opposite.
His laugh is a rumbling purr that shouldn’t be as attractive as it is, and for the life of me, I can’t remember what I said to make him laugh. Not that I want to make him laugh again. I don’t. Shut up.
When you’ve sworn off love and the messiness it brings about? A guy like this is capital t Trouble. Only an idiot tries to keep Trouble focused on themselves. I’d like to think I’m not an idiot.
These sort of guys, they normally find themselves someone else, somebody with legs for days and a rack you can see coming from three rooms away. You know, the Barbie Dream Girl type. The body I rock isn’t supermodel chic, and the pretty boys of the world don’t often try for the consolation prize. And hey, I know that about me, and about them. The things you acknowledge have less power over you, and all that Dr. Phil bullshit. Guys don’t notice me, and that’s the way I like it.
It’s easier to kill people when they don’t even notice you exist. Movies might be all about the hot assassins liking their guns or whatever, but pretty stands out, and utterly average? No one notices those until the first, second, and third tier options are off the table. I don’t have to scout the room again to know there are prettier women- far prettier- here. Options aren’t thin on the ground for a man like this.
So why has he taken an interest?
He’s not the normal type to notice me. He’s not drunk on a bus, not shouting abuse on a street corner. He doesn’t look like the sort of guy who’ll have a crack at anything he sees that might have lady-bits. God help me, he seems… normal. Nice, even. So what on earth is he doing noticing the invisible girl?
He could be a test. It’s happened before. The higher ups tend to enjoy knowing that the staff aren’t easily distracted. Right now, I’m on recon, nothing too dangerous, but it’d be a bad idea to assume they won’t throw a spanner in the works just to keep it interesting.
He could also be competition, out to distract me and take the hit himself. Or, hell, if I’m good and pessimistic, he could be here to kill me, and seeing just how far he can take the rouse.
The idea that he could just be a nice guy? Highly unlikely.
It’s almost a shame. Almost.