Blood Games. Faye KellermanЧитать онлайн книгу.
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In the end, Chris had offered only one girl a job. She was a beautiful but drug-addicted nineteen-year-old. He had bought her a coach ticket on the cheapest airline he could find while Gabe, Chris, and Chris’s current girlfriend, Talia, flew back first class on Air France.
“What are the chances she’ll actually come work for you?” Gabe asked him.
“Fifty-fifty.”
She showed up two weeks later. Such spoke to the power of Chris’s charm.
WHEN GABE’S WATCH read two, he became pissed. He had already racked up twenty dollars in waiting charges and she was nowhere in sight. He told the cabdriver to hold on for another moment and got out of the taxi, texting while pacing the sidewalk.
Where are u!!!!
Sorry.
Fuck! They were going to be late. He hated being late. It set his teeth on edge. Finally, at 2:20, he saw her running down the block. If he wasn’t so furious, he would have laughed because she was comical. Red faced, she was running on heels, wearing a mini black cocktail dress that was tight on her nonexistent hips, and a black sweater with an old-fashioned furry collar. Her hair was pinned up in a kind of formal ball gown style. She was holding a beaded evening bag. His dress? A denim shirt over a black cotton tee, khakis, and vans.
She waved to him.
He didn’t wave back.
When she got to the cab, she said, “I’m so sorry—”
“It’s really late. Let’s get out of here.”
She went in first, and then he slid in beside her and slammed the door shut.
Hard.
“Go, go, go,” he barked to the driver—a Russian who spoke with a thick accent. “Take the 405 to the 101 east that turns into the 134. Take that to the 5 south until you hit the 110 south. Get off at 1st.”
“Hokay.”
“We need to get there in a half hour.”
“That is impossible.”
“Do it and I’ll make it worth your effort.”
“You the boss.”
The driver punched the accelerator and pitched them backward. Yasmine let out a slight gasp, but he ignored her. He sat back in the bench seat, fuming inwardly, his folded arms across his chest.
“I’m sorry,” Yasmine told him.
He didn’t answer. Then he said, “What took you so long?”
“I told my mom I gave back the tickets. So I had to wait until my mom and sisters left for shopping and Michael Shoomer’s party. Then I had to get ready.”
Get ready for what?
He glanced at her. She was wearing a ton of makeup, stockings, and fucking pearls—like it was a coming-out party. Even those girls look so dorky. She looked like she was playing dress-up with her mother’s clothing. He glanced away.
Nervously, she fingered her necklace. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t matter to me,” Gabe told her. “I’ve seen opera. Although I hate to be seated late. Everyone looks at you and you’re climbing over people. It’s so rude to the performers.”
She was red faced and still panting. Her eyes swept over his body and she was quiet. When she spoke, her voice was filled with self-loathing. “I’m totally overdressed.”
Gabe said nothing and continued to stew. She turned and sat peering out the side window of the cab.
Traffic was light. They were making decent time.
Finally Gabe said, “Opera attracts a lot of different people. People dress anywhere from jackets and ties to jeans. Don’t worry about it.”
She continued to stare out the window.
They rode another five minutes in silence. Gabe suddenly softened. What was the point of being nasty? That was his father’s domain. He said, “You look nice.”
She started to say something, but changed her mind.
Gabe said, “Really, Yasmine. You look very nice.”
She faced him for the first time. Her eyeliner was slightly smudged. “I’m really sorry I’m so late. My family is always late. I should have warned you. If you wanted me to come at one, you shoulda said twelve. I thought going to the opera was a real fancy thing.”
“Sometimes it is.” Gabe said to the taxi driver, “Can’t you go any faster?”
“I already go sixty-five.”
“Go seventy-five. There’s no one in front of you.”
“You pay for my ticket?”
“Yes, I’ll pay for your ticket.”
“You the boss.”
Again the cab shot forward. Gabe checked his watch. They had about a half hour to go and were about a half hour away. “Nothing in L.A. is formal, especially a matinee.”
“Now I know. I’ve never been to the opera. I’ve never even seen any kind of live stage performance.”
“Your parents don’t believe in culture?”
“They have culture, just not American culture. In Iran, I’m sure my father was very cultured. He didn’t learn English until he was thirty. Why would he go to the theater here? All the nuances would be lost on him.”
“Point well-taken. That was rude. Sorry.”
She fidgeted with the beads on her evening bag. “I look ridiculous.”
He tried out a smile. “No one’s going to be looking at you because we’ll be stumbling through the dark when we come in.”
“Sorry I made you miss everything.”
“We won’t miss everything. We’ll just have to wait until there’s a natural interlude before they’ll seat latecomers. It’s no big deal to me. I’ve seen La Traviata before.”
“You have?”
“Yeah, I saw it about four years ago at the Met.”
Her made-up eyes got wide. “You did?”
“Yeah. I used to live in New York.”
“Oh golly.” She sat back and sighed, closing her eyes. “That’s my dream.”
“To live in New York?”
“No, to go to the Met.” She sat up. “Who sang Violetta?”
“I’ve got to think. It was a while ago … I think I saw Celine Army.”
“She’s great!” She faced him, her eyes not quite meeting his. “But Alyssa Danielli is better.”
“I don’t know about better. They’re different.”
“Well, I like Danielli’s voice better. It’s sweeter.”
“I’ll go with you on that one.” He regarded her made-up face with her smeared eyeliner. “How does someone who’s never heard a live concert come to have such a discerning ear?”
She shrugged. “I’m an alien.”
Gabe held back a smile. “Liszt used to introduce Chopin by saying that he was from another planet, so maybe that’s not so bad.”
“Maybe.” Yasmine pulled out a mirror and lipstick from her purse. When she saw her face, she became horrified. “Oh, my God! I look like a freak!”
“You look fine—”
“I’m totally embarrassing … like I came off a