Gun Games - Faye Kellerman [20]
“You’re gonna tear your hair if you keep yanking on it like that.” He reached toward her, but she backed away. He rolled his eyes. “Hold still. I’m trying to help you, okay?”
She suddenly stopped, and her shoulders sagged in defeat. “Do whatever you want.”
Never say that to a guy. He stifled a smile. “You’ve got a lot of hair.”
“I can see you know nothing about Persian girls. We all have lots of hair and much of it in unwanted places.”
He let out an unexpected laugh. “Ever think about stand-up?”
“Glad I’m amusing.”
“Hold still.” He closed the distance between them as he carefully picked bobby pins out of her hair, one by one by one. His face was inches from her. He could taste her breath. He inhaled her perfume. Her dress was a scoop neck that had exposed her collarbones. After he took out all the clips, he pretended to smooth out her hair, letting his fingers dance over her bony protrusions. He raked his fingers through the long strands—downy soft, black and wavy. He pulled out a few loose tresses from the back of her sweater, feeling the nape of her neck.
And there it was: that all-too-familiar jolt below his waistline. Not that his pants were tight, but he was tall and, lucky him, he was proportional. All she had to do was look down to see it. Thankfully, she was too naive to notice. It was going to go to waste, but it did feel good to get a buzz from something other than porno.
“There you go.” He laid the strands over her shoulders and sat back. “Now you look hot.”
“Yeah, right!” Yasmine turned away. It was hard for her to look at his face without blushing. He was the most gorgeous boy she had ever seen in her entire life.
Gabe checked his watch and became irritated again. Which was good but it was hard to be aroused and angry at the same time. He tapped his foot as the taxi sped to its destination. He checked his watch as they approached the Music Center. By the time the taxi pulled over, they had five minutes to go.
They were at the Ahmanson Theatre side of the block instead of the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion where the opera was. Rather than redirect the cabbie, it was quicker to run it.
Gabe peeled out five twenties for a sixty-two-dollar bill. “Thanks.” He threw open the door. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go.”
He began to run across the pavement, assuming she was with him. But a moment later, when he looked over his shoulder, she was twenty paces behind. Her dress was too tight to allow unrestricted movement and her heels too high for her to run with any speed. He stopped and grabbed her hand, dragging her along, hearing the click, click, click of her heels.
“How much did you tip that guy?” she asked.
“I dunno. Who cares?”
“I’m splitting the bill with you so I care.”
“I said I’d pay for it, if you came . . . even though you were forty-five minutes late.”
She was panting. “I said I’ll pay half—”
“Forget it!” He pulled her forward. “Let’s go, let’s go!”
They made it to the entry at 3:04.
The lights were giving their final on and off blink, indicating that the show was about to start. Over the speakers, he could hear the orchestra tuning.
He started bounding up the steps, taking two at a time with Yasmine in tow, but her weight was dragging him down. He turned around and saw the problem. Her mouth was agape. She was gawking upward. “Look at the size of those chandeliers!”
“Yeah, they’ll still be here at intermission.” He yanked her forward. “C’mon!”
They made it inside just as the lights were dimming. He ran past the usher telling her he knew where their seats were.
Stepping over people.
Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me, excuse me.
Finally, he found the seats.
“Turn off your phone,” he told her.
“Right.”
Gabe slumped backward in his chair and exhaled out loud. He glanced at Yasmine who was unfazed by their in-the-nick-of-time arrival and seemingly unscathed by his churlish behavior. As soon as the orchestra launched into the overture, she sat at attention with her knees pressed together, her hands gripping her beaded purse, her body pitched slightly forward as if there was something