Xquisite Read Online Free Page B

coffee,” she stammered, even though they were already walking down the street in the opposite direction of her apartment.
    Ricardo made a dismissive sound in his throat. “I won’t allow you to waste such an elegant outfit by going home. We shall show you off at a little place I know. I trust you can walk several blocks in those delicate shoes?”
    Elegant outfit—delicate shoes . It took Chelsea’s brain a moment to catch up before she realized he was teasing her. Or, more likely, mocking her. She felt the color rush to her face, an old remnant of shame at her appearance, and for a moment, she felt like the scared fourteen-year-old she’d once been, whose “big brothers” in the salon gave her hand-me-down men’s shirts to wear to disguise the figure that was beginning to appear, the one she could not bear for anyone to see.
    She’d come a long way since then. She wore women’s clothes now, and many people had complimented her on her sense of style. But, considering her appearance through the eyes of this elegant Spaniard, she saw herself in another light.
    “I’m on my feet all day,” she protested. “I dress for comfort.”
    He said nothing, and though Chelsea could only see his profile, she felt sure he was raising an eyebrow skeptically.
    They walked the rest of the way in silence, Chelsea going over every item of clothing she was wearing, regretting all of it. The motorcycle boots had been custom made for her, a gift from a lover. Her jeans were from a West Hollywood thrift store but had once cost some rich woman hundreds of dollars, and they fit her like they’d been painted on. Her shirt was a simple black sleeveless rayon tunic, loose enough to cover the curve of her breasts. Her hair was pulled back from her face and pinned in a loose knot. By the end of the day, much of the knot had usually escaped, and today was no exception; she could feel the loose strands cascading to her neck.
    At least she’d put on makeup this morning. Some days she skipped it, but when she took the time, she favored dark kohl liner around her eyes, loads ofmascara, and pale lipstick. It was a natural outgrowth of the look she’d adopted in her late teens; she liked to think that the more grown-up version looked iconic and fierce.
    But next to Ricardo, she simply felt ugly. Overdone.
    They turned into a small alley that Chelsea had passed a hundred times before and never really noticed. Halfway down the block, appended to the back of a building like a barnacle, a small patio had been carved from the broken concrete and overgrown weeds. Tiny café tables were set with embroidered cloths and vases of yellow flowers.
    Ricardo steered her to a table, pulling out her chair, as a man burst from the dark interior of the building, carrying a bottle and a linen napkin.
    “Ricardo! Where have you been!” the man bellowed in heavily accented English. He wasn’t Spanish; Russian, perhaps, Chelsea thought.
    The two men embraced, slapping each other on the back, and then the man glanced down at Chelsea, who sat primly on the chair, trying to hide her clunky boots under the table, pressing her hands between her knees so he wouldn’t see her dark chipped nail polish. She supposed that like Ricardo, the restaurant owner probably preferred women in dresses. And while ordinarily she didn’t give her appearance much thought—she blended in easily enough on the art scene—this little café was made for floral skirts and pastel sweaters and red lipstick and French perfume.
    As if reading her mind, the café owner bowed deeply, then plucked a flower from the vase and handed it to her. “What may I get for you, beautiful lady?”
    “She will have iced coffee,” Ricardo said before Chelsea could speak. “As will I. And perhaps some of the pryaniki , yes?”
    Another bow and the man disappeared into the restaurant.
    “Forgive me for ordering for you,” Ricardo said, sounding not at all penitent. “But I am sure you will enjoy the