The Secrets Of Grey Street

CXLIX.

"Yeah, it is a really nice place," I reply, my gaze wandering around the restaurant. It truly is a sight to behold. The walls are adorned with rich, dark wood, exuding a sense of warmth and sophistication. Soft, dim lighting in hues of crimson casts an enchanting glow, creating an intimate atmosphere. The leather seats we're seated on add a touch of elegance, their smooth surface inviting us to sink into their comfort.

Yet, as I observe the other patrons, a sense of unease washes over me. The majority of the clientele consists of men, their appearances exuding a ruggedness that borders on intimidating. They resemble the kind of rebels one might find on the infamous Grey Street, with their leather jackets, visible tattoos adorning their arms and necks, and piercings adorning their faces. Most of them arrived on roaring motorcycles, the air thick with the scent of their lit cigarettes. The room seems to be filled with an aura of rebellion, an unspoken camaraderie shared among these individuals.

To further emphasize this bond, every person who enters the restaurant greets Jackson with familiarity, addressing him by his street name, Vandal. The sheer number of greetings leaves me astounded, and I begin to suspect that Jackson is a well-known figure within this community. A celebrity, even. Despite the continuous stream of well-wishers, he doesn't allow anyone to join our table, keeping the conversations brief and to the point. With each introduction, he assigns them animal-inspired nicknames, such as Spider, Snake, or Beast. These encounters leave me with an impression of a dark and mysterious world, populated by individuals who exude an air of danger.

Amidst the flurry of introductions, there is one thing that makes me forget my unease: the way Jackson introduces me. "Meet my girl, Laila," he proudly declares, his voice laced with affection. The butterflies in my stomach flutter wildly, and a warm blush spreads across my cheeks. I can't help but feel a surge of happiness and a sense of belonging. Being his girl fills me with a sense of pride and joy, as if I've found my place in this enigmatic world.

As Jackson's girl.

And I hope I will always be his girl.

Lost in my blissful thoughts, I'm jolted back to reality by the gnawing hunger in my stomach. The urgency in my voice reveals my desperation as I address the issue. "Can we get a waiter, though? I am really hungry," I implore, hoping that our pleas will be heard.

Understanding the gravity of the situation, Jackson nods, his eyes scanning the room in search of a solution. "I'll call the waitresses." A flicker of determination gleams in his eyes as he spots a figure amidst the crowd. Raising his hand slightly, he calls out, "Lexi, honey!"

I look at him with disbelief, my jaw almost dropping. Honey?

My astonishment knows no bounds as I gaze at Jackson in disbelief. The term of endearment he uses catches me off guard, my jaw almost dropping open. The word "honey" rolls off his tongue so effortlessly, as if it's a natural part of his vocabulary. I find myself grappling with a mixture of curiosity and insecurity.

I turn around to see who he is calling. A girl with short black hair that touches her shoulders and green eyes, who is attending to some customers on a table nearby, turns to us. She is dressed like each of the waitresses here, in a black miniskirt that is short enough to show more than half of her thighs, a white blouse with the collar low enough to tease her cleavage, and a pair of heels that accentuate her appearance. At first glance, I can't help but notice how pretty she is.

As her eyes land on Jackson, she smiles, a big and radiant smile that lights up her face. Her reaction seems a bit too enthusiastic for a simple customer-server exchange, making me feel a twinge of unease.

She walks over to us swiftly, her steps confident and purposeful. When she reaches our table, she stands near Jackson, leaning slightly in his direction. "Oh, hello there, handsome," she says in a honeyed voice that makes me wince. Her words are accompanied by a giggle as she playfully pats Jackson's chest three times with both her hands.

I stare at them in disbelief, my eyes widening. Did this girl just touch my man? And, even more bewildering, did Jackson let her? The shock and discomfort surge within me, causing a mix of jealousy and protectiveness to bubble up.

My gaze shifts to Jackson, expecting him to address the situation, but he seems unperturbed. Instead, he looks at Lexi with warmth in his eyes and replies, "How are you today, Lexi?" His tone carries a sense of familiarity, as if they share a history or a deeper connection.

The words pass by me unnoticed, as my attention remains fixated on Jackson. She giggles once more, her laughter like a melody that pulls my gaze back to her. It becomes increasingly evident that she is showering Jackson with attention, acting in a way that feels flirtatious and intimate.

Feeling a surge of discomfort and a need to assert my presence, I discreetly tap Jackson's leg under the table, a gentle reminder that I am still sitting by his side. His gaze shifts towards me, and he looks confused.

Realizing the need to clarify the situation and introduce me properly, Jackson breaks the tension. He looks at Lexi and says, "Let me introduce you to my friend. This is Laila Ariti. Laila, this is Lexi Rivera, my old friend."

My shocked eyes widen as his words register. Friend. He referred to me as his friend. Confusion and hurt flood my thoughts, leaving me questioning the nature of our relationship and the significance he places on it.

"Hello, Laila. Nice to meet you," Lexi says, her smile reaching her eyes. I can feel her scrutinizing gaze on me, but my attention remains fixated on Jackson. Words elude me as a lump forms in my throat, and my whole body tenses with an unspoken unease.