Tequila Rose

by Willow Winters

  A whitewashed frame holding an eight-by-ten of Renee, Sharon, Autumn and me takes up the full shelf to the right of the TV. The rest of the shelving unit no longer exists.

  Dammit.

  Robert and I promised each other under our special angel oak tree back home that we would be together forever. No, it wasn’t a proposal, but it was a promise.

  Not one he meant to keep, apparently.

  We made that promise when we were still kids, but it meant something to me.

  The sofa groans as I lean back into it, pulling my knees into my chest. I had no idea he didn’t love me anymore. That’s what is really getting to me. It’s like whiplash. We were just together, laughing, holding each other’s hands. He kissed my knuckles in front of all of our friends. Even his smile …

  I can’t. Blinking rapidly, I stand up abruptly and force those memories out of my head. With the press of the clicker, music videos take over the screen—sorry, housewives—and I turn up the volume to something that sounds like a mix of country and pop.

  The lyrics elude me, but I like the beat. It guides me to my closet and that’s when I hear the chorus and recognize the song.

  Even though my face is blotchy from crying, makeup will cover it.

  I refuse to wallow in my living room and pity myself.

  Renee told me most men kiss the same but then there are others who are different.

  I’ve only kissed one man my whole life. Tonight, I’m going to find out if he’s one of the ones who kisses the same. Or if his was different.

  Pausing my motions as I pull a red chiffon shift dress out of the closet, I realize that means I’d have to kiss more than one man. Because what if they are different? If two kisses are different, the one from some random guy tonight compared to the ones Rob gave me … then how would I know which guy gave the same type of kiss that every other guy gives?

  A groan slips from my lips as I pull the dress off the hanger completely and then rub a hand down my face.

  That’s too complicated. I’ll just call it what it is. Revenge sex, a rebound, a fling. That’s what I want tonight. And I aim to get it. My father may think I’m a Southern belle, but a scorned woman is a scorned woman and that’s just what I am.

  Cupcakes and alcohol at eleven at night can’t steer me wrong, right?

  Magnolia

  I’m not second-guessing the red dress; red is a confident color, and a color to wear for good luck, at that. With my blond wavy hair only slightly brushed so it’s a bit wild, the simple dress makes me look a bit more refined. But I’m starting to question what I was thinking when I picked out these heels. I try not to wince or make it too noticeable as I carefully slip the right one off just a little. Just a teeny tiny bit for some relief. I’m seated at the bar so I don’t think a soul notices.

  The Louis Vuittons were a birthday gift from my dad. They’re expensive, utterly gorgeous, and brand new, ergo not broken in. My feet are killing me after walking from my apartment complex to Main Street where the string of bars was waiting for me. It’s only a mile, and in flip-flops or sneakers it’s an easy walk. Nice even. But in these heels … My bottom lip drops just slightly, letting a low hiss slip out as the mix of agony and relief swirl and hit me harder than the liquor has all night.

  Mistake number one tonight: these heels.

  I’ll definitely be taking an Uber home.

  “What’ll it be?” the bartender asks me, and I peek up at him. I lost a lot of my courage on the way down here. The tipsiness is waning far too quickly. I picked the Blue Room because a friend from class, Michelle, usually hangs out here. She’s nowhere in sight, though.

  “My friend gets a drink here … something like Cherry ...” I let my voice trail off and hope he knows what I’m talking about. The handsome man has to be in his late thirties judging by the faint wrinkles around his brown eyes. His hair, a little longer than I prefer in men, is swept back and the color matches his black tie. The Blue Room has a fabulous dress code for their employees, in my opinion. It’s all white dresses just above knee length for the women, and crisp white dress shirts rolled up to the elbows for the men. With the skinny tie he’s wearing, I have to admit it’s a sleek, sexy look that matches the décor in this place. It’s a nod at a speakeasy, I think.

  “It’s called Cherry something,” I say and chew my lip, trying to remember the name.

  Michelle ordered a round when I got back from my birthday celebration in Beaufort. “It’s delicious but I don’t remember the name,” I add when he gives me a look like he has no idea what I’m talking about.

  Shoot.

  “Berry Drop?” a bartender a few feet away chimes in. He’s the same height, but a smaller build than the man standing on the other side of the polished wooden counter in front of me.

  “Gotcha,” my bartender says and nods then immediately goes for a cup of ice, making the drink without waiting for me to acknowledge the name.

  “It is delicious,” he adds when he finally looks at me, grabbing two liquor bottles, plus a third.

  The whole darn thing looks like it’s made of alcohol. There’s some kind of rule about mixing alcohols, but I’m pretty sure those rules don’t count when it comes to breakups.

  I watch him add a scoop of fresh berries into the silver shaker and note how much I love this campus, this bar and the East Coast.

  My dad didn’t understand why I wanted to leave South Carolina. None of my friends got it either. University of Delaware is a party school and I came here with undecided as my degree of choice.

  It was either that or art history, which my father forbade. It wasn’t a serious enough path, according to him. I still haven’t had the balls to tell him that it’s what my degree will be in. Maybe I’ll get lucky and he’ll be too busy with schmoozing and planning meetings to pay my degree any mind.

  The tall cylindrical glass clanks in front of me, beads of condensation already rolling down its cool sides. “Berry Drop,” the bartender announces proudly and nods at me to have a sip. Resting his clasped hands in front of him, he waits as I take a sip.

  The smile that comes to my lips is immediate and apparently contagious, because he smiles too, claps once in victory, then moves to the end of the crowded bar.

  I’m all the way at the other end in the corner, where I can see everyone else. There’s an empty stool next to me, but the rest of the place is buzzing with life.

  I keep drinking, sucking down the delicious cocktail as I people watch. It seems to be mostly groups of men and women at the tables. The floor is packed with bodies, though, couples dancing and laughing. I’m sure some don’t even know each other; they’re simply here doing what I’m doing: looking for someone to get into trouble with.

  Maybe just to flirt, to feel someone against their skin. Maybe to share a kiss or two. I suck on the straw and air slips in, making that familiar white noise sound. I have to shake the cup to move some of the ice out of the way, frowning as I realize I’ve already gone through my drink in a matter of minutes ...

  It’s not that there wasn’t enough in the glass. It’s that it was simply that easy to drink it down.

  “You need another?” a friendly masculine voice, not the professional one of the bartender, asks from my right. Just hearing that deep baritone stirs up jitters in my stomach. I can feel his presence before I see him. He’s tall, much taller than I am, which is more than obvious when he sits down on the stool next to me and I have to crane my neck to look up at him.

  This place has sleek, minimalistic décor; the seat beneath this man isn’t enough for him. It’s too simple for a man with obvious rough edges. His shirt clings to his broad shoulders as he leans against the bar, folding his arms so the muscles in his forearms coil all the way up to his biceps.

  His charming smile only adds to the draw he has. The air bends around him, and every woman in this place is eyeing him up. If Man Candy Mondays had a mascot, this man would be it.

  It takes him smirking at me, letting out a gruff s
ound of humor from between his perfectly white teeth, for me to realize I haven’t answered him.

  I feel dizzy, warm and fuzzy. It’s the drink, I tell myself. Slipping the straw back into my mouth and finishing off the last tiny bit, I add, I’m a bad liar.

  “Yes please, if you’re offering,” I say as seductively as I can and my legs sway a little from side to side, my nerves betraying me as the words slip out. In my long walk down here, I forgot one very important thing … It’s been five years since I’ve flirted with anyone. I may be a touch rusty.

  He leans back, giving me a good view of his broad chest which looks like it’s been carved from marble.

  In dark jeans and a thin black T-shirt, he looks blue collar through and through. Someone who works with his hands and all that physical labor only makes him that much sexier.

  Mistake number two: accepting a drink from this man.

  He’s too good looking. Too charming. Too practiced at this game of “can I buy you a drink?” flirtation.

  “You go here?” I ask to make small talk as he lifts his hand to get the attention of the bartender, busy making another drink. The bartender nods after my new company gives him the order: another for her, and an IPA, tall.

  “No,” he says with a shake of his head and turns his full attention to me. “You?”

  The drink appears in front of me before I know it. And with my pointer finger and thumb keeping the straw steady, I do my best to keep up conversation while reminding myself that I’m supposed to be flirting.

  “Yup, art history major.”

  “Oh yeah? What are you going to do with that?” he asks, lifting the beer to his sculpted lips. He never takes his eyes off of me. I like it. I crave his attention more than I should.

  I shrug as if I don’t have it all planned out. Because I don’t, not anymore. Robert’s family owns a museum just outside of town and I always thought I’d work there. So much for that idea. I’ll be looking at any other museum in the country than the one with his family’s name on it.

  The thought is unwelcome and a new sense of loss washes over me. I take a good long sip before picking out a blueberry to suck on.

  “You live around here then?” I ask, desperate to change subjects.

  “Visiting a friend.”

  I glance behind him and then turn to get a better view of the place. “Where is he?” I presume his friend is male and then correct myself, adding, “Or she?”

  He shakes his head once, placing both his hands on the bar and tapping his thumbs like they’re drumming to the music. “No she.”

  The answer warms me and I have to put my drink down for a moment before I find this one gone too quickly as well.

  “He is busy tonight and left me to look after his place while he’s out of town.”

  “So you’re house-sitting?” I ask and finally get a good look at his eyes. They’re baby blue, such a pale shade. It’s not fair how God made some people roam this earth looking like sex on a stick.

  “Yeah, I’ve got the time and he had to head out on short notice.”

  “Work let you off without a problem?” I say, wondering what he does for a living.

  “I work for myself. So yeah.”

  “Entrepreneur?” I ask to pry further, wondering if he’s lying and this is a pickup routine he does. If it is, it’s working.

  I’ve never thought of myself as horny. Especially since I’ve been in a long-distance relationship for three years and going without sex never bothered me. Sitting next to Mr. Right Now, though … I am not too far away from being all-out needy.

  The conversation is easy and flows. Every time I laugh, my knees sway a little too much to the right and brush against him. One time his hand grazes them and with the light touch I can feel those sparks other people talk about.

  Time passes, and I feel all sorts of things I’m not sure I’ve ever felt before. It’s all so new and I wonder if this is what Sharon refers to when she talks about “first flirt jitters.”

  “You have an accent,” he says and I laugh at the comment, a little too loud. Rolling my eyes, I set down the shot glass, our second together, on the polished bar and look at it rather than those piercing blue eyes I can feel drifting down the crook of my neck.

  I wonder if he’s thinking about kissing me there. With his rough stubble, I imagine it would feel coarse and scratch my neck. Heat simmers along my skin, but it’s even hotter between my thighs. I wonder for a moment what it would be like to feel his stubble down there. I want to feel that. I want to feel what that’s like.

  Am I really going to do it? I think as the shots finally seem to hit my brain, making me a little more blurred than fuzzy.

  “I think I’ve had enough,” I say, my voice full of humor and I know the smile is still present on my face. I can feel one plastered there. I’m a chicken. I’ve always been a little scaredy-cat.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks and he reaches out to help me get off the barstool. I’m a little too short and grateful for the help. But the second his skin touches mine, electricity ignites, every nerve ending coming alive.

  The barstool scrapes against the ground as I get up, trying to stand on my own.

  My feet slip back into my heels and I stumble, caught off guard by the slight hint of pain. With a yelp from my lips, my hand reaches out to grab on to something, anything.

  I didn’t need to, because he’s quick to wrap his own strong arm around my back. He’s all hard muscle, coiled around me tight. Being this close to him, his masculine scent hits me suddenly. It’s like a cool breeze across the sea. Fresh with a hint of rain coming. He smells like home.

  I’m too busy getting lost in him to realize my hand is far too close to his … downstairs.

  “Oh!” I jump back, and he eases his grip on me immediately. My grimace fades when humor glints in his gorgeous eyes. “Sorry,” I whisper. The wince is from embarrassment, not from my shoes this time.

  “You all right?” he asks, sitting back in his seat but not taking his gaze off me. The suggestion of laughter still lingers on his lips, but he eyes me with concern.

  “I had a little before I got here,” I tell him with a nod. “You know, alcohol.”

  “Uh-huh,” he says and smirks at me.

  “So I’m just feeling a little tipsy.”

  “You need a glass of water.”

  “I just want to go for a second.”

  “Running away, then?” he asks and I gawk at him.

  Shaking my head, I deny it and say, “I’m not running away.” Although that’s exactly what I was going to do. I lie when I add, “I’m just going to the restroom to wash my hands.”

  “To wash your hands?”

  “It’s the polite thing to say.” I lower my voice. “Would you rather I tell you I have to pee?”

  His laugh is unexpected. It’s louder than the chuckles before, genuine and everything I want to hear from those lips right now. It’s deep and the cadence is as rough as the calluses on his hands.

  “You’re real cute,” he tells me, his smile reaching his eyes. “Can I at least have your name?”

  Mags. My name is there on the tip of my tongue. But that’s what Robert called me.

  I don’t want to be Magnolia.

  Tonight, I want to be a rose. Beautiful and delicate, but covered in thorns. You can’t fuck with a rose.

  “Rose,” I say, lying for the second time tonight. In a matter of five minutes, I’ve already lied to this man twice. Once about running away, and now about my name. I’m not proud of that, but the way he murmurs Rose like he’s tasting it on his tongue, makes me feel just about okay with lying.

  Maybe even good. That bit of heat from before ripples through me, and the ease that washes away the panic that hit me a moment ago, that definitely feels better than good.

  “And you?” I ask and he simply stares at me. For one long second and then another. “Your name?” I add, thinking maybe I didn’t make sense.

  His tongue clicks against
the roof of his mouth, drawing attention to both his strong jawline and his gorgeous lips. Especially the bottom one. My gaze stays there another second before I realize I’m waiting on him to give me his name.

  “Why don’t you head to the bathroom, or wherever you’re going,” he says confidently. “I’ll tell you when you get back.”

  He flashes me a wink with an asymmetrical grin playing at his lips, right before turning back to the bar. The music and chatter are so loud around me that I can’t hear what he tells the bartender.

  It doesn’t matter, though. The bathroom is my refuge. Every step I take to get there, every second I spend in the small line before I can snag a stall, I think about whether or not I’m actually going back to the bar.

  Apparently, I really did have to pee.

  It’s not until I think about what I’d do if I did go home that I make my decision. I’ve cried enough already today. I’m not going home to hug my pillow and feel that loneliness again. A little touch-up of powder and gloss is all I need. My cheeks are a bit flushed, but hey, how could they not be after sitting next to that man?

  Mistake number three: going back to the bar.

  The third time is the charm, isn’t it?

  “You came back,” Mr. Hot Stuff comments and it forces a blush to heat my cheeks.

  Sliding back onto the barstool and getting myself situated, I let out a huff of protest. “I said I would.”

  “Brody,” he says and the one word finally hits me. Brody. The sex god has a name.

  “I’ve never met a Brody before,” I say absently. I thought maybe, while I was in the bathroom, that he wasn’t as good looking as I imagined him to be. Beer goggles had taken effect or something. But looking at him from his profile to his broad shoulders, no one could ever deny Brody is a good-looking man.

  “Nice to meet you, Rose.” The moment he says my fake name, a basket hits the bar, stealing my attention. It’s hot and filled with slices of fried pickles. My mouth waters instantaneously. My favorite. Some people have a sweet tooth; I’ve got a salt tooth.

  “And a water,” the bartender says, placing a tall, clear glass in front of me.