Roxy (Pandemic Sorrow #3)

by Stevie J. Cole

  “Well, we only serve alcohol here, so if you want your usual suicidal cocktail of cocaine and ecstasy laced with a little bit of embalming fluid, you’ll have to go talk to the crackhead over off Ventura.” I couldn’t help but snort at that little comment.

  “Nasty!” he hissed, his smile spreading farther across his face. He arched a brow, casually folded his arms over the countertop, and leaned in even closer. At this point he was literally an inch away from my face. “Looks like somebody needs to get laid to take the edge off her attitude.”

  I swallowed, and disgust rippled through me.

  This was who he was, a womanizer.

  How many girls had he talked to like this, in that sex-laden, flirtatious tone of his? He thought I was easy; he expected me to give into him because that’s what girls did with him.

  I was certain that Jag Steele was an exception to even the most prudish, wholesome girl. I had no doubt that he could have a virgin spread eagle on the hood of a car in five minutes flat if he wanted.

  The difference with me was that I had issues that cut deep down inside, and I was broken to the point that not even something as superficial as spreading my legs for the most famous sex god on earth could mend the smallest sliver of my ego. I didn’t need him to boost some part of me. I felt was inadequate, because all of me was inadequate.

  “If that was an offer from you…” I had to pause to take in a breath as my eyes scanned over his stylishly dressed, ripped body. I forced a snarl. “I think I’d rather fuck a goat.”

  What the fuck did I just say? Did I really just say I’d rather fuck a farm animal? Oh, God help me! This man makes me act like a fucking idiot.

  “Ohhhh!” Jag bellowed, lifting his arm and pointing an accusing finger at me. His eyes were wide and sparkling when he shouted, “She’s into bestiality. That’s illegal here, you know?” His attention directed back to me when laughter broke out from the people gathered around the bar. I glanced around, and of course everyone was staring at the two of us.

  The two of us…

  Now, he’d pissed me off. He was so fucking cocky, he didn’t understand no, and I swear, I think he liked me fucking with him. Part of me felt it just made him more determined to persuade me to follow him into a bathroom, hike up my skirt, and toss my ankle over that muscular shoulder of his.

  I gave up. I surrendered. “What do you want?” I growled.

  He looked off in thought for a moment, then I saw his eyes light up. “Hmmm. How about a buttery nipple,” he said, glancing at my chest and licking his lips. “A blow job.” He pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek to mimic a dick pushing against it. “And two bald pussies.” His mouth quirked up into a satisfied grin. “What?” He held his hands innocently in the air. “Those are the names of shots, aren’t they? That’s what I want. Go ahead and mix those up for me, would you, princess?”

  At that point, I just wanted to rid myself of him. I jerked a mixer from the side of the bar. My eyes locked on his in an angry glare as I grabbed liquor bottles and poured the liquid into the stainless steel container.

  Evidently, he felt he could do just a little better because he yelled out, “And what about a black-headed slut with a pink stripe? Is that a shot? Because I really think I’d enjoy putting that in my mouth.”

  Fire coursed through my veins as I stared through the black and pink tendrils of hair that had fallen in my face. I shook the container as hard as I could, wishing it was his shoulders I was shaking violently. Did women really respond positively to his condescending comments, to this rude and crude self-entitled jackass?

  I sloppily poured the shots, gathered them in my hands and placed them on the counter. Just as I placed my hand around the first shot glass, one of the other bartenders latched onto my shoulder. “Hey, that’s Jag Steele, you know that, right?” She leaned in and whispered, “You lucky bitch, he is hard-core hitting on you!”

  I felt my entire body shake and I couldn’t control the aggravated groan. That groan actually came out more like a yell, a much more frustrated and so-done-with-this-shit declarative than I’d expected.

  Taking the first shot in my hand, I slammed it down so hard I feared I may have shattered the glass.

  “Here’s your buttery nipple.”

  The next one hit the counter a little harder.

  “Here’s your blow job.”

  I tried to soften the impact when I banged the next two down.

  “Two bald pussies…”

  Grabbing the last shot, I twisted it around as I stared coyly through my lashes at him. I attempted to give him the most intimidating stare I could muster as I slowly let the words roll from my lips. “And this one, this one I made especially for you, Mr. Jag Steele, and it’s called not a fucking chance!”

  I felt a smug expression fall over my face and I took the tray from the counter, slapping it against my hip as I trotted off from the bar to catch a breath.

  Although no one would have ever been able to tell by the way I’d just acted, I was horrified. I hurried behind the bar to try to breathe. What the hell had I just done? I just couldn’t stop myself.

  Jag made me angry. He was so arrogant, such an entitled little prick, but I think more than anything else I was being a complete ass-hat to him because I, against my will, found him attractive, and I didn’t want to find him attractive at all, but my morals and hormones were in a fight on this matter.

  My heart was pounding, my adrenaline surging through me, making my skin all tingly and buzzy. I had just been a complete bitch to the Jag Steele. I had met each of his ridiculous and insulting comments with one of my own, and if Carlos ever found out he would probably fire my ass.

  It was my defense. I pretended I was unaffected. That guy made me a nervous fucking wreck, but I did not want him to know that. I wanted to stay away from him, but something about him intrigued me, and I couldn’t take a chance on being eaten alive by someone like him. I needed Jag to believe that I was a lost cause, that I was completely uninterested in him, because I knew he was dangerous, he was a predator. I needed him to find more vulnerable prey before he broke me, and I gave in.

  I was pissed because being attracted to him meant that I was inadvertently attracted to everything I hated: arrogance, addiction, a complete Messiah Complex. He made me question myself, and I couldn’t handle that.

  I didn’t want to handle it.

  I didn’t need to question anything. I didn’t need him. I wanted him, but I in no damn way needed him.

  Fate thought otherwise…

  Chapter 8

  After the night of filthy-sex shot orders from Jag, my life was uninterrupted, completely normal for an entire month. I figured he’d moved on, and I was thankful to go back to my mundane routine of just existing.

  *****

  We were slammed. People were crowded around the bar, yelling for drinks.

  “I’m about to piss on myself. Can you cover me for three minutes, please?” Tess asked, standing with crossed legs and holding herself between her legs.

  “Yeah, go ahead.”

  Just as Tess walked off, I saw Jag pushing his way through the crowd, sunglasses over his eyes, hands shoved in his pockets. I went ahead and sighed, rolling my eyes.

  The fact that I had laid into him a few weeks ago must have really not set well with him. I felt like he just needed me to wink at him, blow a kiss at him, something to make him feel that there wasn’t one woman on the face of this planet whose pussy didn’t drip at the mere mention of his name.

  I bent down to look for another bottle of Smirnoff Vanilla, hoping that he’d go to another bartender, but as soon as I surfaced I was pretty much face to face with the fucker.

  “Let me guess,” I stared at him without expression, “a cum shot, a rim job, or a fucking death wish?” I quickly lifted the shaker and mixed up the red velvet martini that had been ordered, terrified that the fact I remembered he liked to order sexual innuendos would tip him off that I was hiding an unwanted attracti
on to him.

  He blinked a few times, his lip twitching, I guess from trying to maintain his composure and not cuss me out. “Nah. Just a shot of bourbon.”

  I poured the martini out and slid it across to the girl who’d ordered it, then grabbed a bottle of top-shelf bourbon and carelessly dumped it into a shot glass.

  I shoved it toward him, the amber liquid sloshing over the edge. He dug in his back pocket, and I watched as some of his hair fall down in his face. He handed his card to me and I shook my head. “If I let you open a tab, I’ll get bitched out.”

  He shrugged and took the shot glass from me, then walked off.

  That’s it? No smart-ass comeback? No calling me princess? I was stunned. He looked distracted and kind of sad.

  “Hey! Bitch! I’ve been waiting for fifteen minutes.”

  That call got my attention. I looked to my right and saw the asshole that had ordered a mojito on a night the club was short a bartender and beyond slammed. I’d had to send one of the other bartenders to the back to get some mint leaves and completely forgotten about him while making the fifteen martinis that had been ordered and having Jag strut up to the bar.

  “Yeah, yeah.” I grabbed the mint that had been laid down for me, crammed it in a cup, and angrily muddled it.

  I’d just finished shaking up the stupid drink when shouting erupted from the crowd. I looked over and saw Jag’s fist repeatedly smashing into the guy’s face. He looked like a beast that had been unleashed. The guy kept trying to block Jag, but Jag just kept slamming his fist into the side of the guy’s head.

  “Holy shit!” Drew, another bartender, grabbed me. “I think he’s beating that guy up because he called you a bitch.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, he told the guy no one could talk to you like that.”

  “Oh, my God.” I grabbed the soda gun and hopped up on the bar top. Aiming, I squirted it in their direction.

  “Security, security!” I shouted as I continued to hose the two guys down to no avail.

  The bouncers quickly made their way to them and yanked Jag away from the guy, who was now dazed and bleeding everywhere.

  I watched as security escorted both of them to the front of the bar. Jag glanced over his shoulder at me and made eye contact.

  I couldn’t believe that had just happened, and I felt guilty for some reason. Jag Steele didn’t know me, and I’d been nothing but a complete bitch to him, yet he fought for me, for no reason…he literally fought for me.

  I was floored.

  “What the fuck just happened?” Tess asked, staring out over the crowd that was now chattering about the incident.

  “Jag Steele just happened!” Drew stated, winking at me. “I think he has a thing for Rox here. Some guy called her a bitch and he went nuts.”

  Tess’ face went limp. Slack-jawed, her eyes darted over to me, one brow arching and twitching a little. “Really? Hmm, Jag Steele…stood up for our little Roxy? Interesting.”

  I shook my head, tossed the bar towel to the side, and made my way to the back. I had to clear my head. He had managed to get into it, and I couldn’t have that.

  Jag didn’t know me, and I had been nothing but rude and condescending to him, and yet he stood up for me when he had no reason to.

  That didn’t mesh with the image I had constructed of this guy. He was a rock god, he was selfish, he was an ass to women…so why would he have knocked a guy out for being “disrespectful” to me?

  I felt guilty about that, about the way I’d acted toward him, because evidently, in some way, my assumption about him had been wrong. How many people had I encountered, had I thought cared about me, but they had never fought for me, and Jag had.

  That fact absolutely fucked with my head.

  During the rest of my shift, my eyes somehow kept finding Jag through the crowd. Something inside me kept telling me I should apologize to him for being such a bitch, but there was a larger part that thought maybe it did him some good to have one person who wouldn’t grovel at his feet.

  The longer the night wore on, my conscience ate away at me. I realized it wasn’t just guys like Jag that were complete assholes, but that most people, in general are. The more I thought about the fact that he decked that guy in the face for being rude to me, the guiltier I felt.

  I was pouring a martini when I noticed Jag leaving with some primped up groupie.

  “You gonna go say something to him, hmmm?” Tess asked, popping a beer.

  “What? No, what are you…” I felt sticky fluid run over my knuckles. “Shit,” I mumbled, glancing down at the martini now puddled on the bar top.

  “Hmm.” Tess grinned and pointed at my over-poured drink. “Not distracted, are you?”

  Huffing, I reached for a towel to clean up the spill, then handed the drink to the girl who’d ordered it.

  “I’ll…I’ll be back,” I said under my breath and made my way to the front entrance.

  Just as I came to the door, I saw Jag and the girl climb in a car.

  Shit. Why do I even care?

  I reprimanded myself for even contemplating apologizing to the ego-inflated bastard, and the moment I had talked myself out of caring, the passenger door to his car flung open. Seconds later, the girl got out, and she looked pissed.

  I slipped out the door and stood on the sidewalk. She came tromping up, a sour frown drawn on her face as she muttered, “Unbelievable.” She halted, her eyes meeting mine. “Can you believe Jag Steele wouldn’t touch me? What the hell is wrong with him?” she gasped before trotting off.

  Whoa! I thought he screwed anything that had even the slightest remnants of a pulse?

  His car sat on the side of the street, headlights on. I swallowed, and checking that no traffic was coming, I crossed the street.

  I had no idea what I would say to him, and even had I planned out an inaugural speech, every word would have vanished due to what happened next.

  I exhaled and tapped on his window. Without waiting, I leaned over, cupping my hands to the tinted window to peer inside.

  Every last ounce of air inside my lungs came flying out in one large gasp. My mouth literally dropped and I was in such shock, all I could do was stare.

  Jag had his seat leaned back, his pants around his knees, and he was jerking one off, on the side of Ventura! While I was trying to process that this was actually happening, he glanced through the window, smiled, and then winked at me just before he tossed his head back.

  My heart was drumming up into my throat, actually, at that point it may have been somewhere closer to my mouth. I felt like an intruder and a total pervert for standing there watching him, but what the hell else was I supposed to do? I almost couldn’t believe that he was actually doing that in his car that was parked on a busy LA street. Oh, my God! Did he just have an orgasm? Holy Shit!

  Finally, I convinced my feet to move. Spinning around, I started back toward the club. I’d just hopped onto the curb when I heard him yell, “Did you enjoy that show, princess? Did that get you all wet between those killer thighs of yours?”

  I hurried to the door of The Club, sweat pricking its way over my face. I couldn’t deal with him. I just couldn’t even take him.

  *****

  Two days later, and I had been unable to get Jag out of my head. I dreaded having another run-in with him, because what would I say? I’m sorry, thanks for standing up for me? Leave me alone? Hope everything came out all right the other night?

  My emotions where confused and I had no idea how to handle them. I kept glancing around the bar, looking for his tall frame, his unruly hair to come stalking through the crowd, but he never did.

  The night had been absolute shit. We were crowded as always and I’d been called a bitch, a whore, a dumbass, and five hundred other obscene names when I couldn’t get the drunks their drinks quickly enough. I’d thought about calling in that night because I felt like shit. I was depressed and bitter. It was just a week until the anniversary of Sean’s death, and I hated bein
g around people even more than usual that time of year.

  The crowd had thinned out sooner than usual, so Carlos cut me early. I couldn’t have been happier.

  Heading home, I pulled off the exit before my apartment to go to the Pour House, the bar Sean had always frequented. The name was fitting, as was the atmosphere.

  Some might say that I was one for self-torture, but for me—I just liked going any place that made me feel him. And I felt him there for some reason; I could still feel him there. I would sit in the seat he had always sat in, and I could feel him all around me, swathing me, protecting me.

  I pulled into the tiny parking lot. The only car there was Phil’s powder blue 1989 Cadillac Deville. Now that Sean was dead, Phil was the one regular at the place.

  I pulled in a deep breath to clear my mind, and I walked toward the barred entrance. The tiny bell jingled as I crept in, and the bartender glanced up at me. I’d only come in here twice with Sean after his band had finished playing at the run-down bar a few streets over. I’d never told him who I was, and Sean had never introduced me to him.

  That man was one of the reasons Sean had continued coming to this place. He loved that old man because he said he was an absolute dick. He’d even started calling him “Dick” and the old man hadn’t seemed to mind, from what Sean had told me.

  Sean reveled in Dick’s ability to offend anyone that walked through the door. It was like the old man didn’t want anyone to ever come back.

  “Ladies aren’t supposed to drink, you know that, right?” he asked in a gruff smoker’s voice. “Your livers are too dainty for this poison.”

  I sat my ragged purse up on the bar. “I never said I was a lady. Actually, I’m anything but.”

  Curling the corners of his thin lips, he laughed. “So, what do you want? I don’t do any of those froufrou drinks. Remember?”