by Megyn Ward
She’s wearing a dress—but not the dress. It’s white, the top of it snug, sculpted over her breasts, the V of it plunging between them just enough to give the hint of cleavage before flaring out over her hips, caressing the perfect curve of her ass, the hem of it skimming her knees. She’s wearing the same heels as last night. The red ones. The only pair she owns. It’s one of the outfits she wears when she works gallery openings for Miranda. It’s professional and feminine. Completely appropriate and suitable.
I want to bend her over the nearest table, lift that completely appropriate skirt and fuck her so hard she can’t walk. Pull her hair and come all over her ass.
What the fuck is happening to me?
“Lookin’ good,” Conner calls out from behind the bar, shooting me an evil grin before he refocuses on her, making her blush. “Come have a drink with me, Legs, before Prince Charming sweeps in and takes you away from all this.” He’s been calling her Legs since the day he met her and every time he does, she blushes. Before last night it annoyed me. Right now, I want to punch Conner in the throat. And that motherfucker knows it.
I ignore them, just keep wiping, staying as far away from her as possible, while she laughs and approaches the bar to have a seat. From the corner of my eye I watch Conner mix her a vodka soda while they talk. Whatever he’s saying to her has her laughing. It feels like forever since I made her laugh.
You don’t want to make her laugh. You want to make her come.
I grit my teeth and keep wiping.
A large group of college kids push through the door, loud and raucous, heading straight for the bar. Conner ignores them, focused on whatever Cari is saying to him. He’s trying to force me back behind the bar.
Well, fuck you.
After a few minutes, Conner motions at me with his hand. “Come take care of these fuckers, I’m busy,” he says, openly challenging me.
I consider telling him to fuck off but I don’t. I toss the bar rag over my shoulder and approach from the other side, still keeping as far away from Cari as possible, until I’m behind the bar. The group starts calling out drink orders and I fill them, focusing on pouring liquor over ice and working the taps until they’re moving away from the bar, drinks in hand to play pool or throw darts.
“Hey,” Lisa says in my ear, coming out of nowhere, her hand sliding down my back before anchoring itself to my hip. “Call me crazy but it feels like you’ve been avoiding me.” She’s been trying to get my attention all day long. Standing too close. Following me into the office when I went in to switch out my laundry.
“I’ve never worked a Saturday night before—just don’t want to fuck it up,” I tell her, brushing her hand off my hip.
Not getting the hint, she reattaches herself, lifting herself on her tiptoes to set her chin on my shoulder. “We never got a chance to finish what we started last night.”
I want to push her away and tell her it’s not going to happen—ever—but I don’t. Instead, I move away from her under the pretense of drawing myself a pint. “Yeah, about that—I was drunk.” I shake my head, trying to keep my voice low because I don’t want to embarrass her. “You’re a nice girl—”
She follows me to the taps, standing so close I can feel her lips brush against my ear. “You know what they say about nice girls...” She reaches down to wrap her hand around my cock, rubbing her thumb across the head. “We swallow.”
I flip the tap off and grab her by her wrist. “It’s not going to happen. Ever,” I tell her, jerking her hand off my dick. “So, don’t touch me.” I expect her to start screaming about how I’m hurting her but she doesn’t. She just turns and leans into me, pressing her rock-hard nipples against my arm like being grabbed is turning her on.
Jesus. I’m beginning to think Declan was right about this girl.
I let go of her. “Stay away from me,” I say through gritted teeth. “What happened was a mistake. Not one I’m looking to repeat.”
Something flashes in her eyes and for a second, I think I’m going to have a problem, but then it’s gone and she smiles. “Okay,” she says, moving away from me, her cocktail tray tucked under her arm. I stand there for a few seconds. At least I found the cure for the perpetual hard-on I’ve been sporting for the past 24-hours.
When I turn around, I find Cari staring at me.
She watched the whole fucking thing.
Thirty
Cari
I sneak another look at my phone. It’s eight minutes until seven. At least eight more minutes of sitting here, pretending I don’t care that Patrick is completely ignoring me while some crazy-ass cocktail waitress is practically jerking him off behind the bar. While I’m pretending, I sip my vodka soda and fantasize about smashing my rapidly emptying glass against her stupid face.
“Want another one?”
I look up to find Conner standing in front of me, a bottle of Kettle One in one hand, the mixer gun in the other. I do want another one. I want another six. A gallon of the stuff. Enough vodka to blind me sounded good right now. Instead I shake my head, placing a hand over my glass. “No, the last thing I need is showing up for a date with Everett Chase, half in the bag.”
Conner motioned my hand away from my glass, giving me a shot of club soda from the gun without the vodka. “Am I supposed to know who that is?”
“Not unless you’re an art nerd like me.” I laugh and shake my head. From the corner of my eye I can see Patrick on the other side of the bar, talking to Crazypants. They’re standing close together and he has her by the wrist while she eyefucks him. I get a sudden flash of Patrick hovering above me in the hallway, his hand gripping me by the wrist to lift my fingers to his mouth. Drawing them into his mouth to lick them clean of my juices.
I’m so lost in my own head that it takes me a moment to realize that whatever was happening between Patrick and Crazypants is over and he’s looking at me. Caught me watching him get his cock massaged by the same girl who had her mouth on it less than 24-hours ago. Then the asshole winks at me.
He. Winks.
Heat floods my chest and I tear my gaze away, forcing myself to focus on Conner. “What was that?” I say, smiling up at him.
“I said…” Conner laughs, tossing a look down the bar where Patrick is popping the tops on a round of long-necks. “This guy any better than the usual dickbags you go for?” he says, tossing a lime wedge into my glass.
I should be insulted but I can’t seem to muster the indignation. He’s right. My usual taste in guys is bad. Slicked back hair and expensive suits bad. Guys who just want something pretty hanging off their arm. Guys who treat me like I’m stupid with nothing important to say. Instead of getting angry, I shrug, unable to stop myself from looking down the bar where Patrick fields the steady stream of drink orders that come his way. “He’s an artist.” I say, tearing my gaze away from Patrick, focusing it on his cousin instead. “Miranda’s hosting a show for him in a few months. Some benefit thing. For combat vets.”
“Vets? So, he’s not a complete asshole,” Conner says, nodding his head. “And he gives a shit about something other than himself.” He shrugs. “I could get behind that.”
“Could?” I say, laughing a little while chasing the lime wedge around with the short red straw in my glass.
“Yeah—could,” he says setting a pair of shot glasses on the bar. “If you weren’t going out with him just to fuck with my cousin.”
His accusation stiffened my spine. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me just fine.” He lifted a bottle of Jameson from the well in front of him and poured a shot into each of the glasses in front of him. “I don’t know what your game’s been these past six months, but it’s not funny anymore. He deserves better.”
His words stung, like he slapped me in the face. “And I don’t?” I blurt out before I can shut myself up.
“Cap’n is a nice guy. He—”
I laugh because I just can’t help it. “Trust me—your cousin isn’t as nice as he pretends to be.�
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Conner narrowed his gaze on me for a second before he seemed to make up his mind about something. “You’re right. He’s not nice. He’s repressed.” He tossed back one of the shots, not even flinching at the burn. “You want to know why he never made a move on you? That’s why,” he says, re-filling the glass he just emptied. “He’s afraid of who he really is and what he really wants because it’s not nice. It’s not polite. It’s dirty and it’s messy, so he ignores it and pretends those things about himself don’t exist.” He leans across the bar and drops his voice. “His feelings for you make it hard for him but he could handle you working him up, day in and day out—all he had to do was pretend it was all in his head. What he can’t handle is knowing you were doing it on purpose, just to fuck with him like he’s some kinda nutless chump.”
“That’s—” I’m shaking my head, staring at Conner, my throat seizes up, hand wrapped around the glass in front of me like it’s the only thing keeping me from falling off my stool. Before I can formulate a response, he starts talking again.
“Look, I like you, Legs. I like you a lot,” he says. “That’s why I’m telling you all this. One of you is gonna have to pull your head out of your ass and be honest about how you feel and what you want and I can almost promise, it’s not going to be him, because there’s still waters and then there’s where Cap’n likes to hang his hat.”
He’s right. I know he is, but I don’t have a clue on how to fix it. “How do you I propose I do that, Conner?” I’m not angry anymore. I’m asking for help from someone who seems to know Patrick better than he knows himself. “I’ve tried apologizing. I’ve tried explaining. He won’t listen to me.”
“Fuck if I know, Legs, I’m just a grease-monkey who can’t keep his dick in his pants but I’ll tell you this much—” He lifts the shot glass again, this time clinking it against my glass of club soda before tossing it back. “You broke it. You bought it.”
Thirty-one
Patrick
The car shows up for Cari at seven o’clock sharp, the driver pushing through the door to stand just inside the bar, searching for someone in the sea of frat bros and college girls who looks dignified enough to warrant a chauffeured car. As soon as he sees Cari, he straightens his posture and nods at her while she slides out of her seat and makes her way toward him.
I’m in the middle of building a round of black & tans, using every ounce of focus I have to ignore the fact that I can still feel the way her pussy clamped down on my fingers while she rode my hand. Her nails digging into my bicep, her eyes wide and glazed with lust when I pulled her hair. The way she moaned my name and reached for my cock like it was the only thing in the world that could satisfy her. The way she came for me when I told her to.
Fuck. Me.
Rounding the bar, I meet her a few steps from the door. “Let me help you with that,” I say, reaching for her red cashmere wrap. Taking it from her, I drape it around her shoulders, using my grip on it to pull her close. My mouth hovers over hers for a moment, my gaze focused on her lips, slightly parted. I brush the pad of my thumb over her strawberry birthmark, the edge of it peeking out from the neckline of her dress. It’s warm, I can feel the blood rushing across her chest to gather there and I smile because I know it’s because of me. How close I am. “Do you have your cell phone?” I ask like I’m her fucking mother or something and she looks at me like I’m nuts.
“What?” She sounds confused, looking over my shoulder at the guy here to drive her to her date. “Yes.”
“And it’s charged?” I let my thumb skim lower, running along the swell of her breast, dipping into her cleavage. “We both know you don’t keep it charged.”
“Yes,” she says softly, her pupils dilating, breath catching in her throat. “It’s charged… I have to go, Patrick.”
I ignore her, sweeping my thumb over the thin fabric of her dress, my cock jerking when I feel her nipple go hard. “Money, just in case?”
She nods her head, her eyes slipping closed for a moment, her tongue running lightly along her lower lip. I want to take her lower lip between my teeth. Bite and nibble and lick and taste my way over every fucking inch of her.
I lean even closer, bringing my mouth to her ear while my thumb draws lazy circles against her nipple. “Are you wearing panties?” I whisper in her ear before my teeth close over its lobe while I pinch her nipple between my thumb and forefinger, rolling it beneath the fabric of her dress.
She gasps, the shuttering breath of it skates across my neck and I can feel her nod, the top of her head brushing across my jawline. “Yes.”
I know people are watching us but I don’t care. She’s leaving to go on a date with another guy but before she does, I’m going to remind her that she’s mine. That she belongs to me. “Are they wet?”
She tries to jerk back, put space between us but I tighten my grip on her wrap, pulling her close enough to feel the hard length of my cock pressing against her belly. “You better answer me, Cari,” I tell her, fighting to keep my voice level. “Because if you don’t, I’m going to have to check for myself—right here, in front of this whole fucking bar. Are. They. Wet?”
I can feel her turn her head, looking around the knot of people we’re standing in. It’s barely seven o’clock on a Saturday but Gilroy’s is already half packed, people milling around us, giving us quick, knowing looks. “You wouldn’t—” she says before cutting herself off like she’s no longer sure who I am and what I’d be willing to do to her in public. “Yes.”
Smart girl to answer me because what she’s thinking about me is right. I’ve gone off the deep-end when it come to her and right now, I’m not drowning. I’m doing the fucking backstroke. Enjoying every second of my temporary insanity. “For me?”
“Yes,” she says, shifting the hold she has on her purse, the back of her hand grazing my cock.
I groan softly. I’m about five seconds away from telling the guy behind me to fuck off, drag her upstairs like a Neanderthal and fuck the shit out of her. It takes me a moment to gain a semblance of composure but when I do, I take a step back and look her right in the eye. “I’m going to fuck you when you come home,” I say, like I’m asking her to pick up milk on the way home, not even trying to whisper. “Have a good time,” I tell her grinning at the way her eyes widen slightly before I let her go.
I walk back to the bar and make my way behind it. When I do, I look at the spot I left her standing in. She’s already gone.
I spend the next few hours on auto-pilot, slinging drinks and breaking up fights while doing my best to dodge Lisa’s groping hands. I’m not sure how much clearer I can be about regretting what happened between us but at this point, I’m over being nice about it. Every time she touches me, I brush her off and tell her to get back to work. She just smiles at me and saunters away for a while before circling back around to cop a feel.
While I’m dealing with Lisa, Conner pulls his Houdini act with progressive frequency. I try not to pay attention to how many girls he goes through or how often he disappears. It’s not hard to do, really, all I can think about is Cari. What she’s doing. If she’s having a good time. If this Chase guy took her to a nice place. If he opened her car door for her. If he helped her take off her wrap when they got where they were going. If he’s treating her how she deserved to be treated.
Because I can’t seem to get the job done.
I’m not even mad at her anymore—not really. Not when I’m like this. Not when she’s nowhere near me. Right now, I just want her to come home. I want her to walk through the door so I can take her upstairs and help her out of her dress. I want her to curl up on the couch next to me in one of my T-shirts and force me to watch some shitty reality show about fucked-up, D-list celebrities or rich, board housewives. I want to be with her. Like we were before—only not like before. I want to kiss her like I have the right. Touch her without wondering when she’s going to finally catch a clue and start laughing. I want to sleep next to her without worrying that th
is is all some long, elaborate joke.
And that’s the problem, isn’t it? I don’t trust her—this. Whatever this is. What’s happening between us, I don’t trust that it’s real. I don’t think it’s going to last because, let’s face it—no matter how much I want to be, I’m not the kind of guy a girl like Cari Faraday ends up with. I’m not rich. I’m not famous. I don’t drive a Porsche. I’m not good enough for her. Every time she apologizes for the colossal mindfuck she pulled on me, it makes me feel like a puppy she just kicked through the uprights. Like some pathetic loser, she feels bad for. Like I’m some kind of pity-fuck.
That’s what pisses me off.
“Hey, can I get a Guinness?”
I look up, to find Sara standing in front of me, looking like she did the last time I saw her. She’s a cute girl—light brown hair, warm brown eyes. Nice. She was just finishing up her student teaching when we split. I wonder if she’s finished and if she’s getting ready to move back to wherever she came from for college and for a split second, I wish I felt for her, what I feel for Cari. “Sure you don’t want a whisky sour?” I tease her, forcing a smile onto my face. We broke up four months ago and she hasn’t been back to Gilroy’s since, even though we swore we’d still be friends.
She laughs, jostled slightly by the crowd shouting drink orders behind her. “You remembered,” she says playful and flirty, making me wonder why she’s here. It can’t be a coincidence that my ex-girlfriend pops up the day after Cari and I finally hook up. I automatically shoot a glance down the length of the bar, looking for Conner. This is the kind of thing that meddling asshole would set up, all in the name of helping me.
He’s MIA. Shocker.
“Come on,” I say, shoveling ice into a pint glass, filling it with Jameson before giving the drink a cursory squirt of sweet and sour from the mixer gun. “It’s the official drink of Gilroy’s college girls.” I give it a twist and set a straw into it before passing it over the bar.
