About the time I’ve had enough of his eye pinning, Michelle wraps her fingers around my wrist and drags me over to the bar. “Cosmo time.” She orders up a round for us.
“Did you see that guy over there?”
She laughs too loud in my ear, and I pull my head back a tinch.
“There are only dozens of men in here, so you’re not giving me much to go on.”
I take a peek over my shoulder to make sure he’s not watching, and I can’t see him anywhere. “Never mind. He’s gone.”
“Did you know him?”
“It was the father of that student who was such a prick to me.”
Michelle’s mouth forms an O, and she says, “In here? The club? What’s an old guy doing in here?”
“Who said anything about him being old?”
“Well, I just figured since he was a dad, you know.”
Of course, she would jump to those conclusions. “No, he’s probably not much older than we are. And he’s …” I blow out a breath. “He’s dangerous. Let’s leave it at that.”
“Wait. What? You can’t say stuff like that and drop it. What do you mean ‘dangerous’?”
I roll my lips between my upper and lower teeth, trying to figure out exactly how to put it. “Let me say this. If I were twelve, his poster would be hanging on my bedroom wall.”
“No kidding?” She pushes my shoulder, and I step back a foot.
“Not one single bit.”
Twirling a chunk of hair, she asks, “Light or dark hair?”
“Lightish blond. As far as I can tell, it looks like a mix of blond shades. But the last time I saw him he was wearing a hat, and the first time I was so pissed off I didn’t pay much attention.”
“Hmm. Eyes?”
“Oh, God. Magni-fucking-gorgeous can’t come close. Bluish-greenish. Enormous. Lashes that don’t end. And his lips are this dusky pink color.”
“How tall?” she prods.
“Very and a muscular physique you want to—let’s just say he’s the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup of eye candy, and you know how much I love those. He had this T-shirt on that showcased his muscles.”
“Holy shit. He sounds amazing.”
“Yeah. Pretty much.” I lick my lips as though I just tasted a lollipop.
Michelle fans herself. “I have got to see this dangerous person. Where is he?”
“I don’t know, but he’s totally weird. Like almost monosyllabic.”
“What do you mean?”
“Okay, so it would be like if you and I were chatting it up and you asked me, ‘What do you think about this drink?’ and I stand here and am completely silent. And then you ask again, and I would maybe shrug. Or something like that. And when he did talk, he was an asshole. The only time he spoke more than two or three words consecutively was when he came to school regarding an incident with his daughter. Then he was all in.”
“Maybe he has a gas problem.”
I’m getting ready to agree with her until her statement sinks in, and I bust out laughing. “You’re a crazy bitch. You know that, right?”
“And that’s what you love about me.”
It is. She always finds a way to lift my spirits. We go back a long way. All the way to junior high. When the shit started to hit the big old fan and all my other friends didn’t know how to react or what to say. Not Michelle. I remember the day when she came up to me at cross-country practice. I was tying my shoes, putting my special double knot in them, and she nudged me with her shoe.
“Hey, I just want you to know I’m here any time you need to talk or whatever. But you know something?”
“What?” I was curious because we’d been friends but not really that close.
“When life hands you rotten eggs, don’t eat the fuckers. Just throw them at someone you hate.”
“Huh?” I was trying to put some perspective on what she said, but it was plain idiotic.
“Yeah, that was stupid, wasn’t it?”
And then we both laughed, and I’m talking snort laughed. And that’s where our solid friendship began, and it’s still going strong.
“Yeah, you’re definitely a nutface.”
The music blares, so we bounce back to the dance floor, and that’s when he finds me again. His brooding, intense glare burns through me, and I know he’s there, watching me. When I spin around to the beat of the music, he’s in the same spot he was before, leaning on the wall with his arms crossed. For a solitary moment, our eyes connect, but as brief as it is, the discomfort is so potent, I snap my attention back to the band. I avoid looking that way again, for his gaze is very unsettling. Too bad he’s so damn beautiful.
Several times men approach me to dance, but it’s weird because Mr. Bridges stands there, pinning me with his heated gaze. I forbid myself to look at him, but every now and then, I sneak a peek out of the corner of my eye. One minute he’s there, and the next he’s gone. It’s a relief, and I relax and begin to dance with abandon. Michelle even comments.
“You look like you’re having fun now. What was wrong with you? You looked like a wooden doll there for a while.”
“Yeah, I just needed for those Cosmos to hit me, I guess.”
After a few more songs, we head back to the bar where we order another round. “Good thing we took an Uber,” I say.
“Uh, after the week you had, I didn’t figure tonight would be light on the alcohol.”
A cute, sexy, dark-haired guy scoots into our conversation and steals Michelle away for a dance. I’m left hanging out at the bar alone, which I’ve never been a fan of.
“Can I get you another?” the bartender asks.
“Yeah, but I want to switch to vodka and soda, please. And can you throw in a couple of limes?”
“Sure thing.”
I rest my elbows on the bar, look to my right, and there he sits. I’m more than a bit captivated as I watch him drain his glass of dark amber liquid. Bourbon, whiskey, scotch? I wonder what his vice is tonight. He sets his glass down, and long, perfectly-shaped fingers rub a circular motion on his forehead. So being the nosy person that I am, a quick scan around him lets me know that he’s alone. No one talks to him or … wait. A woman comes up to him. A very attractive woman. She bends forward, and an ample amount of her voluptuous cleavage is on display as she rests her hand on his forearm and says something to him. They talk for a while, and I stare at them. He’s facing away from me, so my spying goes unnoticed. She’s flirting openly. Her suggestive smile and the way she licks her lips are an all-out invitation for him to go home with her, or wherever she can get him. Does she laugh at something he says? I can’t tell because I can’t see him speak. And it’s a surprise that he says anything at all. She keeps chatting away, but soon she frowns, and not much later, saunters off.
It makes me wonder even more about the mysterious Mr. Bridges. There’s such a sharp contrast between the man I’ve dealt with and the one I’ve seen with English. And now he sits, alone, with no friends or female companion to keep him company, and it further increases my curiosity. As I’m lost in my musings, it doesn’t occur to me that said subject of these introspections has turned his attention toward me. It’s the heat of his blue-green scrutiny that draws my awareness. He blinks lazily, and then his shuddered gaze nails me to the floor.
“Hey, what’s up over here?”
Michelle’s voice makes me leap out of my booties.
“N-nothing. Nothing at all,” I answer, swinging my head around.
“You okay?”
“Mmm hmm.” The cute guy she went to dance with stands next to her with his arm slung over her shoulders. I watch her hand move up to hold his. This may be a new find for her.
“Oh, Sheridan, meet Oliver.”
We exchange greetings, and they grab some drinks. I keep glancing to the end of the bar where Mr. Bridges sits. Every time I do, he tips his head in response. He’s keeping track of me. Once, he even raises his glass.
Oliver and Michelle take off for another twirl
to the music, so I decide to risk it and go have a talk with Mr. Mysterious. When I reach his side, I tap him on the shoulder.
“Hey.”
I get an arched brow as a response.
“So, is this your usual hangout because I don’t recall ever seeing you here before.”
Now one corner of his mouth curls up, but nothing other than that.
“Are you always this talkative?”
“When I have something to say.”
Either the man is just plain rude or he’s off the charts messed up. “Okay then. Nice chatting with you.” Asshole.
That is the extent of it. Now I’ve encountered odd people in my life and have been through some rough times. And I mean so rough I was pretty damn sure all the skin on my body was scraped off—that kind of rough. But this dude is a conundrum to me, and maybe that’s why I can’t stop thinking about him. And, of course, there’s that precious little kid of his that I see every day of the week. How can such a quirky, outgoing, adorable, little girl be the product of this rude, morose man?
“What’s got that scowl on your face? Your brows are drawn so tight they’re almost a unibrow.” Michelle stands there with her new man of the hour.
I flap my hand in front of me. “It’s nothing. You having a good time?” I wink at her.
“Sure am. I hope you are.”
I get her meaning. She feels bad for abandoning me, but I’m okay with that. She needs to have fun, too. “It’s good. I’m people-watching.”
“Wait. Did you find him again?”
“Sort of.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
I don’t want to get into it all, so I change the subject. “Oliver, are you from around here?”
“Not from Atlanta per se. I grew up about an hour from here. I just moved here about six months ago, but I love it. I’m in IT.”
“Stop! I’m already lost,” I say.
He laughs. “You sound like Michelle.”
The two of them look pretty cozy, so it’s no surprise when they take off for more dancing. Someone approaches me for a dance, and I accept. We don’t talk much because it’s really too loud for any conversation, but I love the music. Several songs later, I wave bye and wander back to the bar for another cold beverage to quench my thirst. It’s so crowded, the best place to get close to getting a drink is where Mr. Mysterious sits. I finally wedge my way up close and end up next to him.
“What can I get you?”
“I’ll have a—”
“Vodka, soda, and limes.”
The bartender looks at me for confirmation, and I can only nod I’m so shocked. Has he been watching me that closely he knows exactly what I’ve been drinking? That’s a lot creepy. The bartender slides me my fresh drink, and I pretty near guzzle the entire thing.
I’m down to the ice when he’s in front of me again, and I nod in response to his question.
“Think you need to slow it down a bit?”
The question is deep and husky. I don’t want to answer, but I do. “Nah, I’m good. It’s Friday,” I say, grinning. But I think my grin is lopsided.
Michelle catches my attention about three rows of people back. She mouths, “We’re leaving. Are you okay to stay by yourself? You can catch an Uber with us.”
“No, I’m good. You all have fun.” I must’ve shouted it pretty loud because Mr. Mysterious is looking at me quite oddly.
I don’t want to tag along with them like a total loser. Sheridan the L-O-S-E-R. Always the dorky ass. I’ll give them time to get out of here, then I’ll get my own Uber.
“Loser, huh?”
I wobble in my shoes as I look at him. The room tilts just a little. Those drinks I had are hitting me good now. “What do you mean?”
“You said you were a loser and a dorky ass.”
My mouth hangs open, and then my hand covers it. “I said that out loud?” It sounds more like “Ishadthaotlud?”
His head moves fractionally up and down one time. I hadn’t meant to say that out loud. What the hell! I must be drunk. Okay, it’s time for me to go. But wait. When I reach for my purse, I remember that I didn’t bring one. All my junk is in Michelle’s. And Michelle is gone. Now I have a huge problem. “Fuck me hard and fast!”
“Excuse me?”
Lost in my own world of up-shit-creek-without-a-paddle, I don’t pay Mr. Mysterious a bit of attention but keep ranting. “What am I gonna do? Of all the rotten dicks around, how come I get butt fucked like this? Suck a giant boner.” My fists pound my head, but I quit and look up to see his gigantic orbs locked onto me. Did he hear me droning on and on in my foul language? Dear Lord, say he didn’t.
“Is there a problem, or is this how you speak to your first graders?”
He heard. Every single word. My cheeks burn like the fires of the ninth ring of Hell. Sweat beads on my forehead and upper lip. I grab a handful of napkins from the bar, and without a thought, start furiously dabbing at what I’m sure is dripping from under my arms. When it dawns on me what I’m doing in public, abject mortification hits. And then I start vomiting words, and they won’t stop.
“I … I … I’m an idiot. My friend left, and she has all my stuff, and I can’t get home. And I don’t know what to do. I live too far to walk, and I was going to take an Uber, but now I can’t because I don’t have my phone, and I can’t call a cab because I don’t have my credit card or cash, and I don’t have my phone to call her to get me, so I think I’ll just leave. But they’ll arrest me now because I can’t even close out my tab because she probably closed out hers, but she has my credit card, and she’s gone, and I’m babbling like that stupid dork I am. Oh, Jesus, come into this bar right now and save my ass from complete and utter humiliation.”
“Too late for that.” His dry remark sails over my head.
If I expect him to come to my rescue, I am dead wrong. So, what do I do? I turn and sneak on out of there. Well, I don’t actually sneak. I hold my head high and walk forward as if I know exactly what I’m doing. Only I have no idea whatsoever. I guess my plan is to walk home if I have to. My pride refuses to allow me to beg. I won’t ever do that. I’m out the door and several blocks down the street, weaving my way home in those God forsaken booties I decided to wear, when a car pulls up alongside of me, and I hear that voice.
“Get in the car.”
Chapter Nine
Sheridan
I’ve gone from feeling pretty good, to mildly drunk, to utterly plastered in a short span of time. When I hear his voice, I do my best not to give my slap-ass drunk self away.
“Me?” I point my thumb toward my chest.
His passenger window is down, and he leans toward it. “Who else would I be talking to?”
“Who else indeed?” I mutter. “The man of many words.”
“Get in.”
My arm sort of does this funny thing as I wave it in front if me. “Phhft. It’s fine. I can walk.” And as those very words leave my mouth, I stumble and catch myself from face planting on the sidewalk. “Oopsie.” I giggle.
“Miss Monroe. In the car. Now.”
With hands on my hips, I face him squarely and point. “You are not the boss of me. And besides, I don’t even like you.” I’m so proud of myself for standing up to him. Confidence in place, I proceed with my journey home. Until that fissure in the sidewalk traps the heel of my bootie and I twist my ankle. I played sports in high school, and I know what that cracking sound means.
“Aww, double fuck me sideways with a big fat dildo. Now look what I’ve done.” The heel of my bootie is jammed in the crack of the sidewalk, and I’m sitting on my rear end. I hear the engine stop running and the door opening, but I’m trying to figure out how I can walk the rest of the way home with a broken shoe and sprained ankle. Those jumbled thoughts are disturbed when two sculpted arms slip under and around me, lifting me off the ground.
“Jeez, you must be pretty damn strong to be able to lift my big ass up.” Next thing I know, I’m sitting in a
nice comfy car that smells like buttery leather. “This is much nicer than the Uber car I rode over in. But I don’t want to ride in your car. I hate you. You’re an assdouche.”
“Where do you live?” he asks.
“What if I don’t tell you? Then you can’t take me home.”
“Miss Monroe.” His tone isn’t too friendly and warm, so I give in.
“Over by the Publix.”
He huffs out something, but I’m not sure what. I close my eyes, because the seats in this car are so nice, I can’t help it. I’m real sleepy, too.
“Miss Monroe, what is your address?”
I rattle off my address, and we drive some more. Soon he’s shaking me. “We’re here.”
Blinking the sleep away, I look out the window and say, “Where?”
“Your house.”
“This isn’t my house.”
He must be angry now. He sounds like he’s breaking his teeth. “This is the address you gave me.”
“Oh. But there isn’t a Publix over there.” I gesture with my thumb over my shoulder. “And our house we rent is white.”
“What is your address?” He sounds like a cat hissing at me.
I tell him.
“That’s not what you said before.”
We eventually arrive at my house, but I don’t have a key to get in. I hate to tell him that, so I look at him and make one of those faces that says it all.
“What now?”
“I don’t have a key to get in.”
He slams his hands on the steering wheel. Then he looks at me and smiles. “Maybe your roommate is home.”
“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that.”
I open the door, and when I go to stand on my foot, pain shoots straight up my leg and out the top of my head.
“Ow!” I fall to my hands and knees. “I’m okay. All good here. See?” I start crawling to the door.
“Miss Monroe, will you stop?”
When I do, two long legs are in front of me. It seems like I have to look up as far as Mt. Everest until I reach his eyes. “Well, howdy there, Stretch.” He doesn’t crack a grin. Mr. Personality here.
From Ashes To Flames Page 37
