by S. J. Pierce
“Then, that’s all that matters.” And with that, she busies herself with the glasses and bottles of liquor again.
* * *
Another hour passes and the bar is as full as ever. People are starting to slur and stumble and tilt. Some are dancing to music only they can hear. Some are making out. A guy is passed out in a corner. Lyall wakes him up and pulls him to his feet.
A lonely blonde with a messy ponytail and college t-shirt drinks another gin and tonic at the bar. So much for my plan to sober up.
I can Uber home.
Functioning after a night of drinking has become a talent of mine.
After ordering my second plate of potato skins (what is it about potatoes in any form that taste so damn good after drinking?), I feel a pair of eyes on me again. I look up at the offender and lock eyes with Mr. Leather.
My breath hitches. The world shifts beneath me.
But I quickly look away.
I really could have done without that. He was hotter head-on than I allowed myself to imagine—stubble. A square jaw. His eyes a comfortable shade of blue like worn denim.
Don’t look.
I fumble with something in my purse to look busy. Find my lip balm. Take my time swiping it on.
Maybe he’ll shift his attention to someone else now that Big Boobs is MIA.
I squirrel the balm away. Sip my drink.
Lean back in my chair.
My head hits a hard, fleshy wall. “Excuse me,” a guy says behind me.
I wave my hand up. No worries. This place is so packed, people can hardly move around.
The guy slides into the seat Trenton was in. I make the mistake of looking over. Leather.
Look up into his eyes. Blue.
His smile is wide and heart-achingly perfect.
Great.
So much for the rest of my night being somewhat peaceful.
6
Jackson with an X
Don’t look at him. Don’t speak to him.
If I can just act like his gorgeous ass doesn’t exist, I might get through the night without any more poor decisions…might.
“New around here?” he asks beside me. His voice is equal parts smooth and gravelly. Fantastic. This would be so much easier if he sounded like Gilbert Gottfried.
I sip my drink and pull out my phone. Pretend to look at my social media apps that still aren’t refreshing.
Don’t look at him. Don’t speak to him.
He’ll get the point and go away. Hopefully.
Besides, who says, “New around here?” Are we in a Western? You don’t look like you’re from around these parts, little lady.
If this is his attempt at sparking my interest…
He leans in with a whisper. “The out-of-state college t-shirt and no jacket gave it away.”
I didn’t ask.
He holds his gaze on me for a moment, and the closeness of him, the smell of leather mixed with the clean, spicy aroma of his cologne or lotion or whatever it is makes me pause. Men know it’s hard for us to resist, and this one also knows how to make sure his scent is the right amount of subtle and seductive.
Like his voice.
And it works.
I think of his hands again. His chest and strong jawline. Those eyes.
His lips.
I clear my throat. Open a fake text to my sister.
“What ya drinking?” he asks.
I sigh and lower my phone, then say to the bar in front of us, “Look, dude. I’m not interested in being someone’s Plan B.” Big Boobs is still nowhere to be found. He must have scared her away with his stellar conversation skills.
Not to mention, he must be mental if he’s hitting on the drink-thrower for his back-up plan. Nothing good can come of this.
It takes him a moment to understand. “You mean because I was with a date?”
I return my attention to my phone. Precisely.
“Let’s just say it didn’t work out. She was a blind date.”
Don’t care.
“And she was married.”
Zenesha sets another drink in front of him. “Well, I could have told you that, sweetie.”
Now they have my attention. I look at her but take care to not let my eyes drift over to the mountain of leather beside me.
He leans into the bar with crossed arms. “Thanks for warning me, Zee.”
She rumples his hair. “You’re a smart guy. I knew you’d figure it out. Only took about an hour.”
He laughs, slicking his tresses behind his ears. “What am I going to do with you?”
She clasps his arm before rummaging through something below the counter. “I need some furniture moved around tomorrow morning if you’re free.”
Okay, so…Zenesha likes him, which can only bode well for him as far as I’m concerned because it means he’s not a total scumbag. And their bantering, though affectionate, sounds more like an aunt and nephew than two people wanting to get laid. I cut my eyes at him, and the both of them are locked in a stare-down of mutual, platonic affection.
“The way this night’s going,” he says, then sips his drink. He crunches the ice. “I’d say I’ll probably be free.”
She points to me, then back to him. “You two should get to know each other. You might have more in common than you think.”
He sets his drink down and turns his gaze to me again. For Zenesha, I decide to acknowledge him. Our eyes meet, and he says with a wink, “If I can get her to talk to me.”
My stomach flutters.
Dammit.
She taps the counter before she scurries off. “All the ones worth talking to are a challenge, kid.”
A smile can’t help but break through. Okay, so maybe I’m being a bit of a bitch. It’s not his fault I’m eternally jaded. Talking to him doesn’t mean it has to be anything more. I’ll just have to not think of him with his clothes off. Great, now I’m thinking of him with his clothes off. I swallow hard. “Sorry about your date,” I finally say. “People can be shitty.”
He nods his agreement and rolls his eyes as he thinks of his date-gone-wrong. The fact he doesn’t mess with married or mated women means we at least have that in common. On a basic human level, I can respect him, if nothing else.
“But, tell me,” I say with a chuckle. “Wasn’t that enough drama for one night? What made you come talk to the girl who caused a scene?”
He thinks about it a minute. “Well, you looked like the most interesting person in here.”
I give him a look.
“And someone whose bullshit tolerance is as low as mine.”
Okay, maybe I’ll buy that.
“And you’re cute.”
Now I’m the one rolling my eyes.
“Okay, okay. It didn’t look like you were having the best of luck over here either, so I figured we could commiserate.” He sips his drink. “But the cute part too.”
I chew on my straw with a smirk. “And the brave-enough-to-hit-on-the-drink-thrower part?”
“Way I see it, if a guy gets a drink thrown on him, he deserved it. I don’t ask questions.”
Fair enough. Trenton deserved more than that, but that was all I could do without getting arrested my first night back.
He adds with a lift of his drink, “And I never plan on being that guy.”
“We’ll see,” I quip. Every guy has the potential to be that guy. I feel the need to add this last part, though I hesitate because I also know it means he could bail on our conversation. I don’t question why I care— “But I want to be honest with you. I can only promise a conversation.” Despite how my body responds to his, after everything tonight, this week, I’m not sure I have the mental or physical capacity to offer anything else, and leading people on isn’t my thing. Keep it transparent.
He doesn’t flinch. “Fine by me.”
Huh. I give him a second to think it through. People don’t usually invest time in something that’s going nowhere, but I feel my shoulders relax, and I sink back into the stoo
l. Conversations with no pressure are the best kind.
“So, what’s your name, sweetie?” I ask, echoing Zenesha’s pet name from earlier, then press my lips together to feel now numb they are. I’m far from drunk (I have an absurdly high tolerance for a petite girl), but the delicious static of alcohol is buzzing all over my body. “Up until now, I’ve been calling you Mr. Leather.” I blush at my own confession. It’s the gin.
“Mr. Leather?” His smile is as wide as ever, and I can see every perfect tooth. I try not to stare too long so he doesn’t get the wrong idea. Or the right one. “I already have a nickname?”
“Seemed to fit.”
He nods at some secret thought, tosses the rest of his drink back. The muscles along his neck flicker and I ignore the effect it has on my lady bits. “Jackson. With an X.”
Jaxson. “I’m Rhee.”
He holds out a hand, and I slide mine over his to shake it. Nothing earth-shattering happens like you read about in romance novels. All my nerves don’t zing or come alive and tingle all over my body. I don’t feel a rush of anything or see visions. But…our touch lingers, and like it, the way his skin feels on mine. More than I allow myself to admit.
When I pull my hand back, I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Okay, Jackson-with-an-x,” I say breathlessly. “Want another drink?”
“Let’s do it. And you can call me Jax.”
7
Don’t be a Tease
“Another Jack and Coke?” I say, taking a stab at what the remnants of dark liquid are in his glass.
“Am I that predictable?” Jaxson replies.
“Wild guess.”
“Let’s do some tequila shots.”
I can’t help but smirk. “What gave you the impression I want tequila shots?”
He points to my Art Institute of Portland shirt.
I guess tequila would have been an obvious choice for a college girl. “I’m way past college.” Well, by two years. “And the smell reminds me of a time I nearly died.” Not really, but I wanted to. I fake gagged. “Can’t do it.”
He throws his head back in laughter. And like a gentleman, he doesn’t ask my age. I’m at least old enough to be at a bar…where they do check I.D.’s. And are good at spotting fake ones. “We all have that one drink we can’t stand the smell of anymore.”
“Yours?”
“Vodka.”
“Mine’s tequila, obviously. And I haven’t acquired a taste for wine or beer yet.”
“What were you drinking?”
“Gin and tonic.”
He waves Janey over. “You mind getting us another round?”
Better stick with what we know. Another lesson I learned in college—don’t mix liquors. And stay hydrated and eat.
She nods and wipes sweat from her brow.
I offer him a cold potato skin. I’ve already had my fill. He gladly accepts.
We sit in thoughtful silence for a moment. A girl starts dancing on the bar. They revved up the jukebox and Britney Spears’ Toxic is pulsing through the air.
It’s illegal, after all, for Thirty Thursday to go by without playing at least three Britney songs.
“Tell me about vodka,” I say. “What’s the story that ruined it for you?”
“Vegas.” His blue eyes go distant as he sifts through memories, his top lip curling in disgust. Damn, he really does have beautiful lips. “Bachelor party. One of the guys worked for a vodka distillery and brought a whole case.” He cringes. “I think all of us were done with it after that night.”
I cringe along with him. I’ve never liked the stuff, either. Tastes like rubbing alcohol.
“You?”
“U2 concert. Dallas, Texas.”
He seems impressed by my taste in music.
Janey places our drinks in front of us. We leave them untouched for a moment.
He says something else, but the noise in the bar is rising (no thanks to the jukebox), every cluster of patrons an eruption of laughter and shouting, and I can’t quite make it out. Something about dates?
He leans into me to make sure I hear him, and his knee presses into my thigh. He pulls it back. Probably to make sure I don’t feel uncomfortable. I didn’t mind it there. “Do you have any awful date stories?”
“Awful date stories?” My nose crinkles.
“Everyone I know has at least two.”
“Oh, I have more than that.”
We share a smile.
“Well,” he says, taking a sip of his drink. “Then let’s hear one. Help me feel better about my blind date disaster tonight.”
“Okay, then. I see your married-woman-blind-date-disaster and raise you a date with a finger-licker.”
He pauses thoughtfully, crunching his ice. “Like with chicken? Finger-lickin’ good?”
I huff a laugh. “No, like we were at a movie theater eating popcorn, first date, and just as the opening credits start, he grabs my hand out of nowhere and licks my fingers.”
He almost chokes, his eyes flaring in a humored kind of horror, and the sluggish way his eyelids move tell me he’s starting to feel his drinks too. “He did what?” he manages.
I nod.
“What’s wrong with people?”
“Let me know when you figure it out. Now it’s your turn.”
He reclines against the high back. Takes the better part of a moment to recover from my story before he segues into his. “I met a lady at a bar in Seattle. I guess you could call it a date. We went back to her place afterward and she had all these stuffed animals lined up on her dresser. She said they ‘liked to watch’.”
“Like, watch, watch?”
He hitches a brow. “Exactly.”
I shrug and sip my gin. “They say the crazy ones are good in bed, at least.”
He laughs, but some secret thought catches him. His eyes linger on my mouth for a moment, his lips parting, like he wants to ask or say something suggestive, but instead, he gets ahold of himself and turns his attention to his drink.
Trying to be a gentleman again, but I go ahead and fill in the blanks of what he wanted to say –what about drink-throwers? Are they in the same bracket?
I down mine.
Did I really just make a sex reference to him? Don’t be a tease. I can’t tell him I can only promise a conversation and then talk about sex.
I change the subject. “What possessed you into talking to me again?”
“Are you fishing for another ‘cute’ compliment?” He says it into the space in front of him, then looks at me, a glint of humor in his eyes. A strip of dark hair falls from behind his ear and grazes his stubble.
I scoff. “You could have your pick of anyone here. And you go with the lonely, frumpy girl with a temper.”
His eyes don’t break from mine. After a beat, he says, “I guess because of that.” On top of his sluggish eyelids, his tongue is sounding thicker from the booze. Which means he’s at the right level of buzzed to start being a little more honest.
“Don’t give me the ‘you’re different’ speech unless you want me to vomit.”
“Well, you are.”
I fake puke.
I mean it to be funny, but he doesn’t react. He’s on a mission now for me to understand. “You stood out.”
“Not in a good way, I’m sure.”
“In a great way.”
The way he says it, intensity laced with longing, makes my nipples involuntarily harden against my bra.
I bite the inside of my cheek as I debate how to respond. That was his test shot. Small enough to not damage a good conversation, but forward enough to see how I respond. He must sense the effect he has on me. How the right words in the right succession could elevate things from just a conversation to something else. I’ve never had a good poker face.
And I’ve been drinking.
I’m at a crossroads, and I’m not sure which way I want to go. As I debate, watch his eyes studying me, I suddenly can’t remember all my reasons for not getting i
nto bed with someone tonight.
He doesn’t let the silence get too uncomfortable before he reaches an arm out to wrap it around the back of my chair, a casual, comfortable movement, but he reigns it in. Still too intimate until he knows which way this will go. “You okay?” he finally says.
I’m staring and thinking too hard. I clear my throat and shift in my seat.
I finally nod. Take a sip.
He gives me space to gather my thoughts.
“You two still good over here?” Zenesha asks as she breezes by behind us.
Jaxson lifts his hand to signal he needs something and asks for two waters.
Once we got past the awkward small talk, he settled into himself. Has such an ease about him. An unassuming way that’s not typical of someone so hot. If anything, all of it makes him hotter.
I study his profile, his prominent Grecian nose, as he leaves me to my thoughts. He must think his forwardness is scaring me off.
Just go for it, a tiny voice says in the back of my mind. He seems a safe enough bet for a one-night stand. Take the fork in the road that ends up with you in his bed.
If he’s this considerate in casual conversation, imagine how he’ll be when I’m naked.
The thought makes me rub my thighs together to quell the ache.
Screw it. I’m taking the fun side of the fork.
The latest jukebox song ends, and I take the opportunity to say it where he can hear it, “You stood out in a great way too.” It comes out huskier than intended, betraying my sudden need for him.
His attention turns back to me, this time with a different look in his eyes. The meaning behind my words weren’t lost on him, and who knows what he’s seeing in my expression. But judging by his slow, contented smile, he likes what he sees.
I make the first official move, the alcohol mixing with adrenaline making my head deliciously fuzzy, and place my hand on his leg above his knee to emphasize what I just said.
Zenesha places the waters in front of us and turns to tend to someone else.
Jaxson shifts in his seat to shorten the distance between us, and my eyes trail down his neck, his chest, and settle on his white shirt. What’s underneath could only be as spectacular as the pecs above it.
