by M. S. Parker
I didn't want to make an effort tonight. In fact, all I wanted to do was get pass-out drunk so I wouldn't have to think about tomorrow. Dad was going to be pissed I wasn't answering my phone so he could force me to come over and lay into me about what I'd done.
I looked around. Clubs were out, but a bar might be nice. Not something big where there would be a lot of people. No, I wanted something out of the way. The kind of place where I could sit at the bar, drown my problems and not have to talk to anyone but the bartender.
Finally, I spotted it. Tucked into a corner on a side street, I could just make out the sign. Frankie's. It looked like as good a place as any. I zipped up my coat and climbed out of the car. The walk wasn't very far, but by the time I got there, it felt like the temperature had dropped a couple degrees. It looked like the weatherman had been right and today was the last nice day we'd have for a while.
I stepped inside, rubbing my hands together and wishing I'd had enough sense to wear gloves. I looked around and no one really looked back. There were a couple glances, but then attention turned back to drinks or companions. Perfect.
I walked up to the bar and took a seat at the end. I had a couple bar stools between me and the next person, which was good too. No one trying to start drunken conversations either. The place seemed to have the perfect number of people. Enough so that I didn't stand out, but not so many that it was crowded. And then I saw the bartender and thought that maybe the night wouldn't be a complete waste after all.
She was smoking hot. Like model hot, but not so skinny that she looked like a skeleton. She was tall, easily close to six feet, and slender, but her fine features said it was her natural build. Her breasts were a little above average and I was pretty sure they were real. Most women who got boob jobs wore extremely tight and low-cut shirts to show off their purchase. This one was tastefully dressed in a fitted sweater that hugged her curves but didn't exploit them. Her dress pants did the same, giving me a view of a tight ass and long legs. She wore her hair in a ponytail, which I thought was strangely attractive and her make-up was light, barely noticeable. She had none of the overdone look that a lot of women tending bar had, nor was she the leather and tattooed type. The more that I looked at her, the more I thought she'd be better placed in a school or library than a bar.
“May I help you?”
Shit. She had the sexiest accent. European of some kind. I wasn't sure exactly what. Russian maybe? I could also see that her eyes were a deep, rich green. She was fucking gorgeous. Maybe I would end up taking someone home tonight after all.
“I'm sure you can.” I gave her my most charming smile.
The smile she returned was polite, but not flirtatious. Her response – or rather the lack of one – caught me off guard. I'd come in here to avoid having to do any sort of work to get laid, but the fact that the bartender hadn't even reacted to my smile piqued my curiosity.
“What would you like to drink?” she asked.
“Surprise me,” I said and leaned forward, my elbows resting on the bar. “Whatever you give me, I'll take.”
Not even a blush or the hint of a real smile. Maybe she didn't understand the innuendo.
“Do you want what is on tap or something stronger?” She half turned toward the back shelves, giving me another angle of that great body.
“Stronger,” I said. “It's been a rough day.”
She nodded in response and pulled up a shot glass. A moment later, she retrieved a bottle from the middle shelf. Smart, I thought. She didn't automatically assume I could afford the top shelf, but she didn't try to give me the cheap stuff either. I may not have ever tended bar, but I'd drank at enough of them to recognize the wisdom of what she'd done. Maybe the reason she hadn't responded to my comments wasn't because she didn't have a firm grasp on the language, but rather because she was too intelligent to find it charming. Definitely not a typical bartender, or typical of the women I usually hit on.
I kept my eyes on her as she poured my drink, willing her to make eye contact. She didn't, looking a little to my right.
“Do you wish to make a tab or pay now?” she asked.
“I'll start a tab,” I said.
“Right.” She frowned, but it was brief and then her polite smile was back again. “Start a tab.”
“Would it be insulting if I asked where you were from?” I kept my tone casual as I picked up the glass and took a sip. Vodka. Not bad. “Feel free to tell me to go to hell.”
That got a hint of a sparkle in her eyes. “The Czech Republic,” she answered. She gestured toward the drink. “That is acceptable?”
I nodded and opened my mouth to try another line, but she was already starting to walk away.
“Excuse me.” The words sounded automatic.
She crossed over to the other side of the bar where a pair of middle-aged men were drinking beer. I sipped at my drink and made no attempt to disguise that I was checking her out. My previous sentiment about wanting to drown my sorrows was slipping away. Maybe what I really needed was a challenge. Someone smart and sexy who'd make me work for it in a way that didn't consist of buying drinks and laughing at inane jokes.
I drained my glass. There was always one way to make a bartender come to me. “Miss!” I called out. “Another please.”
She came back over, picking up the bottle on her way.
“Can I get your name with that drink?” I asked. “So I don't have to keep yelling 'Miss' at you every time I want a refill.”
“You are planning on drinking more?” She filled the glass. “Perhaps I should take your car keys.”
“Are you concerned with my safety?” I reached out toward her hand.
She pulled back before I could touch her. “As I am with all of my customers.”
“So I'm nothing special?” I tried giving her my best sad face. I'd used it for everything from getting out of parking tickets to convincing teachers to give me extensions for homework or retakes for tests. And that didn't even include all the times I'd gotten laid because girls thought it was cute.
She sighed. “Let me keep you from wasting your time. You cannot charm me into giving you free drinks or my phone number. Another drink, that I will give you. A listening ear as well, but that is as far as it will go.”
I stared at her. Had she just shut me down? I'd never had a woman so blatantly tell me no. Sure, there had been the ones who'd played hard to get, but they'd always been coy about it, still sending out signals that they were interested. With her, I wasn't so sure that was the case. There had to be a reasonable explanation.
“Are you gay?” The question popped out before I could stop it. I flushed, probably for the first time ever. “I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to say that.” I looked down at the glass. “Must've been stronger than I thought.”
For the first time, she actually looked amused. “I am not a lesbian, Mister...”
“Blayne,” I said. “Blayne Westmore.” I waited for recognition, but it didn't come. “And you are?”
She topped off my glass again. “Still not interested.”
My eyes narrowed as she walked away and I took another drink. She might not be interested, but I definitely was. I would win her over if it was the last thing I did.
6
Livie
I had been working at the bar for several weeks, and before that I had worked at other places as a waitress. Then there were the years I had spent as a model. I was used to men ogling me and flirting with me. Young men, old men, fat, thin, ugly, attractive. Sometimes they were sober, more often they were drunk, though that was usually due to my location more than them needing to be drunk to think I was good-looking. I had a fair assessment of my appearance. No one became a model by being unattractive.
And speaking of looks... I gave my newest customer another sideways glance. He said his name was Blayne Westmore and his tone implied the name should mean something to me. It didn't, but I didn't need to know who he was to know who he was. I may not have known all the importa
nt names in Philadelphia society or all of the American celebrities who thought their names meant something, but I knew clothes and his were top of the line. A man dressed as he was dressed did not frequent places like Frankie's. He was, as my sister would have said with her acquired American lingo, “slumming it.”
That didn't mean I didn't find him attractive. He was gorgeous. A strong jaw and features that were a touch too masculine for him to be pretty, but not so much so that he could be called rugged. His hair had the messy look that was currently popular and his eyes were warm as they watched me. And it wasn't merely a friendly warmth.
It didn't matter how hot he was though. There were plenty of men who had flirted with me who were almost, if not equally, as attractive. None of them, however, had gotten anywhere. I was always polite, but never encouraged them. Some didn't take it well, wanting me to respond more positively to their advances. But for the most part, the worst I received were a variety of insults.
Then there were a few who refused to give up. I had a feeling Blayne would be one of those. As long as he kept his hands to himself, I didn't mind. Growing up in an orphanage had taught me to have a thick skin and the ability to ignore most things. I risked another look and warmth coiled in my stomach. If I were completely honest, I couldn't say I completely disliked the idea of him continuing to flirt with me.
I resisted a scowl as I approached a new customer. It didn't matter if I liked him flirting with me. I didn't have the time or the desire for a romantic relationship, even if there was a possibility of having one.
I took the customer's order and turned around to get the drinks.
I wasn't even sure what I was thinking. I knew men like Blayne. They didn't hit on me for a relationship or a date. He wanted to know what time I got off because he wanted sex. That was all. While Katka might have been that type of person, I wasn't. I had no problem surviving without sex or a relationship. I did better on my own. In fact, I preferred it that way.
Things began to slow as I walked back over to Blayne. We had two sets of regulars. The ones who were leaving now and the ones who would come in shortly to get their quick drinks before heading home. Since it was a Sunday night, not many people would linger.
“You know,” Blayne said as he peered up at me. “You're beautiful enough to be a model.”
Like I hadn't heard that one before. I filled his glass and started to turn away even though I didn't have anyone else calling for my attention. I caught my breath when he grabbed my arm.
“Please just tell me your name.”
I looked down at those dark gray eyes and tried to deny the way my skin tingled where his hand was on me. What harm could it do?
“Livie,” I said. “My name is Livie.”
He beamed at me, a real smile, not the smarmy one he'd tried giving me before. I was almost reluctant to pull away, but I knew I had to. I didn't want him getting the wrong idea.
“So, Liv, how's your night going?”
I usually hated it when people tried to shorten my name, but the way it sounded coming from him, I found I didn't mind quite so much.
“Fine,” I said as I removed my arm from underneath his hand.
“Aren't you going to ask me how mine is?”
His words were starting to slur slightly.
“I'll tell you how my night went.” He drained the last of his drink. “First, after a weekend where I apparently did some stupid shit, my dad tells me he's going to cut me off if I don't straighten up.”
I couldn't say I thought that was entirely a bad thing. People who had to work for their money often appreciated it more.
“And part of his version of straightening up means I have to get married in six months.”
I hadn't seen that one coming. Not exactly an American idea. “Your father is going to force you to marry?” The surprise caused me to ask a personal question I normally avoided.
Blayne nodded, the expression on his face glum. “Wanted me to marry this girl in a ‘business merger’.” He gestured toward his glass.
It was against my better judgment, but I poured it.
“My brothers both married the right girls,” he said. “Sisters did too.” He frowned, his expression muddled. “Right boys. Not girls.” He started to snicker. “Dad would've been pissed if the girls liked girls. Okay to look 'progressive', but bad in the family. Can't not be exactly what everyone else is.”
I handed a regular his usual draft without moving very far from Blayne. He didn't seem to notice I'd stepped away because he was still talking when I came back. I got the impression he was talking more to himself than to me, but I didn't want him to think I was being rude.
“I shouldn't care,” he said. “Shouldn't care what he thinks about me, right?”
My heart twisted. He sounded so sad and I didn't think it was an act this time. I didn't know him, but no one should feel that way about their parents.
He looked up at me and one side of his mouth quirked up in a half-smile. “Maybe I should pay you a hundred grand to elope with me to Vegas. My dad would love that. You look like a nice girl.”
I shook my head indulgently. Leave it to a rich man to think that money could solve all of his problems. Blayne seemed nice enough, but I had no doubt he was just as irresponsible and spoiled as the rich kids who used to hang out around the models in Europe. I wouldn't have been surprised if he was into drugs as well.
“Excuse me again,” I said as I heard the usual rabble entering. These were the men who only wanted a quick drink, so I wouldn't need to linger, but there were enough of the men that I had to spend a good half hour away from Blayne. When I finally got back to him, he was staring forlornly at his empty glass.
“Another one?” He made it a question as he looked up at me.
I glanced at my watch. “It is almost closing time. Do you want me to call you a cab?”
He scowled, but it was directed at the glass rather than me. “I better settle up.” He managed to pull out his wallet, but it took him three attempts to do it. Another two tries to get a credit card out. “Here.”
“I will ring this up,” I said as I took the card. “Do you wish for a taxi?”
He blearily looked at me, but didn't say anything. I would call whether he wanted me to or not. I was not going to let him go stumbling out into the cold where he would either get into a car and risk both his and others' lives or he would end up freezing to death because he passed out somewhere. It really wasn't my problem, but what kind of person would I be if I let any of that happen?
I rang up his charges and then went about cleaning up a few things before turning back to see Blayne with his head down on the bar. I swore silently. I really hoped he hadn't passed out.
“Blayne?”
No response.
I reached toward him, hesitated and then put my hand on his shoulder and gave him a shake.
“Nope,” he muttered. “Not gonna marry her.”
I sighed. Dammit. Maybe if left him alone for a little bit, he'd wake up enough to get into a cab. I made a call and then went about getting things closed down. I saw the cab pull up in front of the bar just as I was finishing. I went back over to Blayne who was now snoring loudly.
“Blayne.” I shook him again. “Wake up. You need to go home.”
His hand relaxed and his wallet dropped onto the counter. I picked it up and put his credit card back into an empty slot. I started to put it back and then glanced out at the cab. No one else was in the bar, so all I had to do was get Blayne out of here and I could go home.
I wondered if I could get him into the cab and just give the driver the address. I flipped over to Blayne's license. I didn't know the city completely, but even I knew that this address was an expensive place to live.
And a penthouse, which meant Blayne would have to go upstairs or use an elevator. I looked at him. I doubted he'd even be able to get out of a cab on his own. I had a choice to make. I could try to shove him into a cab, but that wouldn't be fair to the driver. I
could take him out of the bar and leave him outside to make his way home himself. I already knew why this was a bad idea. My other option was to call the cops and have them take Blayne to jail to sleep it off. Based on what he'd said earlier, I really didn't want to do that to him either. It sounded like it would only make things worse for him.
That only left me with one true option.
I walked around the bar and put Blayne's wallet back into his jacket pocket. He stirred.
“Hey, baby.” The words were barely understandable.
“Come with me.” I put his arm around my shoulder. “If your hand wanders, you will regret it.”
He laughed. “You're funny.” He slumped against me, only half-conscious again.
I staggered. He was heavier than he looked. I'd thought all that bulk had been from his coat, but apparently not. I managed to get us to the door, turn out the lights and get everything locked up, though I wasn't entirely sure how. The taxi driver was polite enough to get the back door for me and I pushed Blayne inside.
“He's going to throw up all over my cab, isn't he?” The cab looked down at Blayne.
“He can afford it,” I said.
The driver looked at me and then at Blayne and I could see the wheels turning.
“Do not worry,” I said. “I am going too.” I slid in next to Blayne and closed the door. When the cabbie got in, I rattled off the address I'd read off of Blayne's license. I really hoped he had a key somewhere too, otherwise, he would find himself sitting in the hallway outside of his penthouse. I was already going above and beyond getting him home safely. And I doubted he would remember any of it.
7
Blayne
