by Kendall Ryan
Slate grins, and we both look at each other, taking in the other’s choice of clothes. Slate is dressed business casual, wearing a dark gray dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, the top button undone to show off a hint of his toned chest and handsome Adam’s apple. His slacks are a perfect fit, hugging his muscular legs in all the right places, ending sleekly at the charmingly scuffed dress shoes on his feet.
He looks good. I notice that he’s checking me out, as well. His gaze trails from my neck, where I’ve pushed my hair aside, all the way to my cleavage. I swallow, hit by a sudden wave of nerves.
“Yeah?” I ask, doing the same timid twirl I did for Karina when I first tried it on.
“Yeah,” he says, his gaze still on my cleavage. He clears his throat. “I mean—yeah, it’s good.”
“Seriously? It’s good? Fuck.” I throw my hands up in frustration. “It’s too much, as usual. Am I overdressed for this bar?”
“No, Keat, no.” Slate places his hands on my fidgeting arms, his touch immediately steadying me. “You’re fucking perfect. I’m going to look like a total schmuck next to you.”
I blush, letting the compliment blossom over my cheeks. “Well, good thing I’m the focus of tonight, right?” I wink at him, and he looks away abruptly.
What was that about?
“Yup, good thing,” he says, recovering. “Now, let’s get you in there and find a nice, wholesome gentleman for you to fuck into next week.”
He props open the door, and the music inside wafts out to us. Slate ushers me inside and pays the cover charge for both of us. I make a mental note to pay him back. Just because he’s helping me score doesn’t mean he should pay for everything.
We walk up to the bar to get a drink. Slate pulls out a stool for me, and I sit while he leans against the bar. While we wait for the bartender to notice us, I begin surveying the merchandise. There are a lot of viable candidates in this bar.
Slate was right . . . this spot was a good place to start. Not too crowded, not too trashy. Just the right amount of single men winding down after a long week, looking for a little fun. My gaze wanders as I take in the prospects.
“My God, they aren’t cattle,” Slate whispers.
I turn to him with a scowl and lean back immediately. He was much closer to me than I thought, close enough that I can count each of his enviably dark and full eyelashes. It’s these little details that soften his chiseled angles in a way that’s so alluring.
Did I seriously just use the word alluring to describe Slate? Jesus, Keaton.
Maybe I really do need to get laid worse than I thought.
“I’m looking at my options,” I say, defending myself with a bit of a bite to my voice. The typical Slate-and-Keaton banter is cutting a little deeper than it usually does. I’m trying to put myself out there tonight, and it’s proving to be harder than I thought.
“How about we get some drinks before we make them battle it out for you?”
I nod, my mouth pinched tight.
“Hey, hey. Chin up. That’s what the alcohol is for.” Slate flags down the bartender.
A cute twenty-something woman with tattoos and an asymmetrical haircut sidles up to us, ready to take our order. “What can I get you?” she says with a stupidly attractive smile.
“Vodka soda, please,” Slate replies with his equally stupid and attractive smile. “Heavy on the vodka.”
“Lemon or lime?”
“Both.”
She laughs, watching him with twinkling eyes.
“Keat?” he says, gesturing to me.
The bartender notices me for the first time as her gaze swings over to land on me.
“A whiskey and Coke for me, please. Thank you.”
“You got it.” She nods.
Does she think I’m Slate’s girlfriend? Weirdly, I don’t mind her making that mistake. I don’t want him dating someone in that experimental-hairstyle phase anyway. If she doesn’t know what she wants to wear on her head, how in the hell does she know what she wants in her bed? I was in her shoes once, and I was a mess.
“Classic Keaton. You can order a flirty cocktail for once, you know. Something actually enjoyable?” Slate teases me.
“Yeah? Should I get a lemon and a lime in it too? Seems like someone can’t make a decision,” I tease back, raising my eyebrows in challenge.
“My drinks reflect my complicated heart,” he says with a melodramatic sigh.
“Oh my God, Slate, you are the furthest thing from complicated.” I place a hand on his cheek, and he grins at me.
“Guilty.”
We stand like that for a moment, smiling at each other, my hand resting on his sharp jawline in a gesture that may violate the platonic playing field. As if he can read my mind, Slate turns away and my hand slips from his face.
The bartender drops off our drinks, and Slate hands her his card with a suggestion to keep the tab running. His gaze drops to her ass as she turns to help another customer.
I jab him hard in the ribs. “Focus,” I remind him. “Tonight is about me.”
“Right, right. Anyone interest you?”
I follow his gaze as it turns to the multitude of eligible males in the room and take in my options. “I don’t know. The first thing on my list is practicing my blow-job technique.”
Slate seems to sputter at my choice of words—put so matter-of-factly.
I grin and press on. “What kind of guys should I be looking for?”
The look on his face makes me wonder if I sprouted a second nose between my eyes.
“Literally any man in this room would be honored to introduce his dick to you, Keaton. Let’s focus a little less on the list and a little more on what kind of guy you want to blow.”
“Okay, okay.” I look around the room.
There’s a tall guy in the back, surrounded by other guy friends. Black curly hair, broad chest, big smile. He laughs uproariously at something one of them says.
Cute, but a lot to handle, I bet.
My gaze shifts to the quieter corners of the room. Maybe someone with a little less of a presence. Someone who will be easygoing about this whole thing. Someone chill. Because that’s what I need.
I spot a guy sitting by the door. Brown hair, brown eyes, the right amount of scruff. Sleeves rolled up, just the way I like. He looks to be part of a big group, talking here and there to people in passing, but never dominating the conversation. I like him already.
“That one,” I say, pointing to him.
I immediately regret the gesture because the man’s gaze flicks to me in alarm, spotting my eagle eye on him. I whip around toward the bar in my catastrophic embarrassment.
“Oh my God,” I whimper. Well, this is already fucked.
“Yup, very smooth. He’s on his way over. Good luck, champ.”
Slate is about to turn away when I grab his hand discreetly, so no one else can see.
“What do I say?” My voice is so pathetic, I want to hurl myself out the bar window.
“Anything, Keat. Just think of this as a trial run. He’s not the only guy you’ll talk to tonight.”
Slate gives my hand a subtle squeeze before scooting away to wave down the bartender for another drink. I watch him leave me behind, my breath caught in my throat.
“Is there something on my face?” a voice says from behind me.
I turn slowly, gathering myself, and smile at the man before me. “Just a lot of handsome?”
Goddammit. That was so very bad.
The man smiles warmly, though, and I feel slightly less like a failure.
“That’s very kind of you,” he says, offering his hand. “James.”
“Keaton,” I reply. “I’m not good at this.”
“It was a little forward, yes, but I like forward.”
Shit. He’s got the wrong idea about me. Or does he? Aren’t I trying to get this guy in my bed? Let’s be forward.
“Forward it is, then.” I flash my best saleswoman smile that I usually save for
my most desired clients. “Tell me about yourself, James.”
I don’t expect the tidal wave that crashes over me when I open the conversation.
James is an engineer, but a performer at heart. He’s also in an improvisation group that performs every other Tuesday at this very bar, and I should totally come! He has a brother visiting next weekend who doesn’t believe in having artistic outlets, which is absurd to James since he thinks Improv is what keeps him sane. (Improv is capitalized by the way James says it.) James has a dog named Buck who does his share of keeping James busy with all the vet fees he’s had to pay. “Worms,” he says, “it’s always stomach worms.” He thinks I would like Buck, though, because Buck likes pretty ladies. Do I like dogs?
“Cats,” I choke out, realizing it’s finally my turn to speak. “I’m more of a cat lady, myself.”
How did I horribly misjudge this chatterbox as an easygoing, never-dominating-the-conversation type? I’ll never trust my gut ever again.
“Cats, huh? That says a lot about a woman.”
“Does it?” I gulp, bracing myself for more of The James Show.
I find myself looking around for a live studio audience, or at least a few hidden cameras. Instead, I spot Slate, staring at us from down the bar. What’s that on his face? Are those fucking tears of laughter? I shoot him the dirtiest look I can muster. He gives me a pitying look that says, Okay, okay, here I come.
“Cat ladies are unpredictable, in my experience. Last woman I was with—hey!” James cuts himself off as Slate puts a hand on my shoulder.
“Slate, honey!” I croon. “You have to meet my new friend, James. James, this is my very good friend Slate.”
“Hello, handsome,” Slate nearly purrs.
Oh, this is my favorite act. Now it’s my turn to improvise, James.
“Isn’t he?” I smile at the man but speak to Slate. “I can totally envision it, can’t you?” I clasp Slate’s hand in mine in an intimate gesture of companionship.
“Hello, uh, Slate?” James says, suddenly a bit speechless.
“Like the rock, baby.” Slate winks at poor James, who is now turning a deep shade of crimson.
“What do you think, honey?” I whisper to Slate. “You like? You think he’s your type too?”
Slate takes his time looking James up and down, considering, and I daresay he’s added to his act by stepping behind James to take a gander at that part of the real estate, as well. But James doesn’t give him a chance to confirm or deny.
“You know, uh, it’s been lovely chatting with you, Katie,” he stammers, and I grit my teeth behind my tight-lipped smile. “I should probably get back to my friends, though.”
“Of course, Slate and I will totally make it to your improv soon . . . ’bye,” I say, waving James off. As soon as he scoots away, my cheery demeanor crumples.
“Just my damn luck,” I say to Slate with a sigh, who places his arm around my shoulders. “I’m used to being mansplained in the office, but at the bar too?” I shudder.
Slate laughs and rubs my back in a gesture of comfort. My icy mood melts at his touch and I lean into his side, enjoying his warmth and support. What did I ever do to deserve such a great wingman?
“Don’t worry, Katie. We’ll find you a nice guy who won’t talk your little ears off . . . and one who loves cats too.”
He yanks on my earlobe and a jolt of energy passes through me, covering my arms and legs in faint goose bumps. That was unexpected.
“What about that guy over there? He’s been eyeing you.”
I follow his gaze to a man sitting with a small group of friends in a booth. Blond hair, cropped short to his head. Glasses and a nice sweater. Cute and clean cut. Not exactly my type, but when our eyes meet and he smiles invitingly, my heart skips a little. I smile back.
“See?” Slate says. “Let’s go get you a blow job, buddy.”
I laugh under my breath, and together we walk over to the booth. “You lead this time?”
“Sure,” he says.
Immediately, I feel safe and a thousand times more confident. This is Slate’s domain, here in the bustling bar scene. It isn’t mine, and I don’t need to pretend it is.
Slate will help me. That’s why he’s here, right?
As Keaton follows me over to the table where Blond Glasses Guy sits, I take quick stock of its occupants: our target, plus one man and two women, nobody sitting close enough to each other to suggest any sort of romantic connection.
So he has female friends. I add a point to my mental scoreboard. A low bar, I know, but I’ve met a depressing number of guys in my time who didn’t clear it. This at least suggests that he sees women as more than conquests.
“Excuse me,” I say to announce our approach, and Blond Glasses Guy looks up. “I couldn’t help but notice you were checking out my friend here.”
Flustered, he blinks rapidly, his gaze flicking between me and Keaton. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you.”
I laugh. He probably thinks I’m here to start a fight. “Actually, she was the opposite of bothered. I thought we’d come over and introduce ourselves. I’m Slate, and this is Keaton.”
“Hi,” Keaton says, almost shyly. It’s strange—and kind of cute—to see her acting so different from her usual take-charge attitude.
“I’m Greg.” He stands up to shake her hand first, and then mine. Good manners . . . another point in his favor.
The two women at the table giggle and whisper to each other. The other man cracks a smile that’s almost lost in his bushy beard.
Greg grins sheepishly. “Would you like to sit down?” he asks, making sure to address both of us.
Polite, not too pushy. Potentially a positive, to put Keaton’s skittishness at ease, but if she loses her nerve and can’t make the first move, he might just let things fizzle out. I’ll have to keep an eye on the situation.
“Really? You don’t mind if we join you?” Keaton looks like she can’t believe her luck.
One of the women pipes up. “Not at all. I’m Abby, by the way. And this is Sofia and Ethan.”
I don’t miss the appreciative eye Abby gives me.
Keaton sits gingerly next to Greg, like she’s trying to perch on a land mine without exploding it. This is so not like Keaton, and I’m not sure what to make of it.
Sofia says something in an undertone, and Ethan snorts.
Abby leans toward me, a generous glimpse of tanned cleavage peeking out from her loose gold blouse. “So, what do you do?”
I turn to face her, but behind me, I can hear Greg and Keaton starting a fumbling yet earnest conversation. “I’m a sports agent. I negotiate contracts for athletes and communicate with their team owners, managers, and coaches, that sort of thing.”
“Wow, that is so awesome!” Abby squeals. “Have you met any really famous people?”
“Quite a few.” I flash her my patented panty-melting smile. “But right now, my friend and I are just out looking for a good time. What—”
“—do you do?” I overhear Greg asking Keaton.
“I work in software sales,” Keaton says, her voice chipper. It’s cute how she loves her job.
“What a coincidence. I’m actually a programmer, myself.”
I stiffen, waiting for him to mansplain her own job to her—another problem I’ve seen way too many times.
But instead, he asks, “What do you think of Java?”
“Oh Christ, fucking Java.” Keaton groans, and they both laugh.
“What were you saying?” Abby prompts me.
Sofia and Ethan have already started their own side conversation, something about a dumb customer at the coffee shop where he works.
“Uh . . .” I forgot. Oh, right. “How about you?” I try to shut out Greg and Keaton’s words and get back on track.
“I work at an art gallery. So I answer the phone, manage the budget, coordinate events, liaise with artists . . .” Abby chuckles and rests her hand on my arm. “That last part is a little bit
like what you do with athletes, I guess. Or am I wrong?”
“Infiniti Key specializes in security and encryption software, doesn’t it?” Greg asks.
“That’s right. I’m surprised you’ve even heard of my company.” Keaton sounds impressed.
“I like to stay informed about local businesses. It’s kind of a hobby,” Greg replies.
I want to roll my eyes a little. Oh, come on, man, there’s no way you can say something like that without sounding douchey. But Keaton still looks as rapt as ever, so I try to chalk it up to different strokes for different folks.
“Did you hear me?” Abby says a little testily.
I yank my attention back to her. “Sorry. Do you like to paint yourself? Uh, not like that avant-garde thing—” Shut the hell up! “—where you get naked and cover yourself in body paint. I meant paint on paper. Canvas.”
Jesus fucking Christ, what’s wrong with me?
“Yeah,” Abby says slowly. “I do. I’m hoping to get good enough to take commissions. Although, I actually work with digital media, not traditional.”
“That’s really neat. What kind of subjects do you like to draw?” I ask.
I don’t hear her answer because Keaton cracks up, and I involuntarily glance over at her. Abby’s fuchsia-painted lips pinch together.
Dammit . . . she’s getting frustrated, and I don’t blame her. What happened to my game tonight? Normally, I’d be all over such a cute, cool, obviously interested girl, but I keep dropping the ball. I’m not even trying to eavesdrop, but fucking Greg is still making me miss all my cues.
I take another few stabs at chatting with Abby and the rest of the table. Making a good impression on Greg’s friends can only help Keaton score.
But all my small talk falls flat; Greg and Keaton’s chattering is just too distracting. Resigning myself to looking antisocial, I let the others get back to whatever they were talking about before we showed up. I turn my ear to the lovebirds, ready to jump in if Keaton needs a helping hand.
But it seems like she’s got everything under control.
“So then the guy asks me if this product is compatible with their COBOL system, and I almost piss my pants,” Keaton says.
