“No worries, Tony. You know I don't mind. Plus, I could use the tips so it's a win-win.”
“Well, I still appreciate it. I’ll be in my office if you need me,” he calls out, heading off just as Daisy struts toward me from the far end of the bar.
“Hey, Linda, I see you got roped into covering too.” She laughs, looking stunning in her Marilyn Monroe getup.
“I could do with the cash and it won't hurt to have someone owing me a favor for a change. Besides, unlike you, I don't have to wear heels all night,” I point out, making her scowl.
“Thanks for reminding me. My feet will be crying like little bitches by the time we’ve finished.” She doesn’t say anything else as two guys in suits at the end of the bar she’s working flag her down. I take the opposite side and for the next few hours, we work in tandem, side by side like a well-oiled machine until finally there is a brief lull in the crush. Taking advantage of the moment, I grab a quick drink, and visit the bathroom while I have the chance.
I’m just returning to the bar when I feel it again. That strange static change in the air I experienced earlier in the day, but this time, it's accompanied by the sensation of being watched. I scan the crowd, but it's far too busy to see if anyone is watching me, and even if they are, then what? This outfit is designed to grab attention, so can I really blame people for staring? It's just that this particular stare feels sensual, heating me in ways more conducive to being in the bedroom, not behind a bar.
I carry on serving drinks, thankfully at a far slower pace than earlier in the evening, when out of the corner of my eye, I see someone sit on the stool in the center of the bar.
I’m still grabbing change for the twenty-one-year-old birthday girl and her posse, so I leave Daisy to serve the newcomer. I hand over the girl's change with a smile, knowing that after this drink I’ll be cutting her off, when I hear a voice that makes my skin erupt with goosebumps.
A voice I usually only hear in my dreams.
“I’m sorry, sir, you’re going to have to speak up,” Daisy calls over the din of the bar. “What can I get you?” she repeats as I turn my head and lock eyes on a man I hoped I’d never see again.
“I said, I’m looking for my wife.”
Shit. Fuck. Shit.
I walk over to Daisy with fake confidence I have perfected over the last year and nudge her with my hip.
“Go take your break. I’ve got this,” I tell her calmly.
She looks up and down the bar before turning back to me. “You sure?”
I nod. “Absolutely, now go.”
She smiles with gratitude, likely happy to be off those heels for a little while, and disappears out back.
I turn to face the asshole in front of me, guarding myself against the barrage of images that bombard my brain from the time we spent together.
Asher fucking Sloan.
He might have forgotten me, but I didn't forget him, not for a single second, no matter how much I wished I could have.
“If you hand me the papers, I’ll sign them. I won't contest anything. I want nothing from you.” I mean every word.
“Papers?” he asks, his voice as deep and sexy as I remember.
“Divorce papers. I assume that's why you’re here, right?” Why else would he be here? He doesn't strike me as the themed bar kind of guy.
“I didn’t come here to get a divorce,” he informs me, shaking his head, making me frown in confusion.
“Well, what the heck did you come here for then?”
“I came here to get my wife.”
Nine
Asher
She stares at me in shock, but it barely registers as my eyes rove over this woman who, in the eyes of the law, is mine. How the fuck could I have forgotten the goddess in front of me?
I arrived an hour ago, watching her from afar, along with every other guy here and even some of the women. She is just that captivating—and in that outfit, the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen in my life. This includes my high school history teacher, Mrs. Matthews, who provided me with enough spank bank material to get me through my first few years, and then the Dixon twins had taken over my sexual fantasies in my senior year. But standing here, staring at my wife, I can’t remember ever feeling as turned on as I am right now.
My wife.
“Collect your wife? Have you lost your fucking mind?” she whisper-yells at me. I’m pretty sure if I look hard enough, I’ll see steam pouring from her ears.
“On the contrary, I’m perfectly sane. What time do you finish?” I ask her calmly.
She shakes her head in disbelief. “Fuck you,” she spits out before turning away from me.
I lean over the bar and grab her arm. Not hard, just enough to stop her from running off.
She glares at me in disgust. “Take your hand off me, or I’ll call security.”
I let go and raise my hands in surrender. “I can either wait for you to finish and we can talk, or I can come back. And when I say come back, I mean every single night that you work, I’ll be here sitting on this very stool until you speak to me.”
And I would. One way or another, I will get her to listen.
“Fuck. Fine. I get off at 2:00 am. If you want to wait around, that's up to you,” she tells me before walking to the end of the bar to serve an older man and a woman who looks young enough to be his daughter. They remind me of my father and his latest bride.
She doesn’t speak to me for the rest of the night, not that I expect her to. I nurse the drink the other bartender served me and try to figure out the best way to approach this.
Before walking in here tonight, my sole aim was to get Linda to play the part of my happy wife. When she had fulfilled her purpose, I was going to cut her loose, serve her with the divorce papers, and give her a nice settlement as a thank you.
But that was before I watched her laughing with her co-worker. It was such a carefree sound that it had my dick standing to attention.
It was before I saw the young woman enter the bar hanging on the arm of a guy old enough to be her father. Watching her fawn all over him—and him lapping it up—makes me think of my father and has my lip curling in disgust. It’s right then, when Linda’s eyes land on me, hers widening in surprise, that I realize I wanted something else.
Avoiding relationships to prevent myself from turning into my father is a moot point now since I’m already married. And the thought of throwing this marriage away so carelessly like my father has done over and over makes me feel sick.
I want something more out of life than late nights in the office and empty fucks with faceless women.
I don't know why, but all of a sudden, I’m feeling the need to prove everyone wrong, myself included. I’m craving the one thing I’ve always denied myself—a connection. I want to feel like someone’s missing puzzle piece.
Fuck, maybe I should lay off the whiskey.
Finally, last orders are called, and the crowd begins to thin out. As the drunken revelers make their way outside, Linda turns to face me with a look of resignation on her face.
“I’m just going to help clear the glasses from the tables, then get changed. I’ll be ten minutes or so, okay?” she asks, but it's not really a question. The options are, I either wait or I don't.