He turns in their direction, and their annoying little giggles waft our way like high-pitched pollution. Seven empty bar stools separate us, but even an ocean wouldn’t be enough at this point.
“Can’t do that, Rhett. I’m sorry.” The bartender lifts a white rag, wiping at an imaginary speck of dust on the counter. “They’re paying customers, and they’re not making too much noise. You want to go to the back room, get away for a bit?”
I huff. No, I don’t want to go to the back fucking room.
I don’t want to sit in a red-carpeted VIP lounge all by myself like a goddamned, self-important loser.
I toss back the remainder of my drink, sliding the empty glass his way, and he nods in silent understanding.
The girls haven’t stopped chatting since they sat down. They’re talking about flowers. Engagement rings. Dresses.
Fuck my life.
“An old fashioned, please.” A dark-haired beauty with red lips takes a seat two spots down from me. She places a little black clutch on the bar and brushes her bangs from her eyes, revealing two pools of hazel lined in black.
“That’s a man’s drink.” It takes a moment for me to realize I’m the asshole speaking those words.
She whips her attention toward me. “Excuse me?”
“An old fashioned,” I say. “What are you, an eighty-year-old man?”
She exhales, rolling her pretty eyes. I’ve always been a sucker for pretty eyes. The second she looks away, I steal a chance to take in the rest of her. Tight, curved body wrapped in head-to-toe black. Sexy heels that come to a point at the toe. Her breasts spill from her top just enough to make a man’s gaze linger a bit too long. She must be meeting someone for drinks. No one comes to a bar dressed like that just because.
A second later, she’s pulling her phone out, pressing the power button and groaning at the blank screen. When the bartender returns with her drink, I hear her ask if he has a phone charger, but he gives an apologetic “no.”
Sucking in a deep breath, she focuses on the wall of liquor bottles ahead. She’s choosing to ignore me, and maybe I deserve it, but I’m not going to apologize. She’s drinking a man’s drink. Whiskey. Bitters. Sugar. All she needs is a Cuban cigar and she’s my grandfather reincarnated.
“You’re not the first person to tell me I drink like a man.” Her voice is dry, her tone sardonic. She’s still staring ahead when she swirls her spoon in her drink before taking a sip. “You’re lucky I’m not doing Jäger bombs tonight.”
She laughs—at herself I presume.
“I’m lucky?” I ask. Girl has some nerve. Anyway, Jäger bombs remind me of Bryce, and the last thing I want to think about right now is that bastard.
“I make bad decisions when I drink Jäger.” She pulls in another tiny sip, then stares into her glass. “At least that’s what people tell me. I don’t usually remember.”
“Convenient.”
Her body swivels toward me, her elbow resting on the bar and her fingers wrapped lightly around her tumbler. “Nothing about my life is convenient.”
“I’m not trying to talk to you about your life.” I snort. That’s women for you. They take a perfectly good conversation about liquor and twist it into something deeper, more meaningful.
Fuck deep.
Fuck meaningful.
I’d fuck her if I could, but she’ll probably want to lie in my arms when it’s all over and tell me her life story, and quite frankly, I’m not interested.
“How about you not twist my words?” She takes a sip, her hazel eyes locked on me like a silent challenge. They’re bewitching, her eyes. I’m drawn in, and I can’t look away. “And while you’re not twisting my words, how about you not jump to conclusions either?”
She’s bold. I like that. And I respect that in a girl-from-the-bar-I’d-consider-fucking-if-she-weren’t-so-smart-mouthed.
I finally turn away, and we marinate in silence, nothing but the sound of giggling girls wafting our way from the opposite end of the bar.
“God, they’re annoying,” she says to me, speaking under her breath. She leans a little closer, but keeps a careful distance at the same time.
The bartender returns with my forgotten drink, and then moves to the girl, leaning over the bar to tell her that her friend called, isn’t coming because something came up, and will get a hold of her tomorrow.
She got stood up.
Who the hell stands up a pretty girl like that? And she was dressed like she was down to fuck, too.
Oh, well.
His loss is my gain.
An inch of liquor remains in her glass, and I watch her toss the rest back like she’s in a hurry to get the hell out of here.
Maybe she’s hurt. Maybe she’s feeling embarrassed or her pretty little ego is bruising in real time, but I can’t let her go. Not yet. Not until I’ve had my fun.
I rise from my seat, and the ground beneath my feet tilts. I’m not sure how many drinks I’ve had now—probably too many—but I don’t give a rat’s ass. I’m going in for the kill. I want this girl. I want her against the wall. I want her in my bed. I want to fuck her until I can’t feel a damn thing and she can’t walk straight, and then I want her out of my life because that’s the kind of sorry bastard I need to be from now on.
Commitment is for losers.
Hearts and flowers are for assholes.
Truth, above all else, is the only thing that matters from here on out.
“What are you doing?” she asks, a slight chuckle in her tone when she sees me taking the bar stool next to her.
“I’m Rhett,” I say, elbow on the bar and eyes glued on hers. And in my truthful, drunken stupor, I add, “And I’m going to take you home tonight.”
“Worst. Pick up line. Ever.”
“Do I look like I care?” I huff.
“No. You look like a man who’s never had to try to get laid in his life,” she says, eyes rolling.
“Fair point.”
“You don’t even know my name,” she adds, the corners of her mouth pulling up. I have her undivided attention, and the fact that she didn’t throw her drink in my face is promising.
“Care to tell it to me?” I ask.
Her lips press together, fighting a smile, and she seems amused, entertained by this. Nothing about the way she looks at me tells me she’s star struck, which is yet another reason this woman is undeniably fuckable.
“Ayla,” she says carefully after a good, hard pause. Her hazel eyes squint in my direction, like she’s trying to figure me out.
Good luck.
She rises, gathering her things.
“Where are you going?” I stand, confused, because clearly a second ago this was going pretty fucking well.
“Home.”
“Why?”
“You’re drunk. Like, really drunk.” She seems annoyed by that fact. “And you just offended me by assuming I was that easy.”
I laugh, following her toward the exit. The giggling girls stop chatting and stare in our direction, but I don’t give a shit. Let them watch. Let them see what they could experience if they stopped planning their Pinterest weddings for two point six seconds and found themselves a real man. An honest man. One who won’t bullshit about the fact that the only thing he gives a damn about is sex.