My eyes locked with those of the man sitting on the end. He was smiling at something one of his friends was saying. Due to the lighting inside the dingy bar, I couldn't see him clearly.
From what I could make out from my vantage point, his teeth could be used in toothpaste commercials. He was dressed well, in a gray button-down dress shirt, slacks, and dress shoes. His hair was cleanly styled.
Given that he was with a group of people dressed similarly to him, I figured they worked together. I toyed with the notion of approaching him, ultimately deciding against it. He was the opposite of what I was used to.
I looked away, counting him out for what I had come looking for. None of the other men or women inside were remotely appealing to me, but since I was already here, I decided to finish my drink. I didn’t have any dire reason to rush home.
Molly was gone for three days. Nothing was waiting for me at the house but an annoying hole in the ceiling and the depressing emptiness that made me take a hellish stroll down memory lane.
Maybe I should get a dog. No. I shook my head to clear the idea from my mind. After what happened to Digz, I didn’t deserve another dog.
I continued to nurse my drink, drawing out the time I could remain here. Every time I looked in that direction, the mysterious stranger had his eyes on me. He wasn't being discreet about it. Tucking my chin, I smiled to myself, circling the tiny straw in my glass.
It was on my fourth—and my decided final—drink before my tolerance gave out that I got up to use the toilet before leaving for home. The bathroom was tiny and as clean as could be expected for such an establishment.
After carefully squatting over a cracked toilet, I sanitized my hands and headed into the hall. With my head down, reading the text that just came through from Darcy, I didn't see the person coming from the opposite direction.
I slammed right into their solid frame. My cell flipped from my hand and hit the ground.
"Fuck,” I mumbled, praying the screen survived the fall. My mystery man bent down to retrieve sit before I could.
"That's a colorful word," he admonished with a quirked brow and a sexy drawl.
"It was absolutely necessary, given the circumstances."
Holding my palm out for the phone he had yet to try and return, I gave him a small smile and kept my eyes locked with his, fighting the urge to inspect his entire body from top to bottom. The fragrance of his spicy cologne diffused between us. His face was a sculptor’s dream. He had cheekbones to die for, a prominent jaw line, flawless skin, and eyes the color of coals.
My staring for a bit too long had a cocksure smile gracing his lips.
Do you know how much you can tell about someone with a single smile? I don’t think he realized he had just given everything about himself away. At least, everything I had already assumed about him.
"Can I have my phone back?" I asked.
He wordlessly held the phone out for me to take, but when I reached for it, he closed his hand around the thin device and pulled away again.
"I'll give your phone back... if you let me buy you a drink.”
Now I did openly check him out. He was the perfect height, with a good few inches on my five-four self. Based on the definition in his arms, whatever body he had under his clothes…I wanted to see it.
I understood that a face like his and a rock-hard body didn’t mean he had a Godzilla cock. Two plus two didn’t always equal four, in these situations.
I’d frowned down at quite a few hidden buttons, much to my disappointment, but I had a feeling that wouldn’t be the case with him.
"I'll let you buy me a drink if you tell me your name," I finally responded.
"Maxwell."
"Maxwell?" I repeated.
"I prefer Max."
Of course you do.
He gave me another smile, reaching for my hand. My phone slid onto my palm, and he gently curled my fingers around it before letting go. With that one small gesture, my day brightened.
We both sidestepped at the same time, letting another bar patron sidle past us. A lithe blonde with a scorpion tattoo on her shoulder walked by, dragging her eyes up and down Max’s body and giving him a lust-filled smile before walking into the bathroom.
He earned himself some brownie points by completely ignoring her and keeping his focus on me.
"So, about that drink…?" He hinted for my name, holding his hand out for me to move ahead of him.
"Rose," I tossed over my shoulder, heading for my booth. Max trailed after me, his presence impossible not to detect.
Once we were both seated, him across from me, he waved Aimee over.
"Vodka on the rocks—two—and add lime," he ordered, then waved her off and focused back on me.
She returned in record timing, placing them both down with an ear-splitting grin. I stared at my glass with a frown.
"I should’ve probably mentioned that I've already had four drinks. I do have to drive home, ya know?"
"And where is home?"
“Now, let's not get ahead of ourselves. You’re a stranger.”
“Then let’s work on me becoming a friend,” he replied, not missing a beat.
“Why do you want to be my friend?”
Ugh. That word was like battery acid on my tongue. Friend.
The smile he flashed me was beautiful and innocent. There wasn’t a hint of malice in his eyes.
“Is there a reason I shouldn’t want to be friends with you, Rose?”
I’m glad he asked. Because yes, there were a shit load of reasons, the most important being how much he valued his life. Getting close to me was the equivalent of predating his death certificate.
Of course, I didn’t tell him that. I just smiled prettily and tried to let the guy down easy. I knew why he’d sought me out before he said a word, but I wasn’t buying what he wanted to sell.
“I’m not a friends kinda gal. It’s nothing personal, honest. You seem like a good guy,” I soothed, speaking absolute bullshit.
Sure, he was a gorgeous sonofabitch, and he seemed genuine, but so did Satan. Well, supposedly. I’d never met the man personally.
“What does that even mean?” he laughed. “What kind of girl are you?”
The kind of girl who’s pretending to be someone she’s not. “The kind that drives all the way to the end of town looking for a booty-call.”
He choked on his drink, then threw his head back and laughed a little louder. It made me loosen up a little more.
Some men had an issue with women who weren’t afraid to initiate sex. Somehow, we were sluts and whores for getting ours just like the guys got theirs—double standard idiocy at its finest.
I never had an issue separating sex and feelings. I didn’t worry my heart would be left behind with a one-night stand. I liked to be used. Being fucked, then forgotten, was one of the many screwed-up coping methods I had.
When Max finally stopped laughing, he leaned forward and whispered, “Well then, I think you’re exactly my kind of girl.”
“Was it the booty-call?”
“No, it was your honesty,” he drawled, flashing me another one of his sexy smiles before leaning back.
I think, in the back of my mind, I knew right then that he was going to be trouble.
The kind of trouble I was intimately familiar with.