I titled my head, regarding him properly for the first time since I’d ventured in here. I’d appreciated his knack for conversation but appreciation for silence, his handsome, gruff exterior, and his top shelf whisky, but I hadn’t looked closer.
Hadn’t found his word.
And that was it.
Secret.
He had a lot of those.
Hiding behind twinkling eyes and an easy smile.
Oh yes, there was hard about him, but it went unnoticed because of all the soft edges his job whittled everyone down to.
“I’d rather know your secrets than your name,” I said finally.
His eyes stopped twinkling. He leaned down for a second glass and poured whisky for himself.
“I don’t tell secrets without whisky,” he said with a small grin.
I clinked my glass with his.
“Deacon,” he said after his first sip. “My name.”
I swallowed my whisky, savoring the burn and the prickling numbness moving toward my throbbing ankle. “I thought we were doing secrets.”
“Ah, eventually. I’d prefer you’d know my name first.”
“What kind of name is Deacon?” I asked. It wasn’t a name real people had, surely. Well, it shouldn’t have been a name real people had. It was a hero name. You didn’t give babies hero names in case they turned out to be the villain.
Kind of like me.
Deacon smirked and poured more whisky. “Seems to have done me well. What kind of a name is Magnolia?” He made a point to run his eyes up and down my head-to-toe black outfit, sharp wing and almost permanent scowl.
I raised my glass to him. “Touché.”
He watched me drink. “You gonna be okay to drive after all these?” He looked downward, at the foot that was still smarting, and black and blue underneath boots I’d all but stuffed my feet into. “You okay to walk?”
I normally would’ve bristled at such questions from both a bartender and a man. But I was feeling warm from the whisky and somewhat relaxed with this man and his secrets, his hand still resting on the cover of my book.
“Okay is never a word to describe me,” I replied. “But I’ll be driving and walking. Maybe I’ll grab a bite at the one restaurant in town that does not boast butter as their first ingredient.” I almost immediately nixed that idea, fearing people coming up to talk to me about my brush with death, about my new home, and offers of casseroles. That had happened three times on the walk from my car to the bar.
Deacon chuckled. “Ah, yes, we haven’t really caught on to the healthy food movement. Would offer you somethin’ here, but the closest we come to salad is lettuce on our burgers. Even that’s controversial.” He glanced to a couple of men that looked like they should have their names carved into the tables at which they sat.
I smiled. “Oh, trust me, I didn’t come in here for the food. Or even the company. Maybe a distraction.”
He leaned on the bar. “I specialize in distractions.” His voice was smoother than the whisky I was cradling.
“Ah, I bet you do. But I’m afraid I probably won’t be able to handle your version of distraction,” I told him honestly. The man dripped sex. He definitely specialized in it. It intimidated me. Of course, I wouldn’t ever admit such a thing. “I’m much too vanilla for you.” I made sure to say it confidently. A badge of honor. Not a weakness.
He raised his brow in a look I decided he had perfected. It was the “bullshit” look. Which made sense, he was a bartender, he’d seen a of bullshitting. Too many liars looked for the truth in the bottom of a whisky glass.
Present company included.
“Don’t take it personally that I don’t believe you,” he said. His eyes purposefully ran over me. “Woman that have fuck me eyes, do me lips, and an ‘I’ll bite your head off after sex’ attitude are not vanilla.” He paused. “You are not vanilla.” There was sex in his voice. It was not vanilla. He stayed there, for a beat. In the promise of sex. In the thick air.
I got caught in it, for a hot second. Something was not dead inside me. My sex drive. And maybe I wasn’t vanilla.
“Plus,” he said, jerking himself out of the stupor, “I’ve read your books.” He jerked his head downward. “Well, not all of them, but this is my third.”
I laughed. “You’ve read my books and you decide that means you know about my sexual preferences?”
He raised his brow.
“People have always expected me to be a member of every sex club in the city, bathing in goat’s blood while orgasming on some kind of altar.” I sipped my whisky. “That’s the only thing that could explain the woman pleasuring herself while Satan watched, or the couple that fucked in front a family they just murdered.” I smiled at the thought of how much hate mail that got. “But, the thing is, people are terrible. And terrible people love to post about terrible shit on the internet. I am a terrible person, so I’ve got a great search bar in here.” I tapped the side of my head. “Plus, I don’t tend to date men who are anything but vanilla.”
He leaned in close so I could smell whisky mixed with mint. “You expect me to believe that.”
I tapped my fingers on the bar. He took the signal like any good bartender, and poured me two fingers more. “I hope you don’t believe that,” I said. “Because that means that my farce is working.” I took another sip. “But yes, I only date men that are ordinary. Have trust funds. Usually that have ‘the third’ behind their first name. A trust fund and a Brooks Brothers wardrobe helps. I like being the weird one. The one that makes them uncomfortable. Foreign. Like I’ve crash landed on their beige planet. They like it too. They like the adventure of telling their friends they’re with someone like me. That I’m kinky in the bedroom. But really, they only want missionary and bragging rights to their friends.” I downed my drink, stood on steady feet. I would be able to walk better than I did coming in here, the whisky doing its job at numbing the worst of the pain. “So, baby, I’m afraid you’re just not my type.”
I threw a wad of bills on the bar and walked out before he could convince me otherwise.
I ran into him leaving the bar.
Literally ran into him.
Not just because of the whisky. Not even a little.
Now I turned whisky into a major food group, I’d built up somewhat of a tolerance. Which meant I felt sober. Too sober. I did not run into him because I was drunk or tipsy.
It was because I wasn’t expecting a wall of a man to be standing right inside the fricking doorway.
There was no moment of confusion. I knew exactly who I was slamming into. Hence me scuttling back so the side of my face wasn’t pressed into the middle of his chest. I was pretty sure I’d have a bruise, hard as it was. And I would definitely be having to either burn my clothes to get his scent off them, no matter how faint.
He didn’t apologize for his big, muscled and great-smelling body getting in my way. He didn’t speak at all, just glared at me. Even though he was wearing Wayfarers, I didn’t need to see his eyes. His entire body was a glare.
“You make a habit of standing in doorways and giving people mild concussions?” I asked.