They came around shortly after he died, taking turns spending weekends with me, picking up my shattered remains and trying to piece me back together with distractions and attempts at good times. But after a while, they all went back to their own lives.
I had to do the same.
It’s funny, when you’re younger, you think your friendships are everlasting, you think you’ll always be there for each other, that nothing will ever change no matter what. And day to day, nothing changes. But then one day you wake up and realize priorities shifted, people got married, took jobs across the country, started families.
You keep in touch online at first, chatting and sending messages for hours on end when you catch each other online at the same time. But eventually life gets in the way of that too and you might be lucky to get a “happy birthday” text once a year.
The distance is always subtle at first, gradual, and then it’s gaping.
“Double Belvedere on the rocks.” A tall, dark figure fills the space next to me, his voice vaguely familiar as he flags down tonight’s vivacious bartender. “And a Manhattan.”
The expensive-cologne-wearing gentleman takes the spot beside me as he waits for her to deliver his order, and I steal a glance from the corner of my eye.
Chiseled jaw. Onyx hair. Full lips.
It’s official.
The universe has a wicked sense of humor.
I keep my focus on the back of the bar, twisting the stem of my drink between my thumb and forefinger, attempting to pay him no mind as the words of my latest email dance in my head.
“I know you … how do I know you?” His words buzz in my ear as I inhale his intoxicating scent.
I shrug, reining in any and all emotions in favor of maintaining a poker face.
“You were in here the other night, weren’t you?” He leans closer, bringing with him the scent of money, privilege, and influence.
Taking a sip, I keep my gaze trained ahead. “Probably.”
“Fishing again?”
Asshole.
“How’d you know?”
He sniffs. “Lucky guess.”
The bartender delivers his drinks, two crystal tumblers set atop two recycled-paper coasters. He reaches into his wallet and places a couple of twenties on the table, the weight of his stare lingering and setting my senses ablaze.
It’s unclear at this point if he’s read my latest email.
Bennett slides the Manhattan to the spot beside him before checking his phone. He must be waiting for someone.
“Why are you here?” he asks.
Finally, I turn to him. “Excuse me?”
“I come here all the time, and now all of a sudden I’m seeing you twice in one week. Why are you really here?”
The nerve of this man.
“Stalking you.” And then I add, “Obviously.”
He sips his vodka and studies me.
“You must be incredibly bored right now,” I say.
“Obviously.”
“When you saw me here, sitting by myself, what about this led you to believe I wanted to be bothered?” I feed him his line from the other night. Maybe it’s petty, but maybe I don’t care. He’s already accused me of “fishing” for men and went on to sarcastically confirm that he’s only talking to me because he’s bored.
Or maybe this is all payback for the emails.
Maybe he’s messing with me.
Tossing back the remainder of my drink, I slide off the barstool and fling my purse over my shoulder.
“Where are you going?” he asks, looking me up and down.
“This isn’t cute, this thing you’re doing,” I say. “You’re not charming. You’re not anyone I remotely feel like spending my Saturday night with. I’m going somewhere else.”
“Stay.”
“I’m not a dog.”
“I see that.” He sips his drink, his stare boring through me, all but nailing me in place. “Still, you shouldn’t leave. Not on my account.”
“Do you speak to everyone you meet this way?” I’m not referring to the formality in which he speaks—which reminds me of a young Rudolph Valentino or even a Clark Gable. This man isn’t a “bro” or a “bruh” type. He’s on a level all his own.
“What way?”
“With contempt and condescension,” I say.
“Yes.”
Rolling my eyes, I place some cash on the counter and swipe my coat off the back of my bar stool.
“You’re not seriously going to leave, are you?” He watches me. “Let me buy you a drink. I feel awful you didn’t get to enjoy your first one. You all but chugged it the second I sat down beside you.”
Impressively perceptive.
But still an asshole.
“If I let you buy me a drink, will you leave me alone?” I eye the Manhattan beside him, with its melting ice cubes, wondering if his fragile ego craves attention to soothe the burn of being stood up.
For a moment, I see him as a damaged human and not a blatant jerk.
My adoptive mother used to say, “It takes all kinds,” which I always interpreted to mean that the world would be boring if we were all the same. And I agree. But that doesn’t mean I need to subject myself to this particular non-boring individual.
It’s too bad, really. I gave him the benefit of the doubt. My heart broke for him.
And then he sent that email …
I contemplate his offer, lingering in an indecisive gray area for several long and obvious moments before he reaches for my wrist and tugs me closer.
“I don’t want to ruin your night.” A wolf-like glint resides in his pale blue irises.
A second later, he flags the bartender and points to me and my empty flute.
I couldn’t tell you why … but I decide to stay.
My seat is still warm and his stare is more intense than it was before, and when I finally dare myself to meet his gaze with one of my own, I’m almost positive I see something else in them—something all too familiar.
My lemon-sweet cocktail arrives within minutes and Bennett Schoenbach lifts his glass to mine.
Something tells me we’re toasting to the same thing.
Loneliness.
12
Bennett
“I don’t hate anything. Or anyone,” the attractive blonde beside me declares as she sips her third cocktail. We’ve been talking—bullshitting about nothing and everything—for the last hour while Jax’s Manhattan wastes into water beside me. The bastard got held up with his clingy girlfriend and he isn’t coming.
So far she’s told me she loves old movies.
Anything old Hollywood.
She volunteers on the weekends (surprise, surprise).
But I’m more interested in what she doesn’t like—those are the kinds of things that tell you what you need to know about someone.
“Liar. Everybody hates somebody.” I sip my whiskey, my gaze trained on her luscious, peach-colored pout.
Disagreements make for the best foreplay, and I have every intention of taking this ray-of -sunshine home with me tonight and hate-fucking her into multiple orgasms before calling her a cab and praying we never meet again because I don’t do repeats.
The more I get her to find me cerebrally repulsive, the hotter the sex will be.