Chapter 2
1396 Words
2
The next night I wander around the city wallowing and lamenting my current predicament. I finally decide on a small bar named the Thirsty Monk, in the Nob Hill section of the city. The place is cute with small round tables throughout and a long U-shaped bar in the middle of the space. I take a seat at said bar and chat off and on with the female bartender as she feeds me a steady supply of drinks.
The longer I sit here, the more it dawns on me that I’m twenty-five, unemployed, and living with my grandparents. I’ve never felt like a bigger loser in my life. The rotting cherry on top of this s**t cream sundae is that Tahlia is getting married.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m ecstatic for my friend. I really am. But I know that the coming months are going to be filled with parties, wedding rites of passage, and all that other stuff. Which if I wasn’t at the lowest point in my life I’d have a lot more enthusiasm for. Plus, the small voice inside willing me to acknowledge the truth knows that I’m feeling sorry for myself. Why can’t I have all those things?
When we were younger we had dreams of all of us getting married around the same time and starting our families together. Girlish dreams, I know, but the disappointment over the fact that it will never be is just shy of crushing. Tahlia is moving on with her life and I’m just… stuck.
Back when we were still teenagers with stars in our eyes, we’d decided that I’d be Tahlia’s maid of honor, Tahlia would be Lennon’s, and Lennon would be mine. It seemed the easiest way to avoid an argument down the line. That, and we’d watched that episode of Friends where Monica, Rachel, and Phoebe did the same thing. Okay, maybe we were just being copycats.
Being Tahlia’s maid of honor is not going to be an inexpensive venture and at the moment I barely have enough to buy myself dinner at Taco Bell. I need to get a job and quick.
About an hour after that realization I’m checking my email on my phone in case any of the places I applied to earlier have responded and the Tinder app catches my eye.
Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the dumpster that is my life, but getting laid by a stranger without the pretense of either of us wanting more seems like a fantastic idea right now.
And so I start swiping. And swiping.
Eventually one of the more attractive guys I swiped right on messages me a picture of his d**k.
How’s that for hello?
Judging by the picture though, he’s working with some good equipment.
Never let it be said that a d**k pic can’t bring two people together.
Seconds later another message comes through.
Pussylickr69: Wanna f**k?
Well. He certainly doesn’t waste time on pleasantries, does he? Ignoring the fact that this douche couldn’t be bothered to even say hello or ask my name before asking if I wanted to bump uglies with him, I respond because in truth, tonight I only need what genetics has so clearly blessed him with.
Whiteebanter: That’s the idea.
Pussylickr69: Awesome. Where r u?
Whiteebanter: At the Thirsty Monk in Nob Hill.
Pussylickr69: Why don’t u c*m 2 my place?
Since this is my first ever hook-up of this sort I don’t know if it’s normal to head over to the other person’s place, but there isn’t a chance in hell I’m going inside some stranger’s house without meeting him in public and seeing if I get the creep vibe from him first. I have a very healthy creep-o-meter.
Whiteebanter: This is my 1st time doing this. Why don’t you meet me here & we can have a drink then head to your place?
I toss back the last of my drink while I wait for a response. Somehow the thirty seconds feels longer than it did waiting for the next season of Breaking Bad to air. Finally, his response comes.
Pussylickr69: Be there in 20.
I drop my phone back into my purse hanging from the corner of the chair with the flair of a woman who’s just taken ownership over her life.
Okay, I’m doing this. I’m really doing this.
I need another jolt of liquid courage before this guy shows up. I look up to order another drink expecting to see the pretty blonde who’s been serving me all night, but instead my eyes meet a set of hazel eyes fringed with dark lashes. Those eyes are set in the face of a guy whose bone structure would make any model jealous. Further inspection tells me that his body is no less impressive. Muscles bulge beneath his taut t-shirt, the hard planes of his chest and abs clearly visible beneath. My gaze darts back up to his face to see a half-crooked smile and a gleam in his eyes that tells me he knows how hot he is.
After some work to reconnect my brain synapses with my tongue I’m finally able to speak.
“Hey. You don’t look like the last bartender,” I say and push my empty glass toward him.
“You’re right. She’s much cuter than I am.”
His grin widens. And oh! There’s a dimple, too. I’ve always been a sucker for a guy with a dimple. Then again, who isn’t? I think of dimples as being the key to the chastity belt.
“Ready for a refill?” He nods down to the empty glass.
When I remember that a stranger is on his way to meet me so we can have s*x together, panic flares inside me. I desperately need that drink.
“Yes!” I say with too much enthusiasm.
He doesn’t comment on my over-excited nature, thankfully. “What’ll you have?”
I ponder for a moment, thinking that I need something stronger than what I’ve been drinking—I’m going to need to be buzzed for this—but unsure what to order. “Something that will put hair on my chest,” is my brilliant response to his question.
His gaze darts down to my cleavage. “Now why would you want to go and ruin a perfectly good chest like that?” He arches a brow, but instead of waiting for me to reply, he turns and begins to make my drink.
My face heats and a small portion of the confidence I’ve lacked lately returns. I smile to myself as he grabs a glass and adds ice to it, enjoying the way the muscles in his arms contract and relax as he sets about his work.
I’m so lost in ogling his body that I barely notice when he sets a drink in front of me.
“For the lady,” he says in that deep, slightly raspy voice.
“Thank you.” I lean forward and draw the drink up the straw, not missing the way he’s watching my lips with intense focus. The sweetness of the cola hits my tongue first and then the taste of whiskey followed by something else I can’t place. “This is really good. What’s it called?”
“A Stiffy.” One corner of his lip tips up in a grin.
“What’s in it?” I ask as I lean in for another sip. I’ve never been a huge whiskey drinker, but this stuff goes down smooth.
“It’s my own creation.” He winks and leans over the bar so close to me that his lips are practically touching my ear. “If I told you there’s no telling the things I’d have to do to you to keep you quiet.”
A shiver runs up my spine and he must notice because he chuckles as he backs away, amusement lighting his eyes.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Whitney Knight. Most of my good friends call me Whit, though.”
He places both palms on the bar top and lets his weight transfer to them, causing all the muscles to bunch up. Not that I notice because that would be slutty since I have another guy on his way here to screw my brains out.
The scent of his cologne wafts my way as he leans in just a little. “I hope I have the pleasure of being able to call you Whit someday then.”
I swallow hard, my tongue feeling heavy in my mouth. “What’s your name?” I ask in a breathy voice that probably gives away how turned on I am at that moment.
“Cole,” he says simply.
Cole. Just one look at this guy and I know he’s trouble. What I can’t be sure of yet is whether he’s more trouble than he’s worth.
- Writer
