“Give me a break.” I turn back to open my wallet, taking out my money.
“Tough day at the office?”
“I’m not interested in talking.” I search for the bartender’s attention at the other end of the counter. When he spots me, I shoot the twenty into the air. “Bartender!”
A guy in his sixties with shaggy gray hair and weathered features, wearing a Metallica T-shirt from the 1989 Damaged Justice tour, looks exactly like the person I’d expect in a dive bar. When he’s standing in front of me, his craggy forehead furrows. “You lost, sweetheart?”
“Do I look lost?” I push the money in his direction. “I’ll take a double bourbon on the rocks, the best you’ve got.”
He gives me another narrowed once-over, takes the twenty, and walks away.
“Stupid, dumb, paternal men,” I mutter as I reposition my stool until I’m comfortable.
“What’s that?” the nightmare next to me asks.
I slam my hand down. “Oh my god, would you stop talking?”
“I’d love to, but your agitation is loud, and it’s making it hard to concentrate. You’re not the only one with brooding to do here.”
My throat catches with a laugh, but I choke it back down. The last thing this guy needs is encouragement.
The bartender returns with my change and drink, giving me another curious glance before moving on to another customer.
“Finally.” I pick up the glass and down three-fourths of it in one big gulp.
The stranger sighs like I exasperate him. “If I buy you a drink, then would you consider being quiet?”
I tap the toe of my black heel. “Not interested.”
He turns on his stool. “So, no?”
I get distracted by his eyes. I’ve never seen eyes so dark. They’re fathomless, like slipping into a hot, hedonistic black hole.
The smart response is to ignore him, but I’m more of a live-on-the-edge type. I swivel in his direction, crossing my legs.
He tracks my movements like a predator.
But instead of the disinterest that led me into eight months of boring, semi-satisfied sex with Travis, the sensation of being hunted skitters across my skin.
I remind myself men like him are an illusion.
They never deliver on all their bragging.
I wait until he refocuses on my face. “What part of not talking do you not understand?”
Without dropping my gaze, he says in a slow, measured tone, “Settle. Down.”
I look him dead in the eye. “Do I look like someone who takes orders?”
“No, but I’m an optimist,” he shoots back.
I pick up my rocks glass, let it dangle between my thumb and forefinger before lifting it to my lips and draining it, then shaking the remaining ice. “Look, I get it. With this whole thing you’ve got going on—” I wave a hand in a big circular motion in his general direction “—you don’t hear the word no very often, so let me be crystal clear. No. N. O. No!”
He laughs. “What exactly do you think I’m offering?”
I shrug one shoulder. “I don’t care what you’re offering. Conversation. A drink. Dinner. Dancing. Sex. It’s a no. So whatever you’re thinking in that pretty little head of yours, stop.”
He returns my dismissive once-over with one of his own. “Someone thinks very highly of herself.” He mimics my movements. “With this whole thing you’ve got going on.”