A Guy Walks Into My Bar

by Lauren Blakely

  “Ha. Mostly I’ve gone with my family on some fun vacays.”

  I gesture to myself. “As I said, you go with your family and enjoy the scenery.”

  “I don’t usually”—he stops to sketch air quotes—“‘enjoy the scenery’ when I’m with them.”

  I give him my best smolder. “I see. I’m irresistible. You broke your look-don’t-touch rule for me.”

  His expression shifts to serious. “I don’t hook up when I’m with my family, so yeah, you must be irresistible.” He runs a hand over my hip and along my thigh in a lazy, decadent way that makes my skin come alive. “And to answer your question, we’ve gone to a bunch of places. We never traveled when I was growing up. Didn’t have the money at all. So, in the last few years, I’ve tried to make up for it. I took my mom and sisters to Colorado to go skiing, then to Costa Rica a couple of years ago. My sister Sarah loves to surf, so we surfed and zip-lined and hiked, and it was awesome. My other sister, Carrie, is a huge fan of Japanese culture, so I took her and everyone else to Tokyo last year. Had a blast checking out the temples, tea gardens, and shrines.”

  There’s such genuine affection in Fitz’s tone as he talks about his family that a grin takes over my face. “You’re good to them,” I say, keeping it simple.

  “They’re good to me. And hey, it’s no hardship to travel to some amazing places. I loved all that stuff in Tokyo too, since I was a history major.”

  “Then I definitely will show you some of our sites here in London, and I’ll pretend I’m not jealous that you’ve been everywhere.”

  “I’m lucky I’ve been able to travel. Have you ever been to the States?”

  I shake my head. “No. Haven’t made it that way yet. But it’s all good,” I say, then trace my fingers down his arm. “I keep meaning to ask you about your ink, but every time we get naked, I’m distracted by other things.”

  “My dick is super distracting.”

  “It actually is. But I won’t be sidetracked now. So, what’s this?” I draw my finger across the tribal band on one arm, barbed lines woven intricately across his biceps.

  “Strength, family, wisdom,” Fitz says, letting out a soft rumble as I touch him. It’s heady to know even a curious trace can make him tremble.

  “Your pillars?”

  “Yup. Exactly. They’re what matters.”

  “Couldn’t agree more. And this?” My fingers follow a geometric design like spokes spiraling out from his biceps, winding around his shoulder and upper back.

  “Passion. Intensity,” he says, shutting his eyes, breathing out hard as I map his ink.

  “And is that for the way you play hockey?”

  He opens his eyes, those blue irises glinting. “Yes. That’s how I try to play. Give it my all every time I hit the ice. Nothing less.”

  “Your teammates are lucky to have you.”

  “Goes both ways. I couldn’t do what I do without them. They’re my guys.” He lets out a low growl as my hand spreads to cover the sunburst. “And this one?” I lower my face, pressing a kiss to the ink.

  “Light, truth. It was Emma’s idea.”

  “Yeah? Why’d she suggest it?”

  “She said I was like that. That I was always outgoing, always up-front, always open.”

  I smile. “Sounds like you.”

  “It came from a quote she found when she was studying religions in college as part of her core curriculum. ‘Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth.’ Buddha said it, and she shared it with me. I like it.”

  “And then this last one?”

  My fingers travel to his chest, where his skin bears an inscription under the left pec. It’s small and simple, just two words—No Regrets.

  “That’s how I try to live. It’s a good mantra,” he says.

  “I can’t disagree with you on that. I like it. I like them all. I like the way they look on you. So much that I don’t mind mopping the floors or scrubbing the toilets.”

  Fitz snakes a hand around my body, squeezing my ass. “You’re going to have to do so many chores after the things I plan on doing to you.”

  “At this rate, I think I might be building a new bar from scratch.”

  He wiggles his eyebrows. “I should feel guilty, but I don’t.” He pauses for a beat. “Do you want me to help you though?”

  I scoff. “You’re not going to pitch in and clean the floors. I make my own choices.”

  “I’d do it for you. If you wanted me to.” The earnestness of his offer is almost too much. It tugs on my heart, the sweetness in his voice. I believe he’d really grab a paintbrush or a hammer and happily work off my debt with me.

  “I’m sure you’d look fantastic with a tool belt, but let’s focus on these tools instead,” I say, sliding a hand under the covers and squeezing his cock.

  “You can use that for anything you want.”

  “And I plan to. Since evidently you need to get all these horny penguins out of your system before you go whack some moles or whatever it is you do on the ice.”

  He cracks up as I let go of him. “I will get you to like hockey, I swear.”

  “If it’s the last thing you do,” I tease, shaking a fist.

  “I’m going to make sure you love it. Mark my words, Dean.”

  “And I suppose I’d better make sure you like London. So, on that note, I should shower and change.” I glance at the clock on the bedside table. “I’ll meet you at Tower Bridge at twelve thirty.”

  “That’s two hours away. How will I make it until then? I’m like a penguin, and in penguin time, that’s years.”

  Laughing, I toss the covers aside. “So rub one out in the shower. That’ll tide you over for a couple of hours.”

  He pouts, grabbing my thigh. “You rub one out with me right now,” he says, grabbing my hand and wrapping it around his cock.

  Which is ready to go.

  And feels amazing.

  That’s the problem. He feels too good, turns me on too much. I’m getting hooked on the drug that is Fitz.

  Even though I know better. Addictive feelings lead to choices that have far-reaching consequences, like leaving your family, leaving your world.

  Things I would never do.

  But I won’t be tempted.

  Because that’s not what flings offer you.

  They don’t dangle before you the chance to skip out of town.

  They don’t encourage you to say see you later to all that matters.

  Flings have a beginning, a middle, and, most importantly, an end. You can enjoy the hell out of them because of that immutable fail-safe known as an expiration date.

  A fling is a perfect container for these unruly feelings Fitz evokes. Flings are supposed to be wildly intoxicating. They’re meant to consume you for a few days, like a star that burns twice as bright, but half as long. You can bathe in the intensity for a few days, drape it over you, roll around in it.

  You can drink it up and swallow it down, savoring every drop, knowing it’ll be gone soon enough.

  Fitz is dessert, all the decadent chocolate cakes in the city, and I will devour him for days.

  Then, I’ll return to my normal diet.

  No more cake, no more him.

  So I should eat my cake while I can.

  I get back in bed, grab some lube to make this easier, and slide my palm along his erection, loving the hot, hard feel of him, the velvet-smooth skin, the steel length, and, most of all, the sounds he makes.

  Yes.

  Fucking yes.

  Love it like that.

  Love it hard and tight, and yes . . . Just. Like. That.

  I dip my other hand lower, cupping his balls, playing with them, then I bring my mouth to his and suck on his bottom lip, drawing it in, knowing that kissing will send him over the edge.

  And it works.

  He’s coming in my hand, rocking and thrusting and moaning my name.

  After I wash my hands, I get dressed, say goodbye, and tell him I’
ll see him soon.

  As I leave the hotel and hit the streets of my hometown, I vow to use these hours away from him to remind myself how much I like being away from him.

  Since that’s where I’ll be in three more days.

  I can’t get accustomed to having him around.

  No matter how much I like it.

  Or him, for that matter.

  There’s only one thing to do—forget about him for the next two hours.

  I pop into Coffee O’clock and order my usual.

  “And one for your dad too?” Penny asks.

  I tap my chin. “Hmm. Does he deserve a tea? He was quite cheeky to me last night.”

  “Sounds par for the course.”

  “True, true. I suppose I won’t cut him off just yet.”

  “That’s good of you. No wonder you’re his favorite son.”

  I wink at her. “Exactly.”

  With the cups in hand, I thank Penny then head to Dad’s flat, where I find him locking the front door on his way out.

  “Personal tea delivery service is one of my favorite features of adult children,” he says with a crooked grin, taking the tea.

  “Where are you off to, old man?”

  “Heading to the furniture shop. Taron got a new chair he thinks I’ll like. Or an old one, I should say. Want to work on it with me this weekend?”

  I take a drink of my tea. “Sounds like the perfect way to spend a Saturday or Sunday afternoon.”

  After all, I have no plans besides work—there won’t be a soul demanding anything of me after Thursday.

  My schedule will be clear.

  I’ll have no one to shepherd around town during the day or to hunker down with at night.

  Just loads of time for my favorite things.

  When we reach the shop, Taron greets us with a huge grin and a clap of his hands. His colorful red shirt billows in the summer breeze. “You are going to die when you see this piece. It reminds me of all the chairs we had growing up in Johannesburg.”

  “You had so many Victorian-era chairs in South Africa,” my father teases.

  “We were teeming with them. Working here is like being back home,” Taron says, and when my dad heads straight for the rear of the store, my mate pulls me aside. “So, I hear you’re into someone.”

  I furrow my brow. “What are you talking about?”

  He tuts. “Naveen and Anya told me about your American. Sounds like the two of you were quite cozy.”

  I straighten my spine. “It was a date—that’s all.”

  “You keep telling yourself that, but someday you’re going to fall hard, and it’s going to be so spectacular. Trust me, I know.”

  “Trust me. It won’t happen with him. He lives across the ocean.”

  Taron waves a hand dismissively. “Details.”

  I shoot him a hard stare. “It’s a three- or four-thousand-mile detail. A transatlantic detail. But besides that, he’s not interested in more than a fling, nor am I. But I’m very interested in this chair.”

  I divert his attention away from talk of Fitz.

  Any talk of him would go nowhere, which is precisely where Fitz and I are going after Thursday.

  And that’s fine by me.

  18

  Fitz

  Sex burns calories, but those are just extra ones as far as I’m concerned.

  Bonus calories.

  That’s why I hit the hotel gym, lifting weights for an hour and trash-talking Ransom via text in between reps. I send him a picture of the bar.

  Fitz: You wish you could lift this much.

  Ransom: I lifted that much when I was five, asshole.

  Fitz: You wish you had my stats.

  Ransom: I had your stats when I was in peewee league, dickhead.

  Fitz: I was never in peewee league. Skipped it. I’m that good.

  Natch, I finish off the thread with a GIF of Wile E. Coyote dropping an anvil on the Road Runner, because we’re mature like that.

  He replies seconds later.

  Ransom: How’s Emma? Is she still hot for me like she was the first time I met her?

  Fitz: You ass.

  Ransom: Burned.

  On that note, I leave the gym, shower, and get ready to meet my tour guide. I drop my shades on, and along the way to Tower Bridge, I text Emma.

  Fitz: Are you orientating?

  Emma: Yes, I am pointing north now. Oh wait, that’s orienteering.

  Fitz: We’ll sign you up for a map-reading class next.

  Emma: I’ve mastered the Tube though. I’ll be an expert at zipping underground in no time.

  Fitz: And how’s the flat coming along? It looked good yesterday.

  Emma: Furnished flats overlooking quiet lanes and old bookshops are a dream come true. And speaking of dreams come true . . .

  Fitz: Emma, the Stanley Cup is in June.

  Emma: As if I’m talking about sports. How’s your man?

  Fitz: He’s not my man. He’s just a guy I’m spending time with.

  Emma: Oh, cool. So you can meet me in thirty minutes for a quick jaunt through Kensington Palace after I finish my next session? My day is over early.

  Fitz: Umm . . . no. I have plans.

  Emma: Because you’re seeing him. :)

  Fitz: Fine. Yes. I am. We’re going to Tower Bridge.

  Emma: Knew it. Called it. You two were so cute yesterday.

  Fitz: We are NOT cute.

  Emma: Whatever. You seem enamored with Dean, and he seems quite taken with you.

  Fitz: Yeah?

  Emma: Yeah, but what do you care? He’s just a guy you’re spending time with. *insert winking emoji*

  Fitz: Exactly. That’s what I meant. I don’t do relationships. I don’t do boyfriends. We’re simply two adults enjoying each other’s company.

  Emma: Yes, enjoy his company at Tower Bridge. That’s sooooo something you’d do with a hookup.

  Fitz: Emma . . . I can see you have hearts and arrows in your eyes, but rest assured, this is just a good time. That is all.

  Emma: Right . . . and on that note, I have a full afternoon of orientating. I’m not really done in thirty. I said that to bait you, and you revealed that you’re going to spend time with Dean. Ha!

  Fitz: You remain Machiavellian. Goodbye, Emma. See you for dinner. BTW, you’re not into Ransom, are you?

  Emma: The hella hot forward on your team with the smoldering eyes, great body, and face carved by angels?

  Fitz: *facepalm*

  Emma: Don’t ask a question if you don’t want to know the answer. And have fun with your new man.

  Fitz: He’s not my man.

  I close the text app on the little stinker and enjoy the walk through the streets, savoring the busy vibe of this city.

  My man.

  Please.

  No one has been my man in years, not since college. Not since Marcus, and that barely counts. I mean, yeah, it hurt like hell at the time—he was my first real boyfriend.

  But whatever. He wasn’t into me the same way I was into him, and that experience taught me I’m better off focusing solely on the things that matter—my job and my family.

  I’ve been laser-focused on those twin cornerstones of my life ever since.

  My mom worked too many jobs while I was growing up. Now, I need to take care of my family, and I won't throw away that duty for a guy.

  Any guy.

  That’s why I like playing the field. I like flings. I like zero commitments.

  Dean’s a fling.

  Nothing more.

  A no-strings-attached arrangement that I intend to enjoy the hell out of until I leave.

  Then, come Thursday, this tryst in London will be behind me, and the season and my team will be in front of me.

  That is all.

  As I walk along the river, I check the time of my flight on Thursday.

  Two in the afternoon.

  Then the time on the phone.

  Almost twelve thirty.

  That’s seventy-
four hours from now.

  Fine, it’s seventy-three-and-a-half hours till I’m gone.

  My muscles tense the slightest bit. But I don’t know why I’d feel any sort of frustration. I roll my shoulders to let loose some of the strange tightness in me.

  There’s no need to be tense when I’m doing everything I’d intended when I walked into Dean’s bar on Friday night.

  Having him.

  When I look up, I see the man himself resting his forearms on the railing of the bridge, sunglasses on, watching the Thames.

  Waiting for me.

  My skin sizzles as I near him.

  He looks so damn good—all cool and relaxed in jeans and a T-shirt that fits just right as he gazes out over the water.

  He’s got AirPods in, and when he spots me, he turns, takes them out, and clicks on his phone. He gives me a grin that says he knows what I look like naked and he likes the look very much.

  “Hey, you,” I say. My hand twitches and reflexively reaches out to take his.

  What the fuck?

  I’m not going to hold his hand.

  I mentally slap my hand away, tucking my thumbs in my jean pockets.