by Erin Zak
I legit may choose bed over the hassle of begging Tony in VIP Taxi Service to drive me to Caesar’s, finding Annabelle—which at this point is going to be like finding a needle in a haystack—and trying to play a game of cat and mouse I am just not feeling.
I sound like such a jerk. Or a slut. But I’m not. I have morals and standards. And I do what I need to do to survive, to have fun, and to make a goddamn living. But trying to pull myself back from the pits of despair has been literally the worst part of my life so far. And I watched the paramedics peel parts of my father off the road when he got hit by a drunk driver when I was ten.
Damn.
Willow breaking my heart devastated me. I feel so stupid comparing it to the loss of a parent since I only had three months with her. Losing my father was horrifying all the way around. But I’ve had twenty years to figure it out, to find a way to heal, which is really a joke. A wound as big as the one left when my father was killed doesn’t heal. It just gets less raw.
The wound left by Willow hasn’t even had a moment to scab over. And every time I see her, every time she walks by the bar, every time she breezes past with someone in tow, every time she looks at me with her dark eyes, the wound rips back open.
Why did I fall for her? I am still asking myself that question. I ask it ten times a day. Sometimes ten times an hour. She was so lovely and smooth. She had a way with words, and goddamn, she was good with her hands. She made me feel like I was worth something. She didn’t hold back her feelings or what she was thinking. I was never in the dark. Until I was. And I fell right into her trap. The worst part is that I have learned to not let my heart wander. I’ve been in love one other time in my life, and Paul was abusive enough that it was obvious I needed to leave or I’d end up killing him. Paul took the killing into his own hands and jumped from a rooftop when he was high on meth. Not only did I not have to leave, but by the time he took his own life, the only wounds from his absence were the bruises he’d left on my biceps two nights before.
“I cannot even believe how slow this night is going.” Max slides up next to me after we clear all the recent drink tickets. He smells like cologne and vodka. The first moment of downtime we’ve had all night, standing still for a minute, feels nice.
I lean into his bulky shoulder and sigh. “I was no shit thinking the same thing. Like, maybe the slowest night I’ve ever experienced.”
“For real, though.” He turns toward me and clears his throat. “Are you going to meet that straight woman?”
I laugh. “Why?”
“Just making small talk.”
“Are you going to meet Armando?”
“Yes.” His tone is so matter-of-fact, which calms my worried mind. The last thing I want is for Armando to get mixed up with someone who isn’t ready to accept all the parts of him, including the bad parts. On the other hand, the last thing I want is for Maxwell to get burned by my gambling addict brother.
“You know he has issues, right?”
“I know.”
“Like, with gambling.”
“I know.”
“You’re okay with it?”
“Well, of course not. But he’s been very honest with me. And…” His chest puffs with his intake of air and depuffs with an exhale. “I need to figure out what I’m doing, I guess.”
We both laugh at how quickly matters of the heart get out of hand when not kept a close eye on. “Probably a good idea, you lunatic.”
“Whatever. At least he’s available. The last boy I was serious with was married to a woman and, well…” His tone is filled with sadness, but he’s staring at the end of the bar. “I think,” he starts again and motions toward where his eyes are glued, “your night might turn around here.”
I look. “Well, hello there,” I say under my breath when my eyes land on the blond woman perched on a barstool. Max chuckles, so I glance at him over my shoulder. “Now the night will fly.”
“Of course. Go forth and conquer, mi amor.” He chuckles as he pushes me gently toward the woman.
As I approach, she makes eye contact, and for half a second, I forget all about Willow. I forget about her dark eyes because the image is replaced with blue ones. I forget about her dark hair because all I can see is waves of blond. I forget about her thin lips because all I can imagine are full ones pressed against my… “Hello there. I was just wondering…do you think I could have your autograph?”
The woman pulls her head back, looks over each shoulder, then back to me. “I’m sorry?”
“Yes, you’re famous, right? An actress, or let me guess, a model?” I place a napkin in front of her as I glance over my shoulder at Max, who is definitely enjoying the show. He tosses me a pen, and I catch it expertly, as if we’ve been rehearsing this set-up for years. Which we have, but she doesn’t need to know all the details of how I work. I spin the pen in my fingers, so the click end is facing her.
Her eyes flit to the pen, then back to mine. The color is mesmerizing; as I stare, the blue seems to darken. “No, I am not an actress. Or a model.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll be starring in my fantasies later on.” My hair falls over my shoulder as I lean forward, place my hands on the bar top, and watch some of my finest work, which was insanely corny, wash over her. I’ve learned that the best way to get a woman to open up is to make her smile and laugh. The start of a smile begins to form on her full, dark red lips before she licks them. “What can I make for you?”
“Aside from how you made my entire night with a pickup line like that?” She leans forward, chuckles, and props an elbow on the bar. “Does that really work?”
“Most of the time, yes. Occasionally, it falls flat.”
“Interesting.” She is studying me. I can tell by the way her eyes keep moving over my features. She’s causing chills to erupt on my arms. “I don’t think it fell flat this time, by the way.”
I move my hair back over my shoulder. I leave it down when I bartend. I haven’t been yelled at yet to put it up, and my hair is one of my best features. I can tell all the work I put into it is paying off as her eyes follow my every movement, so I smile. “You see something you like?”
Her attention is now on the bar menu. She takes her time, and if it were any other person, I’d be irritated as fuck. But watching her study the different cocktails we have on special is very hot. “I’m sorry,” she says, still looking.
“You’re fine.” Her eyes flit from the pages, to me, then back to the pages. “Take your time.” I continue to stare. I’m taken by this woman. By her stature, her carriage, her demeanor. I’m sure she didn’t plan on getting my attention, but she has it. Fully.
Her eyes finally snap back to mine as she folds the menu and places it back on the bar. She clears her throat. “May I please have an extra dirty martini with three olives?” She sits a little straighter, starts to fidget with the napkin. “Please.”
“You already said please.”
“Well,” she starts, then clears her throat. It seems as if I’ve thrown her a little, but I’m not sure if it’s because I want to believe I have or if I actually have. “I’m polite.” Her tone is more playful now, which is good. I plan on playing right along.
“I’m sure you are.” As soon as I said those words, her cheeks flush and she visibly swallows a gulp of air. I’ve frazzled her by engaging, and I am thrilled with myself. “Do you need a second drink for your husband? Or boyfriend?” I motion to the empty barstool next to her. She glances to her left while fidgeting with a wedding ring, a thin gold band that screams we were young when we got engaged.
“No, just me.” She moves her left hand from the bar to her lap. She smiles again, and there’s something about the way she lowers her chin right before she raises her eyebrows. “Please.”
I cannot help smiling. “You got it.” I spin around and get to work making her drink, hoping I haven’t come on too strong, and knowing, deep down, whatever happens, this woman is only a distraction. A very attractive, very sexy distr
action. But a distraction nonetheless.
Cecily
I do not make it a point of flirting with random people. Men or women. I’m sure it doesn’t seem that way considering I’m having an affair and am now sitting at a bar staring at the very sexy bartender. Actions, in this case, do not speak louder than words. The past four years, I’ve done more out of my comfort zone than ever before. Especially engaging in flirting with this woman.
But there’s something about her…her skin, the way her hair fades from dark to light, the deep brown of her eyes. She’s gorgeous. And hey, she’s flirting with me. I mean, isn’t she?
I lean forward a bit as I watch her making my drink. Actually, I’m not watching. I’m staring. I’m sizing her up. And why? I don’t plan on doing a darn thing. But she’s showing the slightest bit of interest, and it has given me a lot more power than I thought I was capable of wielding. Especially not after my fight with Willow; not ever, actually. The fight left me very angry, very sad, and worst of all, feeling very helpless. I know I’m wrong. I know I need to be honest with Willow. God, I need to be honest with Luke first. But then Willow. I need to tell her I’m leaving. I need to tell her I’ve basically left. But there are so many factors still to deal with. Like, we are still in the same house. Still sleeping in the same bed, which is odd. I mean, we start out in different beds, but one of us always finds the other in the night, which is even more odd. He still makes me a coffee in the morning. And I still find myself texting him throughout the day. We’re still connected in almost every aspect a married couple can be. Except I’m no longer in love with him, and I thought I was in love with Willow, so why didn’t I tell her?
I guess part of me is scared. Scared she won’t want me. Scared she already found someone else, which, technically, she has. If I hadn’t sensed something was wrong when I sat down at dinner, I would have told her then. I should have told her then. God, I’m so stupid sometimes. I say I want this woman, but I miss the most perfect opportunity to tell her I can finally be hers. If she’ll have me. And if she doesn’t want me any longer?
The thought slams into me: what if I don’t want her any longer? Oh, Jesus, I went through all of this to decide the woman I’m leaving for isn’t even who I want to end up with?
Come on, Cecily, calm down. Take some breaths. Everything is going to turn out fine.
As I force myself to relax, I place my elbow onto the bar and prop my chin on my palm. The view of the bartender is really nice. I mean, it’s okay. Not nice. Crap, who am I trying to kid? This woman is beyond pretty. I’ve seen “pretty” in my lifetime. I have seen “handsome,” as well. Luke is very handsome. And Willow, well, she’s definitely pretty. But this girl…wow.
I know she’s dressed that way because this is her uniform.
I know it more than likely gets her great tips. I mean, how couldn’t it?
I also know she’s not interested in me, because again, she’s trying to get a tip.
She’s a Las Vegas bartender with one thing on her mind.
I am not stupid or naive. I get it. I really do.
But when she flips the Tito’s bottle in the air, catches it expertly by the neck, and pours a generous amount into a silver shaker, I feel my heart quicken. She picks up a tall, slender bottle of olive juice, but this time, she flips it behind her back and again, catches it by the neck in front of her. She hasn’t made eye contact, and I’m happy about that for a couple reasons. The first being that my jaw has fallen open. And the other is, if she looks at me, I’m pretty sure I’m going to continue dancing whatever dance she’s started with me. I’m pissed off enough, hurt enough, and upset enough to not care about leaving Willow in my room. I hope she saw herself out. This is an odd feeling for me. I always care what she thinks and how she’s feeling. I make it a point to keep her as happy as possible.
But I need a minute away. Or maybe two minutes and a breath of fresh air. And a very stiff drink.
The bartender slips a toothpick with three blue-cheese-stuffed olives into my extra dirty martini and places it in front of me. I look at it, eager to drink all of it, but I know I should settle down. Take the breaths I so desperately need.
“You’re allowed to drink it.”
I glance up. “I’m sorry?”
“The drink. You’re allowed to drink it. You ordered it.”
I smile. Am I that readable? Do I look like a deer caught in the headlights?
“I can promise, you won’t be disappointed.” The way those words roll off her tongue sends a shiver up my spine. Goose bumps erupt on my arms and legs, and I say a silent prayer that it doesn’t make the hair grow. Not that anyone will be feeling my smooth skin tonight, but y’know, just in case.
I keep my eyes on her as I take the stem of the glass between my forefinger, middle finger, and thumb. I pick it up as slowly as possible. She’s filled it to the brim, probably way fuller than she’s supposed to, and bring it to my lips. I keep my eyes on her as I take a sip. Now, this is going to sound so ridiculous, but holy cow, it is the best drink I’ve ever had in my entire life. Whatever she did is perfect. The olive juice and vodka is equal parts salty and deadly, and I am in heaven. I am sure of it.
Her eyebrows are sculpted perfectly, and she arches the left one the slightest amount before she asks, “I’m assuming that face means you like it?”
I shrug. I don’t want to appear too eager. “It’s all right.”
She purses her lips, narrows her eyes, and her tongue slides slowly between her lips. She licks them, then rolls them together before she starts to reach for the glass. “I can make you another if it’s not good.”
I slide the glass away as fast as possible without spilling and wave my free hand. “No, no. There’s no need. I can drink it.”
“You’re being a dick, aren’t you?”
I laugh. “A dick? That may be a first.”
Her laugh echoes mine, and it’s a lovely sound. Sweet, sultry, all the things she probably is in the bedroom, and I find myself insanely taken by her. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t say that…to a customer.”
“I can guarantee, I am not offended in the slightest.” I watch as my words wash over her, and I see relief flood her features. She really was nervous. How ironic that her flirting turned into more than even she could handle.
“Whew.”
“It’s honestly very good. Did you do anything special to it?” Her eyes move from mine to the drink, and I hope, for some ridiculous reason, she’s watching my fingers. I make sure to stroke the stem of the glass, the base, up the side of the thin glass to the rim, where I circle it slowly. She licks her lips again, and I feel a sense of accomplishment.
“Nothing special,” she finally says. “I’m a very good mixologist.”
She’s adorable. The gentle shrug of bare shoulders, the way the movement causes her hair to fall over her right shoulder. I am letting myself get entirely too deep with this Las Vegas bartender, but the pull to her is unexplainable. I didn’t even know attraction could happen like this. So quickly, so without warning. Willow sort of swept me off my feet. I didn’t expect it, but I also felt it building over the many months we worked together. Everything with her started slowly, like a spark in the forest, before it raged out of control.
And now here I am. In the one spot where everything I have been dreaming of doing to Willow is drenched by this woman who I know absolutely nothing about. “How long have you been doing this? Because you’re definitely the best I’ve ever had.” I hear the way the words come out of my mouth. Before she has a chance to react, and as I’m putting a hand in the air to stop her so I can correct myself, she starts to chuckle. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Oh, that’s a shame.”
“No. I meant—”
“I know what you meant.” She turns to check out her fellow bartender, and he gives her a thumbs-up. She looks back at me. “So what brings you to Vegas?”
“Work, of course.”
“This is work for you?�
�� She spreads her arms and looks around the bar, the ching-ching of slot machines ringing in the background. There is live music playing on a stage not far from the bar. An eighties cover band, and as they start their rendition of “Take Me Home Tonight,” I half wonder if it’s a sign.
I laugh. “It is. My boss is usually the lucky one, but…” I pause. I’m excited about this promotion, so why not brag a little? “I am being promoted when he retires, so he sent me.”
“Well, well, well. Congratulations.” She reaches down, then lifts a plastic cup with clear liquid inside. She holds it toward my glass. “To your promotion.” She then eyes the drink. “Water. I promise. I’m not drunk-mixing your drinks. Although, maybe drunk-mixing is my secret weapon.”
“If they all taste this good, not a soul would care.”
“The eye in the sky would care,” she says softly. She motions with a tilt of her head, never taking her eyes from mine. “So tell me, pretty lady…” She juts her chin out, and the way she presses her lips forward makes me wonder if she’s chewing on the inside of her cheek. “Why don’t you bring your husband on trips like these? Don’t tell me he wouldn’t have fun.”
I laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“You’re so positive I’m married to a man.” I see the words slam into her, and it sort of makes me feel bad. For half a second, I can see holy shit, I have a chance wash over her, which makes me sound so conceited.
“Wait a second—”
“No, I’m sorry,” I say with a wave. “I am married to a man. That was…in poor taste.”
“Please.” She chuckles and pulls her shoulders back, standing a little straighter. “You’re not the first person who has lied about who they’re married to. Believe me.”
She leans against the lower workspace counter with her bare mid-thigh. Her dress has ridden up; at least, I assume it has. Maybe it’s that short all the time. Either way, my vantage point makes it super easy for me to stare at her legs. The muscles of her thighs are defined, and before I know it, I’m wondering what the rest of her body looks like. If her thighs look that great… She must have a rock-solid body all over. Of course, why wouldn’t she? She’s a bartender in Las Vegas, where money talks and bullshit walks. I’m sure she works very hard at keeping in shape. I’m sure she runs. I’m sure she does crunches and sit-ups. I’m sure she can do push-up after push-up. I’m more than positive she can do a pull-up. I bet she planks for at least a minute at a time. I wonder if she works out in a tank top or only a sports bra?