If You Never Come Back

by Sarah Smith

  It’s a skill I learned as a kid. Being one of the only mixed-raced kids in school, I got plenty of dismissive and ignorant comments. White kids remarking that I wasn’t white enough; Asian kids remarking that I wasn’t Asian enough. It was the epitome of ironic, seeing as I’m both. But when I started calling people out, the comments stopped. As I got older, I got bolder, informing any hecklers that if I wanted their worthless opinion on what they thought of me, I’d ask. But I didn’t ask them. So I’d tell them to shut the fuck up. They always did.

  I employ that same snark and attitude as a twenty-seven-year-old woman. “Well, let me tell you what I know, Preppy Prick. That’s your name from now on, by the way, if you order a drink from me ever again.” I point to his neck with the ice pick. “That popped collar is atrocious. Fold it down.”

  “But I—”

  “Hey, everyone!” The hum of chatter falls silent as every pair of eyes in the bar turns to me. “Who else thinks this prick should fold down that godforsaken popped collar?”

  Every arm shoots up. He obeys with fumbling fingers.

  I lean over the counter to him, our faces inches apart. “I may not be a country club cum stain who calls people by the wrong name on purpose like you, but when you’re in this bar, you will treat me, every other staff member, and patron with respect. Understand?”

  His wordless nod and frantic blinking indicate that he finally gets my drift.

  “You said Beefeater, right?”

  He nods, still playing eye ping-pong with himself. I pour two shots and slide them to him before swiping the cash from his hand.

  A hand taps me on the back. I turn to see Remy beaming at me. “That was a thing of beauty, the way you gave that douche a dressing down.”

  I shrug. “It was nothing.”

  “Cuz, it was everything.”

  He squeezes my shoulder, earning a chuckle from me. Remy and I have the same half-white, half-Filipino background, but he got some Goliath genes on his dad’s side. He stands six-foot-three with the build of a linebacker. Utter sweetheart, though, always showering patrons with compliments and praise, always offering hugs and high-fives.

  “I just wish you didn’t cut back your hours,” he says.

  “Come on, Remy,” I groan. “I need the extra time to focus on my business.”

  He shakes his head and gives me a side hug. He’s the only human being whose side hugs are as cuddly as his full-on ones. I breathe through the squeeze.

  “I know. Just thought I’d beg one last time. I’m so proud of you. You know I ordered a print of your latest cityscape watercolor, right?”

  I smack his arm. “Don’t do that! I would have given it to you for free if you just asked.”

  He shakes his head. “Nope. I want the full customer experience.”

  I bite back a grin when I think about Remy’s sweet gesture. For the past five years, I’ve slowly built my art business. It was a struggle at first. Trying to make a decent living as a painter-slash-digital artist is no easy task. I’ve always had to work full-time in office jobs to make ends meet. My paintings and digital prints always generated side money, never enough to justify going full time.

  But this past year, I went full force. I created an Etsy shop along with my own website and social media account. I started posting higher quality photos of my work and became more active on Twitter and Instagram. I put out more artwork, more consistently. The result? Three months ago I finally earned enough to quit my soul-sucking job at a local insurance brokerage and focus full time on my shop and artwork. Bartending in the evenings helped me stay afloat, but now I’m making enough that I only have to work a few nights a week at Dandy Lime.

  Goosebumps flash across my skin when I think of just how far I’ve come and how much more I want to accomplish.

  Remy hand’s fall on his hips. “Now, your prize for being a star employee and verbally kicking Preppy Prick’s ass is to take the table in the corner.”

  He points across the bar to a table of late-twenties men, who are slapping backs and downing shots.

  I roll my eyes and suppress a groan. “You’re punishing me because I’m cutting back my hours, aren’t you?”

  “Not at all. They’re a little loud, but they’ve been polite the whole time they’ve been here. And they’ve been tipping generously. Have at it.”

  I perk up at the mention of generous tips and give them my best pageant smile when I clear the empties from their table. “Can I top off anyone’s drinks?”

  A couple of them ask for refills on their beers, but then a third holds his hand up. “Wait, wait. Can we ask you to do us a favor first? If it’s not too much trouble?”

  My smile turns tight. I wonder what this “favor” will entail. In the past, when a table full of loud, buzzed guys asks me for a favor, it usually involves my phone number.

  “Depends.” I rest a hand on my hip. “What’s the favor?”

  The shaggy-haired guy who asked me the question elbows the man sitting next to him. When my eyes adjust against the dim mood lighting, I have to blink twice. His seat buddy is the dictionary definition of tall, dark, and handsome. At least, I assume he’s tall. He’s sitting, so I can’t say for sure what his height is, but glancing at his long, trouser-clad legs, I’d guess he’s got at least handful of inches on my five-foot-seven-inch frame. The rest of the description fits him to a tee, though. His dark hair is cropped short on the sides and runs thick at the top. And his skin boasts a healthy medium-tan that shines under the nearby glow of the overhead copper light fixture.

  But it’s his stare that’s causing the hiccup in my heartbeat, that hitch in my breath. Those burnt umber eyes are kindness and intrigue rolled in one. The moment my gaze hits the warm hue of his stare, I’m falling into a rich hickory abyss.

  It’s a long second before I realize the shaggy-haired guy is talking again.

  “— if you’re game.” Shaggy smiles. “What do you think?”

  “What?”

  Shaggy lets out a chuckle. Tall, dark, and handsome’s gaze falls to his lap. When he looks back up at me, the faintest rosy hue coats his cheeks.

  “Weird request, I know, but Wes here lost a bet. Rules are rules. Think you’d be up for slapping him?”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  Tall, dark, and handsome, aka Wes, shakes his head. “Dead serious.”

  I roll my eyes. This is a first. Of all the weird and inappropriate requests I’ve received while serving drinks at my cousin’s bar, I’ve never been asked to physically assault someone. No way I’m starting now.

  I play my professionalism card. “Sorry, guys. I’m not in the mood to get fired for assaulting a customer.”

  I grab more empties with my free hand and walk back to the bar.

  “What if we ask your boss?” someone from the table hollers.

  “Sure, whatever,” I call without looking behind me.

  I tend to a few more tables, then feel a tap on my shoulder. Remy smirks at me. “I gave that table my blessing. You can slap that guy if you want.”

  “Remy, I’m really not in the mood tonight.”

  “I told them you’ll do it for fifty bucks, on top of what they owe you for a tip.” Remy peers around me. “If you won’t do it, I will. I’d smack around any of those handsome devils for free, actually.”

  I groan. “Fine.” I march back to the table. “Someone order a slap?”

  I’m met with soft cheers and fist pumps. This time when I stare at my intended target, something resembling my heart pounds in my chest. I shove away the fleeting giddiness. It’s probably the prospect of touching another human being that’s sending me into a tizzy. It’s been a handful of months since my last date. My last kiss? Months on top of months.

  Wes looks up at me, his eyes bright with an undefinable allure I’ve never seen in anyone else. Their deep hue cuts deep. I wonder if it’s possible to freefall into someone’s eyes. I give myself a mental smack against the head. He’s an attractive man. That’
s it. Must stop acting like a giddy teenager.

  “I’m not going to do this standing up while you’re sitting down,” I say. “It feels weirdly domineering.”

  “Fair enough.” He stands up, zero evidence of tension on his gorgeous mug. His display of pure ease is in direct opposition to the Ferris wheel of nerves swirling through me.

  At full height standing in front of me, I have to tilt my head back to keep my gaze fixed on him. I’d put him a touch above six feet tall.

  “Ready?” I ask.

  He nods, his eyes never leaving me. One side of his mouth quirks into a half-smile. “Make it good. We’ve got an audience.”

  Judging by how the background chatter has softened to whispers, the entire bar is staring at us.

  I raise my hand. This handsome stranger with smoky-brown magnets for eyes, this guy named Wes who I feel inexplicably drawn to, doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he lets his half-smile widen into a proper full one. That flash of pearly white kills me. I’m about to smack this drop-dead gorgeous man in the face.

  I swallow. I rest my palm on his left cheek and it’s like my entire hand catches fire. Wes’s body is a special kind of warm. The type of warm that makes me want to curl into him and nuzzle his chest, just to see if every other part of him is as deliciously hot as his face.

  He leans his face closer. “Just like that. But harder.”

  On the scale of epic slaps, the one I deliver to Wes’s face wouldn’t even register. It’s nothing like those dramatic ones in the movies. The only reason anyone can hear the noise is because the entire bar has fallen to a self-imposed hush. I didn’t have the nerve to pull off anything more than a half-hearted smack. But when my hand falls from his face to my side, the entire bar erupts in cheers and whistles.

  The sound barely registers against my eardrums. Instead, all I can focus on is Wes’s face. For a split second when my hand made contact with his cheek, he closed his eyes. His smile dropped. But a beat later, he opens his eyes and flashes another heart-melting grin at me, as if I had kissed him instead of struck him.

  Against the backdrop of applause in the bar, Wes bows to our audience. When he gestures toward me, I do the same. With everyone turning back to their own tables and conversations, I pivot toward the bar.

  “Hey,” Wes says from behind me.

  I turn around to see his outstretched hand in front of him, that killer smile still on display. “Hell of a way to spend Valentine’s Day, right? Thanks for the slap…”

  I shake his hand. “Shay,” I say, biting back a grin of my own. “My pleasure.”

  When I let go, I head back behind the bar and dump the nearest bottle of hard alcohol in a shot glass, then down it. Patrón. Not the greatest choice, but it’ll have to do. I’ve never been a big drinker, but I need something, anything to ease me. Every nerve in my body is on high alert after engaging in one of the hottest and most random acts I’ve ever attempted in my life—with a stranger, no less.

  I grab a towel and begin to wipe dry all the freshly washed glasses. It’s the perfect mindless activity to keep myself in check. Otherwise, I’d sprint back over to Wes and park myself on his lap, my fingers tugging at that perfect mess of dark hair, teasing his tongue with mine. Now that would be unprofessional…and way, way naughtier than that slap.

  In my head, the words “hot damn” tumble like a spin-top toy gone rogue.

  Holy hot damn is more like. Those moments of eye contact with Wes, the feel of his stubbled cheek under my hand have formed the single hottest moment I’ve ever experienced on Valentine’s Day.

  It’s not like I haven’t had romantic gestures in the past. As a late-twenties single, I’ve celebrated with dates and boyfriends a handful of times. I’ve done dinners out, cooked meals in, a couple flower deliveries, even a carriage ride. But they all lacked one thing: heat.

  Heat is exactly what’s flashed through me ever since making eye contact with Wes minutes ago. And in those minutes since, my body has been roasting, caught in a slow-burn state from the inside out. I swipe my nearly waist-length hair, which is styled in a messy braid, over one shoulder and fan myself. How in the hell can a guy I don’t even know make me feel hotter with one look than anyone I’ve dated in the past?

  I touch a damp dishtowel to my face and nearly gasp. The heat from my skin must be seeping through the thick cotton cloth. I can even feel it on my fingertips.

  Remy saunters over, fanning himself with a hand.

  “I know,” I mutter before darting away and down the hall to the bathroom.

  Cold water to the face is what I need to snap myself out of these premature hot flashes. I push open the door of the single occupancy women’s bathroom just as the person inside of it pulls it open. Losing my balance at the unexpected momentum, I fall forward. Damn it. In my tizzied-up state, I didn’t even check to see if the bathroom was occupied.

  I tumble forward, but instead of landing the tile floor face-first like I think I will, strong arms brace me, then haul me to a standing position. My fingers dig into what are some very meaty and nicely hairy forearms. The up-close view of red and black flannel registers in my brain. Wes caught me.

  When he steadies me back on my feet, I’m pressed against him, my forearms plastered to his chest like we’re glued together. We’re so close that if I lean my head forward an inch, I’d graze my forehead against the delicious stubble dotting his chin.

  He peers down at me. “You okay?”

  Once again, I’m wide-eyed and speechless, all because of that killer stare. I hum “yes” through a breath.

  “Sorry,” he says. “The men’s bathroom was occupied. I already broke the seal and couldn’t wait. You know how it goes.”

  Again I nod, this time my eyes on his lips. So thick and full. I’d give back that fifty-dollar tip for a single bite of that pouty mouth. Clenching my fists, I breathe, somehow keeping my mouth and teeth to myself.

  Even through the thick denim of my black skinny jeans, the heat of his touch—his hands on my hips—burns. A hot, delicious burn. Like slowly lowering myself into steamy bathwater.

  “Thanks for, um, catching me.” I frown up at him, then am immediately distracted by the way his stubbled Adam’s apple moves when he swallows. It’s another second before I can speak. “I didn’t mean to barge in, I—I forgot to check the door, I usually do, I just…”

  One corner of his mouth makes that slow journey upward to form a half-smile. “It’s okay. Seems like a fitting way to end the evening. Your hand on my face a few minutes ago. You in my arms right now.”

  The other corner of his mouth curves up, and full-fledged invisible flames consume me. It’s decided. Wes is the champion of sexy smiles. He’s got the half-smile and the grin in the bag. I’d kill to see a smirk and one with a lip bite.

  “I like the way your hands feel on me,” he says.

  With those words plus his touch and that smile, I’m emboldened. “How about my lips, too?”

  When he nods, I press my mouth to his. It’s a slow, tentative contact at first. As hot and bothered as I am after endless months of zero kisses, I don’t want to drown the poor guy with desperate licks and sucking noises. I set the tone at gentle, nibbling his bottom lip. Another light press of my mouth on his. Then I slide my tongue.

  Wes seems to appreciate my measured style because his lips stretch against my mouth in a slow smile. We lick and taste and tease until we’re barely able to keep up with the ragged rhythm we’ve set. When he pulls away, we’re both clutching onto the other, gasping for breath.

  I rest my forehead against his, staring down at his flannel-clad chest as it heaves up and down. I was mistaken. That slap was just an appetizer. This crazy random, crazy hot kiss in the open doorway of this bar bathroom is what slingshots this Valentine’s Day into unforgettable territory. I will never, ever forget this evening when I delivered my first sexy slap, followed by the hottest first kiss I’ve ever experienced in my life.

  “Mmm, Shay…” Wes’s gravelly ru
mble sends electric shocks to my knees. I can barely stand, but it doesn’t matter. He’s still got me by the waist, propping me up. “Do you—”

  “Wes! Where you at, man?”

  We both turn our heads in the direction of the booming voice coming from down the hall where we can’t see.

  “Just uh, gimme a sec, alright?” Wes booms back.

  “This is a bar crawl, bro. Chop chop.” The voice fades.

  We lean away from each other. Wes runs a hand through his wavy hair while I struggle to straighten my hot pink blouse.

  “I’m sorry. I…I have to go.”

  I nod. “Yeah. You should, um, go.”

  Wes walks out of the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. I lean over the sink and splash icy water against my cheeks, that slap and that kiss looping nonstop inside my head.

  Chapter Two

  Remy closes out the register while I wipe down the bar top. “We did it, cuz! A V-Day for the record books. Can you believe we were that busy?”

  “Yeah. Great.”

  Three hours after Wes left me in a post-kiss tizzy in the women’s bathroom and I’m still trapped in a fog of heat and steam. Thinking and speaking are currently off the table until I regain my bearings.

  Remy frowns at me. He runs a hand through his short, dark brown hair. “Everything okay with you?”

  “Yes. Fine.”

  He crosses his arms, eyes narrow. “Try again.”

  I sigh. “Okay, you know that guy you talked me into slapping?”

  “The ridiculously sexy and well-groomed lumberjack in the red flannel shirt? Yes, I remember him.”

  I scrunch the towel between my hands. “We bumped into each other on the way to the bathroom and we sort of, um…kissed.”

  Remy’s jaw plummets to the floor. “And you didn’t tell me?”

  I explain the awkward run-in that happened by mistake, our hot kiss, and how his friend shouting for him ruined it all.