Although to be honest, I really shouldn't be spending any money right now.
But I thought it'd help cheer me up.
Though, instead of making me feel better, it's just helping make me feel broke, drunk, and miserable.
I'm like four cocktails in and I don't see things stopping anytime soon.
Not after the week I've had. Hell, not after the life I've had.
"You mind if I sit here?" A deep baritone that sounds like honeyed thunder asks. It's slightly hesitant. He must be feeling the vibe I'm putting out.
I blink. I turn around. I look up.
Then up some more.
Jesus. Tall, much?
This guy looks like there isn't anything in the world that should make him anxious. Especially not a five-foot-nada lab worker like me.
He towers over me. Literally. He's Six foot four, at least. And he's got a build like a football coach's wet dream. There's a tattoo of a snake wrapped around his wrist, peeking out at me from the sleeve of his Armani suit jacket.
He smiles at me. It's a nice smile. Masculine, but friendly. With dimples in his cheeks that highlight his chiseled features. And I feel warm and dizzy just looking at him and taking him all in.
I blink again.
Oh, yeah, I'm supposed to answer his question. Not gawk at this handsome man-mountain next to me.
"No, go ahead." I say, after I take another drink of my vodka tonic. I need that burning bitterness to take me back to reality. I even manage casual wave.
"Thanks." He says.
He sits next to me, his rock-solid shoulders touching mine.
I scoot closer to him, just a bit, brushing him a little bit more.
The bartender comes closer, drawn in by just a look from this new guy.
"Laphroaig. Double. Neat." He says to the bartender.
He's quiet for a minute after that, which I am totally OK with. For one, I feel tongue-tied around him. For another, I'm really here just to drink and try and forget what a terrible week it's been.
"Rough week?" He says.
I want to laugh, because it's obvious to everyone at the whole dang bar that I'm not in a good mood.
"What gave it away?" I ask.
"Everything. I have this suspicion that, whenever I'm feeling miserable, I tend to run into people who feel the same way. And you look like you fit the bill. Though you're way better looking than the usual miserable people I meet." He takes a sip of his scotch. "I'm Ry, by the way, and tonight I'm trying to drink away the work assignment from hell. And you?"
So not wanting to talk about this.
"Jessica. And it's personal. Thanks."
He nods. "I get it. Well, I'll share mine at least. Unless you mind?"
I shrug. "Not at all."
"Good. It usually helps. And so does talking to an attractive woman. So, I think with your help, I can get two birds with one stone."
"I'm all ears," I say.
"I got a new client today. I freelance, and I won't bore you with the details of what I actually do, but this client is the kind of bad news I can't say no to. If I do, it'll ruin my reputation. But if I work with him, I know it's going to be trouble. So, I feel stuck. Trapped. And that's why I'm here."
I don't say anything. I'm not a psychologist. It's just me and Tito right now.
"And that's just how life seems to be, lately. I'm stuck. You ever feel like that?"
All my life. But that's not what I say. "Sometimes."
"Well, let me tell you, it's hell. Especially when you can see your goals just on the distance, taunting you, but staying just out of reach."
This guy must really love his job if a shitty work assignment is what's got him worked up, I think.
I don't say anything for a while. Seriously, it's me, Tito, and silence.
"You like to travel?" he asks.
Really, guy? Who doesn't like travel. If you go onto any dating profile on earth, you will, one hundred and ten percent of the time see 'Travel' under 'Interests'.
"Yeah. Not that I get to do it much. Work and family and all."
He nods.
"You have any favorite places?"
I shrug.
"I went to Mexico once. Playa del Carmen. Spring break, Sophomore year. It was ok."
"Beaches, sun, and never-ending drinks is just 'ok'?" There's a twinkle in his eye like he doesn't believe me.
"Yeah. It was just ok. I went cause a friend got me a ticket and I couldn't really say no. But I couldn't really afford to do much down there. So, yeah, it was just ok."
I leave out the part about feeling guilty spending any money at all. Or the part where mom and dad died a few years before that, and my little brother just had me to depend on.
"What about you?" I ask, eager to change the subject away from me.
"Key Largo."
"Florida?"
He nods.
"Fantastic beaches. Lots of great little cafes and bakeries, great pie, and the weather is good all year long."
We chat for a bit. Well, I just listen, mostly, and he talks about some of the places he's been for work. Burma, Thailand, Brazil, and, somehow, for some reason, Kazakhstan.
What kind of freelance work takes you to Kazakhstan? Is this guy an international yak herder or something?
"No, I'm not a yak herder," he says.
And I realize I've been talking out loud.
"Sorry. Again, it's been a really hard week," I say, apologizing.
The conversation trails off, because I'm feeling too caught up in my head and my thoughts to give this guy much back-and-forth.
He's quiet again and I can feel him side-eying me while he sips his scotch.
It's unnerving.
Like he's weighing me and sizing me up and I don't like it.
I order another drink to compensate, and wind up going through two more Titos and tonics. And when I get drunk and nervous, I tend to talk. It's one of the reason's I'm still stuck as an analyst, instead of moving higher up the chain at the FBI. There was an incident at an office holiday party back in Virginia. Don't ask.
"My brother just got diagnosed with cancer." I blurt out of nowhere.
Did I mention that when I nervous-talk, I lose all tact? And sometimes I just drop bombs right into conversation?
Still, the look on Ry's face makes me smile. He gets it under control pretty quick, but there still was a second there where his eyes went 'oh shit' wide.
"I'm sorry, Jessica" he says. And it sounds like he means it. "Can I get you another round?"
And then "do you want to talk about it?"
Yes. And no, not really.
But I nod 'yes' to both of those, because I've already shot my mouth off, like usual, and you can't gracefully recover from dropping the cancer bomb on a random stranger.
I've got a skill for taking conversations from zero to nuclear in zero point zero seconds.
The drinks arrive, I swallow some more Tito and Tonic and try to think of the best way to give Ry a glimpse of the little slice of misery that I call my life.
"So, I have a younger brother. Connor. And he's the only family I have since my parents passed away a few years ago. It was natural causes, and they were older when they had me and Connor, so I'm over it. It sucks, but it's life, and you move on."
Mostly. But I still think about it a lot. Especially in times like these where I feel so alone. And like I'm the only one standing between my brother and death and it scares me and makes me feel like the whole world's closing in tight around me.
"Anyways," I continue. Then pause to clear my throat and have some more Tito.
And as I take a sip, I see that Ry is staring at me intently. Like I am the center of his world right now. Like he actually cares, beyond the level of stranger-sympathy you normally get at a bar. It's kind of comforting, and, like many other things about this guy, kind of unnerving. He's making me feel all sorts of things that I am not in the right mind to process right now.
"Anyways, he's on break from Sta
nford. About a month ago, he started getting sick and it wouldn't go away, so I took him in to the doctors to get some tests done. We got the results in a couple days go and I've had to take the next week off from work because my brother has Stage III colon cancer."
At some point, Ry places his hand on my back. He's rubbing me through my dress and, wherever he touches me, there's just this intense heat. My body is practically smoldering at this man's touch.
"That must be devastating," he says. "Your brother is lucky to have someone as strong as you in his life."
The way he says it, it's so sincere and immediate that I feel my heart, start to get a little bit light. I breathe a little easier.
Ry could give the dicks in HR some lessons in authentic sympathy. All they'd said is I'm sorry to hear that, like I'd just told them I got a paper cut.
"Thank you," I murmur. I lean back a bit, pressing myself into his hand. His touch feels so insanely good.
I drink some more Tito and Tonic to hide the fact that I can feel tears at the edges of my eyes. It's happened a lot these last few days. Most times I fail and the tears come out. But with Ry around, things feel kind of 'ok'. Well, more like okay-ish. But that's a huge improvement.
"It's just a lot to deal with, you know?" I say. "And even if I can figure out how to pay for his treatment, he's got only a forty percent chance at making it, at best."
Ry keeps his hand still on my back and I don't mind. Human, caring contact feels good.
"I'm so sorry, Jessica," he says again. His voice is a shade deeper now, and, even though I'm feeling gutted inside, he just sounds so ridiculously real.
My breath comes in a shudder. I could use a bit of distraction right now.
He gives my shoulder a little squeeze. "I can't even imagine what you must be feeling right now. Is there anything I can do for you?"
I nod, then finish my Tito and Tonic. "You can buy me another round."
At the back of the bar, the crooner comes up to join the piano player and starts in on a cover of Volare, the old Dean Martin standard.
Ry comes back with the drinks and there's a smile on his face, with a pair of dimples that just sets everything off. His bright green eyes are focused on me. Only me. And that smile looks like it's just for me, too.
He gives me my drink, then says: "A few years ago, I went through something like what you're going through. I didn't have it together nearly as well as you do right now. I was a wreck. You're brother's lucky to have someone as strong as you to help him. I know you'll make it through this."
I nod and mumble something because I don't really know what to say.
A twinkle lights in Ry's eyes. They're like emeralds shining out at me, and his mischievous grin stands out against his strong jawline. He's got the kind of features that would be at home in a black and white Hollywood picture.
"You need a little cheering up. A little embarrassing."
I arch an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me. You can't just sit here, drowning yourself in cocktail after cocktail, and think that's going to make your life any better or that it'll help you forget."
Then he winks and grins and those dimples are back again. "Besides, I bet you're sexy when you blush."
And I blush. And heat just flashes through my body. I'd do anything for that smile.
Bold as anything, he strides the length of the bar, up to where the crooner and the pianist are taking a break from their performance. He shakes hands with the crooner, nods in my direction, and then whispers something conspiratorially.
The three of them chatter for a few seconds more, some money changes hands, and then the pianist starts playing.
Ry takes the microphone from the crooner.
I recognize the first few bars of Nina Simone's Feeling good.
My ears must be lying to me right now. There's no way he's going to actually do this.
But then, Ry puts the microphone to his lips and his rumbling voice takes up the song. Its deep, its raw. He's not a singer, but holy fuck does he put everything into it.
The whole time, his eyes are locked on me.
I can't look away. I can barely breathe.
Every single word, every inflection, every striking chord, it's all for me. And the way he sings is like he's making love to the microphone.
Every verse, every bar, there's this heated subtext about how he's going to make me feel so good, I can't help but forget my problems.
Holy. God. Damn.
I want what he's singing about. I want it. I want a new dawn. I want a new day. I want something to feel good about. And I want him.
My body vibrates with every note. I'm straight-up tingling between the legs with desire and every bit of me is practically crying out for this man. There's a frisson of excitement surging up my spine that's so powerful I feel like I've stuck my fingers in a light socket.
I feel alive.
This whole next year, I'm going to have to be perfect. No mistakes, no hesitation, carrying every bit of stress and pain while I help my brother.
And even then, he might not make it.
I'm allowed to make one mistake, right? Just for one night? Before everything goes to hell?
And Ry looks like the right kind of mistake.
The song ends. Every single person is on their feet, clapping, and the bartender sets down another round in front of me, saying "It's on the house."
Ry struts back to me.
There's a cocky smile on his face because he knows he just took control of the whole room, he knows what I'm feeling right now.
I want that man.
I gulp my cocktail and the bartender has another one ready for me practically the second I set my empty glass down.
"Thanks." I say and take sip of my drink.
The guy on the piano and the crooner start up again, Chicago, Chicago by Sinatra and they are just belting it out. Everyone's more alive because of Ry's performance.
"Join me in a toast?" Ry asks.
I nod, and pick up my glass.
"To hope," Ry says, holding his scotch up in a toast. "No matter how things might seem now, we should never forget that tomorrow is a new day and that there are bright things ahead of us." The way he says it, it isn't the same way some friend who's trying to be supportive would say it. He says it like a man who's been through the pain, through the heartache, and lost just as much as he's won.
We clink glasses and I quietly echo "To hope".
I watch him over the lip of my glass.
He's focused, and he looks like he has something more he wants to say. And I hope it's the same thing I've got on my mind.
I'm six cocktails in and I'm ready. Every look this man shoots me, every time I hear his voice, my body echoes with need.
To hell with waiting.
"Do you want to get out of here?" I ask. I'm feeling bold.
Thank you, vodka. Thank you Tito. I'm about to get laid tonight. And it is going to feel good.
He looks up at me. Smiles. Those dimples again. I full-on melt.
"I've been wanting to ask you that all night."
"Then why wait so long?"
He nods off towards the corner. Towards the piano. "The guy's talented. Give me some good scotch and some good music, and it's hard for me to walk away."
"Am I not worth it?" I tease.
"Oh, trust me, you are totally worth it."
He looks about ready to drink me up. And I am just as ready to swallow every drop from him.
His eyes go up and down my body and I can feel him undressing me. Those emerald orbs of his practically have me bent over the barstool and begging for more.
This man is one smoldering fire and I want to see how hot things can get.
I stand up and he follows. I start to head towards the bar, but he takes hold of my arm. His grip is tight. "Already covered it," he says.
"When?" I ask.
"Before I even said 'hello'. I saw you, and I knew," He replies.
"Well, well, just how
will I say 'thank you' for that?"
"I can think of a few ways." He grins.
We're in the parking lot, now. It's cold. But it's not the night chill that has my nipples aroused and struggling against the fabric of my dress.
"Did you drive?" he asks.
I shake my head. With how much I was planning on drinking, I didn't even want to give myself the option of driving.
"Good," he says. "I'm parked a bit down the street. Just half a block or so. Come on."
He leads me out of the lot. I start to shiver. It gets cold in L.A. at night, especially when you're wearing a tiny dress that barely covers you.
He's walking fast, but I'm more than keeping up with him. Excitement courses through me, and every bit of tension I've been feeling for-freaking-ever is whirling inside me, just begging, begging, to be released.
I shiver again. Not from cold. It's anticipation that's got me so worked up I can hardly control my body.
Ry doesn't say a word — he slips his suit jacket off and puts it over my shoulders.
I take the opening.
He's close, right next to me, all six-foot-whatever of him, and his smell is all around me from the jacket, from his cologne. I hop up on my tiptoes and kiss him.
He kisses me back. Fierce, forceful, like he wants to consume every part of me.
It unlocks me. Every bit of need, everything I've denied myself being the good, responsible girl, just falls away and I'm finally going for something I want.
I kiss him back. Just as intense. Just as fierce. My hands are gripping his back, my nails digging into the fabric of his shirt, while I feel his hands slide down my spine to cup my ass. He growls.
I pull back a second to breathe. He's kissing my neck now. I can feel his hot breath against my ear, smell his cologne, feel the scratch of his stubble.
It's more than a girl can take. His lips are on mine again. My heart is thudding in my chest like a giant drum being struck so hard it might break. Boomboomboomboom.
Every part of me feels like it's on fire. I'm flushed, I'm soaking wet, and I'm ready to forget.
He presses me up a parked car. We're not even out of the lot yet and I am so drunk and so fucked up and so ready to forget that I would ride him right here on the pavement in broad daylight if he asked me.
Viper: A Hitman Romance Page 2