Die By Night

by Kaitlynn Aisling

  That still leaves me to find someone to foot the bill, since Jeff is out of the picture. I don’t care if I have to pay my own tab, as Alex will likely cover mine anyway, but I can at least put forth the effort to appease Meagan.

  My gaze skips over a man wearing a brown afro wig and platform shoes. I also pass up a man with a beer gut, rainbow tie-dyed tunic, and braids. The auburn haired dandy in his navy suit and newsboy cap is a possibility. Then my eyes land upon a man one stool down at the bar.

  Even in the mood lighting, I can distinguish his tan. He looks foreign…like some rogue that’s escaped one of those corny romance novels from my aunt’s bookshelf. He’s not dressed in decades’ themed clothing. Rather, he’s wearing jeans, red and green plaid, and brown boots, which fits the ’90s, if one is lenient.

  His biceps push at the worn flannel material of his sleeves. His profile is strong, even now when he’s hunched slightly over the bar. His finger combed, black hair falls over his temple, obscuring his eyes from view.

  I have to see those eyes.

  Unfortunately, no matter how many times the handsome man shifts, or jerks his hand through his hair, the angle prevents me from catching a glimpse of his eyes.

  He’s drinking scotch on the rocks, and I find I like that. It’s the epitome of manliness. Jeff would always order a light beer or whatever mix drink special the bar had going. If he did indulge in the half priced, sugar filled drinks, I’d have to hear about the gym time that would be necessary to counteract the calories.

  This man does not have to consider such worries. He’s tall, bigger than your average Joe, though not quite large enough to be called bulky or even stout. Strong. Strong is the first word that comes to mind.

  Why did I ever waste my time with color coordinated, ascot wearing Jeff, when there are perfect specimens of manhood like this guy roaming around?

  I’m probably staring, but at this point, I’m just drunk enough not to care if he notices my perusal. Tonight, it’s all or nothing.

  “Who is that?”

  It appears I’m not the only one who’s noticed the man.

  “Shhh,” I hiss back to Meg.

  “He’s too focused on his alcohol to pay any attention to us. Trust me. Now answer the question!”

  “I don’t know who he is.” Though I’d like to become better acquainted with all of him. I answer quietly, though there’s likely no point with Meg trying to yell above the house band.

  “Wait a second! I do! That’s Chloe’s friend. He’s from like Scotland or something exotic like that.”

  “Well, shoot. There goes that.” Chloe beat me to the hot Scot.

  I’m tempted to wave down the bartender, but I’m racking up quite the bill tonight, and Alex still hasn’t shown up. Shame I didn’t get that pay raise and promotion.

  “Nat, Chloe is married. I mean, like, they’re friends, like paleo-tonic.”

  “Paleo, huh?” I giggled.

  I guess Chloe and I can stay friends then.

  “Yeah. So, go get you some of that man muffin before he’s too drunk to dance.”

  As if on cue, the band begins to play a rousing version of “I Love Rock ‘n Roll.” It’s a house favorite and people make their way to the dance floor in droves.

  Meagan takes another swig of her fruit flavored beer before trying to tug me off the barstool. The problem is that I’ve been rooted here for a couple of hours now, leaving my legs unfamiliar with the ground.

  As I try to regain an upright position, Meagan loses patience and shoves me forward from behind, causing her beer to splash down my back and the contents of my own glass to plop into the handsome stranger’s lap, fruit wedges and all.

  He snaps to this feet, moving entirely too quickly for a man who’s had so much to drink. He’s downed two glasses of that scotch just while I’ve watched. His capacity to hold his liquor is nearly inhuman; I’m jealous.

  I’m no dainty, pixie girl, standing at 5’8”, but this man is a veritable giant, over 6 foot to be sure. I look up, and up, until I meet his chiseled face, and I finally get to see his eyes.

  His amber eyes are nearly a perfect match to the Clontarf whiskey sitting on the bar shelf in front of us. They’re the perfect foil to his ink black hair resting mid neck. They’re also lit from within with an emotion I’m not looking forward to facing.

  He’s livid.

  Chapter Three

  “Excuse me, Sir. I’m so sorry.”

  He growls, seemingly lost to something inside himself—something animalistic; his growl nearly inhuman. I back up until my beer covered back hits Meagan. She grabs my shoulder, and I know she’s also cowering before this mass of man.

  I’d rather not be part of a bar fight tonight.

  The band reaches the chorus, causing most of the bar’s patrons to stand and chant along with them. One girl, dressed all in black, shoves forward, nearly bumping Meagan. Her bright blue eyes stand out in the dim light with her intense, raccoon-like eyeliner. She raises her fist and screams out, “I love rock and roll! Yeaaahhh! ROCK ON, BABY!” This time actually bumping Meagan, and in turn me, in her fervor.

  I’m pitched forward once again. This is starting to feel like bumper cars instead of a night out. Mr. Sexy leans forward and grabs Meagan’s arms behind me, enclosing me in the circle of his arms with the action. He steadies us and moves our little trio farther to the side and out of harm’s way.

  My fingers are pressed against his chest. He’s warm, more so than what I would think is normal. Maybe he’s sick and has a fever? What if he’s contagious? Wouldn’t that be something great to add to my day? First I’m passed up for the promotion I deserve, then I’m dumped via infidelity—which I happened to witness firsthand—oh, and to end the night, I contract meningitis!

  “Easy there,” the man says, his voice a low rumble penetrating the haze of the background noise.

  “Hi,” I say.

  He chuckles, causing his chest to vibrate beneath my fingers.

  “Hi.”

  My shiver is partly a result of my nearness to this man, and partly a result of my wet dress. His smile transforms into a frown of what appears to be concern. For me. A stranger. Is this handsome bear of a man a gentleman to boot?

  “You’re cold,” he says.

  Meagan grunts behind me, reminding me of her presence. The man instantly releases his hold on her arms, and she backs up and to the side. Out of my peripheral vision, I see her looking back and forth between the stranger and me.

  “Here.”

  His arms leave my sides, and he begins to unbutton his flannel shirt. I shiver again at the prospect. He seems to notice, his nimble fingers working even faster at the task. I do notice he’s a bit unsteady, which doesn’t seem to fit the self-assured and confident aura I sense coming off him. I wonder how many drinks he’s had tonight.

  One booted foot moves to the right, widening his stance as he shrugs off the shirt. Underneath is a hunter green tee shirt, which is lovingly snug over the biceps I had admired earlier. I’m pretty positive there’s a six pack and some impressive pectoral muscles beneath the shirt as well, if the ripples in the fabric are any indication.

  Man is built fine!

  Meagan agrees, if her gasp beside me is any indication.

  “Here,” he repeats, leaning toward me to sling the shirt around my shoulders.

  “No, wait! The back of my dress is wet with beer.”

  Oh, great, that sounds attractive. Mr. Sexy immediately pulls the shirt back.

  “I’m sure we can fix that.”

  He turns to the bar and, reaching over the side, gathers some towels. The bartender is so preoccupied with keeping the emo chick from knocking down customers’ drinks, as she now struts atop the bar, that he doesn’t even notice.

  I turn to Meagan. She’s fanning herself and grinning. She catches my gaze and flexes her arm, pointing to her own mostly nonexistent bicep.

  She mouths, “Muy fuego!”

  Some alien part of me rushes
to the fore, clambering for my undivided attention. It shouts, “Mine! He’s mine!”

  The thought is absurd; yet when I attempt to dismiss it, it just seems to grow louder. I have to breathe in, out, and count to three to rid myself of the thought. If Meagan wants the gorgeous Scot, who am I to stand in the way?

  Mr. Sexy turns back around, and Meagan schools her expression real quick, smoothing out her dress sleeve. I’m not as swift; guilt must be all over my face, because he grins knowingly as he holds up the towels. His teeth are so white in his tan face!

  Now, I’d like to think that I don’t wax poetic over men, even if they’re as swoon worthy as this specimen. Heck, I dated plain and practical Jeff with no problem. So, maybe it’s the three cocktails, but tonight I just want to write sonnets to this man’s glorious beauty.

  He watches me, but doesn’t offer the towels. Someone pinches my side causing me to nearly jump out of my skin. Meagan. It’s obvious that I’m not the only one affected by Mr. Sexy.

  Raising one finger, he spins it in a circle, obviously wanting me to turn my back to him so he can clean up the beer spill. That would be uncomfortable. Instead, I step forward, snatch the towels and his shirt, and run past him to the restroom, dragging Meagan behind me.

  Two middle-aged women exit the bathroom, as we push in—nearly hitting them with the swing door.

  “Well, excuuuuse me!” the brunette huffs.

  “You’re excused,” I huff back.

  “Well! The nerve of these little hussies is beyond the pale. Why I—”

  The rest of the affronted woman’s complaints are drowned out by the music as the door swings closed.

  “Oh, my gosh!” Meagan gasps.

  “Yeah, I know. Those women need to get a life…and a clue. Since when does anyone say ‘beyond the pale’ anymore? What are they, a hundred and fifty?”

  I attempt to clean up my back by craning my neck around and angling my shoulders to the side. My arm doesn’t really reach.

  “What? The women…No, I mean the man! Geez, Nat, keep an eye on what’s important would ya?”

  This pose is too awkward to really accomplish anything. The back of my dress is soaked, and I smell like a brewery anyway. It’s not like a towel and a shirt is going to fix it all.

  “You’re hopeless,” Meagan says, taking the towel from my hand and swiping it across my back. “There!”

  I’m not dripping alcohol anymore, but I’m still wet . . . and cold.

  “The dress is going to have to come off,” Meagan states this as calmly as if telling someone she ate biscuits for breakfast.

  “No!” I have no desire to expose my biscuits to everyone in Flip Your Wig.

  “I guess we could leave,” Meagan says, her face pathetically sad. Her big, blue eyes widen, and her lip trembles in exaggerated gloom. “Even though I think your brother said he was going to come by. And I haven’t even hit the dance floor yet,” she continues.

  “No, we can stay,” I say.

  But I don’t mean it. It’s just something I feel I should say. I want to curl up in bed with a bottle of booze, The Notebook, and chocolate covered coffee beans.

  “I have a solution,” Meagan offers.

  I wait in expectation of this grand solution that’s somehow going to fix a wet dress, chilly bar, and an embarrassing situation in front of a Scottish model man.

  After about ten seconds, I lose my patience.

  “Well?”

  “You have the man’s shirt, which would almost be a dress in itself if you weren’t so Amazonian.”

  Surely there’s more to this solution beyond walking around in just a stranger’s shirt.

  “You’re wearing shorts underneath that dress. I know you are. You always wear shorts underneath skirts and dresses.”

  She’s right. I am wearing shorts, but not your regular run-of-the-mill jogging shorts. I’m wearing skintight modesty shorts, because my papa and brothers always frowned upon my wearing skirts and dress for fear that everything was too short on me. The shorts became my concession to my papa’s need to keep his little girl from growing up too entrenched in the “wayward ways of the modern world.” He’s always been old-fashioned.

  “They’re not shorts for public viewing,” I hiss at her.

  “Aw, come on. Don’t be such a spoilsport. Honestly, with that man waiting for you out in the bar, I don’t really think you want to go home either.”

  She’s wrong, I want those coffee beans! But she’s also right; I don’t. I want to go back out there and see the man’s gorgeous face again. I want to dance with him. I want to drink until this day fades from memory.

  “All right,” I agree.

  Squeezing into a stall, I strip off the sodden dress, and Meagan lays the Scot’s flannel over the door. Mr. Sexy is an abnormally tall man, which means the shirt extends to just past my butt. My papa and brothers wouldn’t approve, but in reality it’s more modest than many of the outfits I’ve seen other women my age wear. The thought is enough to propel me out of the stall for Meagan’s inspection.

  “Well?” I ask.

  “I know you don’t want to hear this but it’s actually kind of cute.”

  “You’re right. I don’t want to hear it.”

  We do our best to rinse out the back of my dress in the sink, and then we wring it out and fold it into a tiny square. I’ve only got the clutch with me, and Meagan’s purse isn’t much bigger. There’s no way my dress will fit into it either. Meagan volunteers to bring it out to her car.

  “See you out there,” she says with a wink.

  When I exit the restroom, the band has settled into P.P. Arnold’s “The First Cut Is the Deepest.” Mr. Sexy is on another glass of scotch, and the emo rocker chick is nowhere to be seen. I hope she was escorted out.

  I lean over and tap Mr. Sexy on the shoulder; he spins in his barstool, startling me. He should be too drunk to have that much motor control left; I don’t have that much motor control left, and I had a groovy burger to help sober me up.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” I say, gesturing to his shirt.

  He swallows, his hand clenching against the edge of the bar. I might have to change his nickname from Mr. Sexy to Mr. Intense.

  “As long as you’re warm.”

  “I am now. Thank you.”

  He nods. His knuckles are turning white in response to his tightening grip of the bar.

  What is wrong with him? I should have known. He’s too hot not to have issues. There’s always a flaw. Always.

  “I’m Natalie.”

  I offer my hand, and he finally deserts his hold on the bar to extend his own.

  “Gavin MacCrae. Nice tae meet you, Natalie.”

  My name rolls off his tongue in an interesting Scottish burr. I think I prefer his voice to the band.

  “Would you like a drink?”

  Well, one mission of the night is now accomplished. A man has just accepted responsibility for my tab. Meagan will be proud. I hop up on the stool beside Gavin, regretting the movement almost immediately as his shirt rides up. Gavin’s gaze shoots to my exposed thighs in an instant. His amber eyes seem on fire, as if they’re lit from within. Then, as quickly as I think I’ve glimpsed something predatory in his gaze, he flashes a smile that sets me at ease once again. Man, the man can smile. It’s both disarming and alarming, all at once.

  I return the smile and tug his borrowed shirt further down my legs. I don’t know if it’s the buzz of the drinks I’ve already downed tonight or the paranoia from the latest Stephen King novel I devoured the other night, but there’s a warning going off inside of me. It’s like this man is reeling me in, and he’s aided by the lonely feeling created by Jeff’s betrayal. It’s like I’m prey. However, that warning dies easily as Gavin slides a drink my way.

  I stare at him, lost in something I can’t explain. I’m tempted to ask him if we’ve met before, but it sounds contrived in my head. Instead, I take a sip and pray that Meagan comes back in soon so that she can rescue m
e from myself.

  “Hey! Alex is finally here!” Meagan yells from beside me.

  I didn’t notice her return, but I’m so thankful she’s back. Standing behind her is my brother, Alex. He leans in to hug me and eyes the drink sitting in front of me.

  “Breath check.”

  How embarrassing! Alex isn’t as serious as Nic, but he still has those same overprotective brother traits. I duck to the side and slide off the stool, hoping to evade Gavin’s notice. The maneuver doesn’t work. His gaze follows me, glancing back and forth between Alex and me, his look calculating. My teeth chew into my bottom lip, nervousness causing me to stumble against the barstool as I push closer to Alex and away from Gavin.

  “Woah, there.”

  Gavin is suddenly off his own stool and beside me, his hand pressed against my lower back in support. Alex doesn’t care for that. Not one bit.

  I mutter a thank you and grab Alex’s hand to pull him to the side.

  “Who is that?” he asks.

  “His name is Gavin, and it’s none of your business.”

  “That man is none of your business. Trust me. You don't want to get involved in that.”

  Men can be so sensitive to their own egos. Yes, Gavin is a hot stranger who looks like he could break people with his bare hands, does that mean I shouldn’t get to know him better?

  Alex keeps looking back, glaring at Meagan and Gavin. Meagan is talking to Gavin, her hands and face animated as she tries to keep his attention. I can only assume that she’s trying to keep my embarrassment to a minimum. It won’t work; the damage has already been done, but I appreciate her efforts.

  “Look, Alex. I’m not a child. I’ve had a rough day, and I don’t appreciate you trying to be my father. I’ll talk to whomever I want.”

  “Where’s Jeff?” he asks, completely ignoring everything I’ve just said.

  Great. Now’s certainly not the time to get into this.