"My friend's already in here," I say as I spot Janine tipping back a drink at the bar. I weave through the group of businessmen clogging the entrance, bumping into a few of them.
I'm almost to the bar when Janine sets her drink down and taps her red acrylic nail over the wooden countertop for the bartender. He glances in our direction.
"Another cosmo, my dear sir," she says.
A flirtatious smile crosses his face as he looks at me. “What’ll it be, sweetheart?”
“A cosmo.”
And he turns, reaching for the bottle of vodka behind him. I pull the chair out beside Janine, and she looks over at me.
She nods. "Uh-huh. Noticed this time you didn't say you don't drink." She laughs. "Told you that bastard'll drive you to the bottle."
The man places a napkin down, dumps a little salt on it, then places the martini glass in front of me, the dark red liquid threatening to spill over the edge.
I pick up the glass and chug it then place it on the counter. "I'll take another one. Extra shot, please."
The barkeep nods, and Janine whacks me on the back. "Attagirl."
For an hour, the conversation drifts back and forth from EA to Janine's string of ex-husbands, and I lose count of the drinks I've had. But my head is swimming, and my body is warm with this blissful fog of "I don't give a shit about anything." I kind of like this feeling. Maybe too much.
"And that’s why I divorced husband number three," she says, arching a brow. Janine hops off the stool. "I'm going to the ladies’ room. Order me one more, then we need to get a taxi or something because I definitely can't be weaving my way up that fucking mountain. And neither can you."
She stumbles off to the restroom. I dig my cell from my purse, but instead of calling a cab, I dial Jax's number, and now I have the phone pressed to my ear, my heart drumming into my throat with each ring. I debate hanging up and convincing myself he'll only hurt me. He’ll be that guy who fucks me and leaves me, that guy who yells at me in the parking lot. Any of the bastards I sat and watched an hour ago.
But the second I hear his voice come over the line, instead of panicking and hanging up, instead of stumbling over my words, I say, "I want to see you."
He takes a moment, swallowing hard. "I've been waiting to hear you say that. McClintock's off South Street? Fifteen minutes?"
And… shit. "Uh, yep. Sounds good. Sure…"
"And there's that sure again," he says with a laugh. "Fifteen minutes it is then. Don't be late, or I'll arrest you."
"Yeah, um…” I fidget with the damp napkin beneath my drink. “Okay…" I don't know how to handle him. I want to laugh. I probably should laugh, but I suck at social cues. "I'll see you in a few."
I hang up and glance down at what I'm wearing in a complete panic. A Nirvana T-shirt, jeans, and Chuck Taylors. Fucking amazing.
I'm in such shock that I actually just initiated this that I barely notice Janine when she comes back. "Honey?" She grips my shoulder. "You okay? You look a little mortified."
"I, uh…" I glance up, swallowing as the panic really sets in. I grab my drink, down what little bit is left. "I just called Jax."
She beams as she motions for the bartender. "And?"
"I'm supposed to go meet him… shit, that's so rude. I'm sorry, Janine. I don't know what I was—"
"Oh, it's fine, sweetie. I'm just fine right here with my cosmos and…" She squints to read the name tag on the bartender's shirt. "Randall. Me and Randall will be just dandy, won't we?"
He ignores her and continues wiping down the counter.
"Where are you going?" she asks.
"McClintock's or something like that."
"Oh, that's just a block over." Her eyes widen, and she claps. "Talk about fate." She grins as she brings her glass to her lips and takes a sip. "Go on now. I've got my phone. If it gets too late, I’ll take an Uber or"—a slight giggle bubbles from her lips—"go home with Randall."
Shaking my head, I grab my purse and head to the door, playing out a thousand scenarios of why I shouldn't go. I groan and push the door open, still in shock that I actually called him and agreed to meet him.
The entire ten-minute walk to the bar, I obsess over how I’ll mess this meeting with him up. The thought of having to talk to him, having to come up with conversation, nearly paralyzes me. I'm bound to say something dumb or awkward or just… random. And then he'll give me some weird look, and I'll get all nervous that he's wishing he'd never met me, wishing I were some normal girl. A normal girl… a fucking normal girl…
The bar's dark and fairly empty. I walk straight to the counter and take a seat, crossing my legs and immediately picking at my nails.
"Want a drink?" the old man behind the counter asks.
I hesitate. My head's already dizzy from the drinks I had at Applebee's, and although it is tempting, I decide maybe since this foggy feeling is what incited that phone call in the first place, I shouldn't have another one just yet. God knows what I'd end up saying then.
"Oh, no thanks," I say, forcing a nervous smile.
He shoots a confused look in my direction, shrugs, then walks off to the other end of the counter to serve another customer.
And I wait. And wait. And wait.
"You sure you don't want a drink? You look like you could use one." The bartender laughs.
I glance at my watch. He's nearly fifteen minutes late. Which means he's probably not coming. "Uh… I'm—"
The bell over the door jingles, and I stop mid-sentence, turning around to find Jax walking toward the bar, his fingers running through his thick hair. Much to my dismay, my heart goes into a full-on sprint. I hate that a man can do this to me. I hate that I want him. I hate the vulnerability because it's an all too familiar feeling, dredging up things I'd rather not contemplate.
"Ah, just in time," he says with a smile as he pulls the bar stool out next to me. To my surprise, he comes in for a hug, placing his muscular arm around me.
What in the hell do I do? Hug him back or just… I awkwardly return his hug, and he kisses my cheek lightly.
"It's great to see you again. Sorry I'm late. My partner was being a pain in the ass," he says as he takes a seat.
"It's fine. And, yeah, it's good to see you too." I can't seem to calm my racing pulse, and soon enough, that fidgety nervousness overtakes me, so I flag down the bartender.
"Now, I may be wrong here, but are you sure it’s good to see me?" He chuckles. "Seems like every time I see ya, you've got that little scowl on your face."
Ignoring his comment, I glare at him. "Do you want a drink?"
"No, I don't drink anymore,” he says with a slight smirk. “I quit last night." As the bartender approaches, Jax nods toward the top shelf. "Give me a double Jameson, neat." He motions to me. "And whatever she's having."
"Yeah, exactly what I thought," I mumble as I turn my attention to the man behind the bar. "And I'll have tequila, straight. Thanks."
Jax shoots me an impressed look. "I like your style. Sounds like we've had the same kind of week."
I toss my head back on a laugh. "Yeah, well, maybe. Who fucking knows?"
The second I glance at him, my nerves get the better of me. I don't know what the hell I’m doing here with him. This is only going to end in a disaster. Shit. Now he's smiling, and I damn near melt but manage to keep a straight face. I don't want him to know he has any kind of effect on me because that's when they know you’re vulnerable.
"So anyway…" I clear my throat. "Sorry I just kinda called you. I just, I don’t know." I shrug, my cheeks warming. "Needed to get out and, uh, yeah…"
The bartender places our drinks in front of us.
Jax immediately wraps his hand around his, tracing his finger over the glass. "Sweetheart, I’m working a case where, a few days ago, we pulled a girl in ten different pieces out of an abandoned house. Seeing your name pop up on my phone was the best thing to happen to me all day." He takes a long drink of his whiskey, his unfocused gaze straying towar
d the wall of liquor bottles, as if something is weighing heavily on his mind. "You use that number any time you want." He redirects his attention to me.
"Thanks." My leg is furiously bouncing. I bite my lip, struggling to come up with the appropriate thing to say. "And that sucks…"
"Sorry." He grins, taking another drink. "Probably a little too much information for you. I'm just… I don't know. It's just been a hellacious week." He scratches at his beard, shaking his head slightly.
I grab my drink and tip it back. Swallow. Then turn the glass up again. The cheap tequila burns my throat on the way down, but shit, I can't drink this fast enough.
He eyes me with a grin, shaking his head. "Fuck, I've been known as a drinker in my day, but tequila… fuck that. Too many bad experiences with Señor Jose back in college."
"Yeah—" Another quick gulp. "I've not had any problems with it. Not yet at least." But at this rate, tonight may be my first…
"Well shit, there ought to be some sort of award for that."
"Oh, I'm sure there is…" And… here is that awkward silence. I stare at him, that dirty part of me wanting to undress him with my eyes. Imagine his heated, stifled breaths next to my ear as he has his way with me—
"You know, your conversation skills are quite impressive." He laughs.
"Oh, fuck you!" As soon as I say that, I cover my mouth with my hand. A Freudian slip he’ll never pick up on, hopefully.
"Hey now, this is only our second date. I don't think propositioning me for sex is very ladylike." That damn grin again. "Do you?"
I bite my lip, hard, and narrow my gaze. My foot is furiously shaking, making the small amount of tequila left in my glass slosh against the sides. What would that girl do? What would she say? "Trust me…" The alcohol is buzzing through me, making me not really care what comes out of my mouth. "That was not an offer." I laugh and tip the drink back again, smiling around the rim. I can be that girl after all.
He motions with his hand to catch the attention of the barkeep. "Bartender, another drink for the lady please." He shoots me a quick, mischievous glance. "And another one for me."
"If you're trying to get me drunk, too fucking late."
"I suppose that's why I heard from you tonight?"
"Maybe." I lightly touch his arm because that’s what that girl would do.
"No EA to keep you company? Or, I guess, Edwin as you call him."
"Again, fuck you," I whisper. I lock my gaze with his. The second I realize my hand is rubbing his hard bicep, I jerk it away. "But, you know, if you'd rather me leave…" I go to stand, and he quickly places a hand on my shoulder.
"Hey now, you better sit that cute butt of yours back down." His hand lingers on my shoulder until I'm fully seated again.
His fingers drift down my arm before returning to his glass. Chill bumps sweep over my skin, and I find myself wishing he'd put his hand back on me. Touch me just a little longer.
My gaze falls from his eyes to his full lips, and all I can think about is kissing him. Fuck, I hate this. My hand quickly wraps around my glass, my eyes never leaving those lips of his as I suck back the last of my drink. "Fine. I'll stay… for a minute at least." Then I giggle. Dear God. Who am I?
"A minute? And how does a guy go about spending more than just a minute with you? Does he have to be an author? Because I'll tell you what, I can't write to save my life, but I'll put together the nicest picture book you’ve ever seen. Penguin cops or some shit like that."
Shaking my head, I nearly choke on my drink. "I’m sorry. Penguin cops?"
"I'm just saying that shit should be worth at least a couple hours."
"Wow," I say through laughs. "You're special, Jax."
"I'm glad you can see that so soon. Usually it takes a lot more convincing on my part. I prefer the term unique though."
"Okay." I arch both brows. "We'll go with unique."
The bartender places the next round of drinks in front of us, and I push mine aside.
Jax eyes me as if he's trying to figure me out, sizing me up. "I just can't read you, Miranda…" He tilts his head, his eyes narrowing.
"Cross."
"Miranda Cross." A deep smile fills his face. "And I'm a fucking cop. Do you know how bad that makes me look?"
"Look, don't feel bad. I've spent my entire life perfecting the art of being unreadable."
"Did you perfect that before or after the RBF?" he asks, a laugh ready to bust loose from his lips.
"Excuse me? I don't have resting bitch face."
"Now, now, it's a good quality to have. I bet more people on airplanes try to talk to me than you. And then there's the whole mall kiosk issue everyone else has to deal with. I bet they never ask you if you'd like to try pine-scented, age-defying lotion. That's a win if I ever saw it." A laugh finally does break through, and he shakes his head before taking down more of his whiskey.
I'm trying my damnedest to keep a straight face. "Okay, first of all, I don't fly. Second, no, they don't talk to me, but maybe it's because I don't need age-defying lotion yet, asshole."
"You don't fly? What, do you fucking teleport? And maybe that is what it is… because of course you don't. Ooor… maybe it's the fact that they think you want to kill them and eat their babies." He's smiling, those damn dimples popping.
I look away from him and stare at the bottles of liquor on the wall, my heart banging against my ribs as I trail my fingertip over the curve of my glass, wishing it was him I was touching, relishing… "I hate flying." I glance back at him.
"You know, it isn't plane victims we're zipping up into body bags every day." There's a soft smile on his face. "A lot more stuff to worry about in this world than flying, my dear."
"Yeah, I know. Just one of those things…" My eyes drift back down to his lips and pause for way too long. But I just want to kiss him. I shouldn't, but I do.
"Hey, we all have them. Don't even talk to me about fucking dolls. Those porcelain motherfuckers with the beady little eyes…" He shakes his head.
"Oh, I hate those things too. My mother had tons of those. Most were clowns." I shudder thinking about that collection.
"No fucking way." He laughs, his eyes wide. "My sister and I used to have a babysitter who had clown shit fucking everywhere. I'm talking wall-to-wall. Our parents weren't home very much, so I had to live with that shit for a while. I didn't sleep very well those days." He smiles, his eyes taking me in as they move from my lips to my eyes then back again.
I grab his arm before I realize I have. "Yeah, I had nightmares about them. And then Stephen King's It… ruined me. I'm convinced that was the moment I officially became fucked up."
"Holy shit, you have no idea. I've always been a big-time reader. Read that shit when we were visiting family in Texas back in sixth grade." Lifting his brows, he gives me an understanding nod. "That shit changes a fucking kid. I'm talking scar-city type shit."
"'We all float down here…’" I shake my head. "Gutters. I avoid them at all costs."
"God, that's awesome." He laughs and raises his glass to me. "Well, here’s to a mutual hatred of dolls and clowns."
Nodding, I clink my glass against his and laugh before setting the untouched drink back on the counter.
"So… I'm not very good at this kind of thing." He points at himself then at me. "Whatever this is. I actually haven't been out on a date in a long, long time."
"And you think I am? What with my impeccable conversations skills and all?" I laugh. "Yeah, I don’t do people. Ever. But you…" I trail off before I say something I shouldn't.
"So if I'm brutally honest with you, you won't hold it against me?"
"Nah."
He gently grabs my arm, pulling me toward him. I have no choice but to follow his lead and grip the edge of the seat with my hands to keep from sliding off the stool. His other hand comes to rest on my cheek, his eyes intensely set on mine. When his thumb tenderly brushes over my jaw, my heart bangs against my chest, heating my body. I can't help but to lean in
to his touch. It feels too right. Too perfect. He inches forward until his lips meet mine with such a soft touch I'm not even sure he's really kissing me. Within seconds, he takes my bottom lip into his mouth, his teeth nibbling just a little before releasing. He brushes his fingers into my hair as his lips crash hard against mine again. And from that simple touch, my entire body goes limp, every last inch of my skin heating. He cups the back of my neck to pull me closer and deepen the kiss. Just before I give in to him any further, I tear away, my heart in my throat as I stare at him.
A confused expression crosses Jax's face, and I immediately regret pulling away.
"Everything okay?" He looks around, but no one's paying us any more attention than we're paying them. "Sorry about the PDA… your lips are too distracting."
And now I feel like an idiot, so I do the only thing I can think to do—I grab him by the face and drag him to me, closing my eyes, and kiss him again. A subtle moan slips from my lips because, damn, his lips feel good like this. They're soft and warm and just… right.
And… this is bad. I know this is dangerous because I generally don't like people touching me, but Jax… there's something about him that I crave, possibly need—which means, in the end, I'm going to get hurt. Or maybe I’ll just end up hurting him.
I go to move away, but this time, he grabs the back of my head, giving me one tender kiss before he releases me, his eyes locked on mine. And even I, with my lack of social understanding, can pick up, by that desperate glimmer in his eyes, that he feels the same way. And that's scary as shit.
Jax trails his rough fingers over my jaw, a soft smile settling on his face. My cheeks warm; my body flushes.
"Hmm," he says, settling back in his seat. "I could see this being a problem."
"What?" I feel a scowl form on my face, and he chuckles.
"This." He touches his finger to my lips. "Kissing you is kind of addictive. And I have quite the addictive personality."
I should probably say something instead of staring at him like an idiot, which is exactly what I’m doing right now. "You're ridiculous," I mumble.
Heat floods my body, and I turn in my chair to face the wall of liquor, my heart thumping in my throat. Really? Ridiculous? That's the best you had? You could have said, “I like kissing you too. Thanks.” Anything….
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