by Stacey Lynn
And fuck this.
Fuck it all.
Chapter Two
Gigi
My grandpa always said when life hands you lemons, make lemonade. When life handed me lemons, I stomped them into a pulp and bought myself a one-way ticket to Turkey where I spent a year and a half traveling Eastern Europe before spending another six months traversing through Western Europe, ending in Scotland before the weariness of traveling finally started getting to me.
My heart started missing my dad and home.
Despite my homesickness that took root, it still took a phone call from my aunt Pamela to tell me my dad was in the hospital with chest pains to finally get me back on the plane and on American soil. The moment I hit town, I headed to his bar to drop off my luggage in the apartment above it to clean up before heading to see him. I figured with what Pamela said, he’d be home and resting.
Imagine my surprise when I walked into the bar to grab the key for upstairs, and there he was.
All hefty, full stomach and thick head of graying hair and second chin, booming his standard and well-known laugh with a bunch of male customers.
I’d leaped over the bar, not caring about the drinks I probably spilled in my wake, and slammed my much more petite arms around him in a hug.
Since that day barely over a year ago, I’ve come to know the guys that were there that night. Most of them are team members of the Carolina Ice Kings, North Carolina’s professional hockey team.
At one point, Dad pulled me aside and said the guys found his bar a year earlier, sauntering in after a loss at home with some of their wives and girlfriends. There’d barely been a body in his bar because most young people liked to head into Charlotte to the cooler clubs. Apparently, these guys liked the quiet so much they kept coming back. He told me I was never to tell anyone they came in. They liked it here, they tipped well and didn’t cause problems, and he liked their company.
I know this because Dad introduced me to most of them that night in between the sassy shots he took at my colored hair, the mermaid tattoo I’d picked up in Germany, and the tiny nose piercing I got in the French Riviera.
There was one among them who stood out. He came in with his shaggy, dirty-blondish brown hair that had a slight wave to it. It flipped over his ears and curled over his collar. His beard was scruffy, in need of a trim. But it was his smile that pulled me in. Thick, light pink lips that were almost too feminine on his buff frame. Lips that smiled easily with a top lip that often disappeared beneath his mustache when he did.
So. Damn. Sexy.
Seeing him, I considered ignoring my dad’s warnings about them, jumping back over the bar top and planting myself in the man’s lap when I caught sight of the shimmering black ring he wore on his left hand.
His ring finger, to be exact.
Sebastian Hendrix was one of the hottest men I’d met in all my travels, and he was married.
Since I wasn’t that kind of girl, not ever, I tamped down my crush and my blooming lust for him and did my job. And I’d been doing my job for well over a year for the Ice Kings, pouring them drinks, telling them stories about my travels, some exaggerated for comedic effect.
In the meantime, I chopped four inches off my hair, got rid of the hot pink tips and went to a deep, dark purple and then red, before going back to my current vibrant purple. The stud in my nose changed much more frequently from a tiny jewel to a silver ball to a gold hoop depending on my mood.
Through it all, Sebastian laughed less. His smiles decreased in size to where now, I rarely saw a smile on his face.
Which means I’m not the least bit surprised when the door opens, and Sebastian walks in, shoulders hunched, eyes so sad it almost hurts to look at him.
A brisk breeze from the cold January air follows him. It chills me through my cardigan and George’s Bar tank top, but it’s nothing compared to the pain radiating from his posture and expression.
He walks straight to the bar, not giving any of the few people in the place a second glance and pulls up a seat at the corner near where I am.
He’s wearing a faded, old white ball cap with the Alabama logo on the front pulled down low. I lose his eyes as soon as he sits, but his hair would be enough to give him away from a distance. The curls flip at his neck and his ears, his beard is short but thick and I know it will only continue to grow longer through the season. The first time I saw Sebastian without a beard, my jaw dropped to the bar top. I’m not sure which way he looks better, displaying his square, carved chin or hiding it. Either way, the man simply does something to me.
I head toward him, dropping my black towel to the counter.
“Hey, hotshot. Happy New Year.”
Other than his strange and morose demeanor, I’m more surprised his teammates aren’t with him. Or that he’s here at all. It’s New Year’s Day and they haven’t been in since the week before Christmas.
“Shot of something strong, Gigi, and keep ‘em coming.”
He doesn’t look at me. He barely acknowledges me, although I’m used to it. From what I’ve gathered, Sebastian Hendrix isn’t the kind of man to look too long at any woman who isn’t his wife. Admirable. All women want to be married to a guy who’s so devoted. With his money, his looks, and hell, even with just his personality, men like him are rarely as faithful as he is.
I grab a bottle of Maker’s Mark bourbon. It’s not the most expensive bourbon we have, but I know he likes it.
I fill two shots and slide them both his way.
He takes the first, tosses it back and slams it to the counter with a heavy thunk.
“Hey. You okay?”
His head lifts minutely and slowly, like the small move takes massive effort. “No. Not really.”
He takes another shot and slides both shot glasses my way. “Like I said, Gigi, keep them coming. Or better yet, I’ll take the bottle.”
“Sebastian—” I’m not sure I’ve ever called him by his name. Not since I nicknamed him. Oddly, he’s the only guy on the team who I have nicknamed.
“Don’t. Not tonight, k? Just want to drink my bourbon and not be alone. Can you give me that?”
Someone at the far end calls my name and I glance their way, seeing Steve Shaw holding an empty bottle. Older than my own dad, I know him well enough to tell him to serve himself. Hell, the man changed my diapers in this very bar when I was that little. He likes to remind me of that frequently.
I tell him I’ll be right there and look back to Sebastian. “I’ll leave you alone and get you the bottle, but only if you give me your keys.”
“Took an Uber here.” He still reaches back into his pocket and tosses a set of keys to the bar. “But have them, in case you don’t believe me.”
“All right.” I palm the keys and drop them by the cash register just in case he is lying. He wouldn’t be the first drunk to do so and then sneak out. There’s no way a drunk driver leaving my bar and possibly hurting someone or themselves is going on my conscience.
That done, I slide the bottle of Maker’s Mark in front of him and grab a fresh and local Olde Meck pilsner for Steve.
I stay on his side of the bar for a while, talking to the guys I know and watching whatever game is on television. I only head back Sebastian’s way when another customer needs something and to slide a glass of water in front of him, just in case.
But an hour later, when the bourbon is quickly disappearing from the bottle and the water glass has gone untouched, I make my move.
“Need me to call someone for you, hotshot? Looks like you might need to get some things off your chest.”
He fills another shot glass, but this time he sips it slowly, sucking it in and hissing through his teeth. “No.”
A twitch in his beard covered cheek tells me I’m pissing him off.
“Hey.” I lean forward and rest my elbows on the bar. I’ve known these guys for a year. Granted, it’s not like they’re frequent regulars, but regular enough to know a few have gotten married, Sawyer’s having
a baby. I know their stats only because I started watching hockey after the first time they came in and Sebastian grabbed my attention.
Shameless and pathetic, maybe, but I like having something to talk to them about. Which means I’ve already checked my phone and I know they won a game earlier today so he can’t be pissed about a loss.
“Seriously. You okay? Because this doesn’t seem like you, and if you need someone to talk to—”
“You offering?”
“Well.” I scan the bar and return to him, smirking. What else do I have to do? “Bartenders end up being like therapists, you know? Trust me, I’ve heard it all. Seen a lot more. Nothing you can say would surprise me.”
“Shit day. Shit year.”
“The year’s just getting started.”
“It’ll be shit,” he mumbles, finishing his shot and quickly pouring another.
I slide the glass of water closer to him and he sneers at it. “You’ve been hitting the bottle pretty hard. Take a break, yeah?”
He glares at me, tipping his head up just enough to do so. Tortured, ragged green eyes meet mine and without taking his eyes off me, he drains the water glass.
It’s shameful the way I watch his throat work as he swallows. My core sparks like I’ve been zapped with a live wire. Thankfully, I’ve gotten good at hiding the physical reactions I have when I’m around him.
Although in his current state, I doubt he’d notice.
“There. Happy now?”
“Much.” I refill the water glass and set it next to the bottle. “Need food? Kitchen’s still open.”
“Not hungry.” He fills another shot glass and I watch as he takes another small sip. Then I grab a lowball glass, fill it with ice, and set it next to the bottle. Perhaps if he can water down his bourbon with some ice, he won’t get so shitfaced he passes out right where he’s sitting.
It’s a pain in the ass to handle.
“All right, hotshot.” Not so much as a muscle moves at his nickname. I’m used to smiles. Smirks. Friendly glances. Tonight, his face is as empty as the shot glass he’s drained.
Because I’m me, also because I’m trying not to let the guy’s blood alcohol content surpass maximum levels, I check to make sure everyone’s taken care of, and scoot out from under the bar back. I clean up empty bottles on my way to the kitchen and put in an order of tater tots and nachos. Maybe if they’re there, Sebastian will munch on them in between his sips of bourbon and scowling at me.
Everyone needs a night to blow off steam. I get it. Hell, I’ve been there. I took two years to blow off steam after my marriage ended, even if it ended amicably. I get having a bad night. However, it’s not only my job to try to encourage responsible drinking, I like this guy and seeing him so upset upsets me.
After I take a quick trip to the restrooms and clean up trash and wipe down counters, I swing back and pick up the food and say goodnight to Max, the last cook who will be leaving soon.
Back at the bar, Steve asks me to tell him again about my experience in Amsterdam’s Red-Light District. I slide the food onto the bar without looking at Sebastian, but I feel his smirk as I pass him.
It’s a common story, and really not all that exciting, but Steve likes imagining all the drugs you can buy from coffee shops and hearing about the night I spent in the Red-Light District.
Typical man stuff when in reality, the coffee at the coffee shops is shitty, and usually in the most popular tourist areas. There were very few locals when I went into one once, and once was enough for me. As for the Red-Light District?
It was an experience, and nerve-wracking, not because it’s dangerous but because I am a female, a relatively small one, and I was terrified something could happen to me. In truth, it wasn’t anything like I expected with the workers in windows they rent from brothels. Sure, there were workers on the street, but the ones men mostly went to see were safe behind a building’s glass window in tiny alleys that curved along canals. The area was patrolled to make me feel safe enough and even though it isn’t my thing at all, it was interesting.
I repeat all I remember from the time there, the drunken bachelor party, or stag party, who were all escorted away for not being respectful. The women’s outfits. The music. And of course, the red lights shining from windows indicating someone was available.
“Gigi.”
Sebastian calls my name like a bark and I shift, arching my brows at him.
I get a chin lift and a tip of his head in response, asking for my attention.
I tap the bar. “Be right back, guys.”
“Ain’t got nowhere to be, sweetheart.”
I roll to my toes and kiss Steve’s cheek. His wife Amy died from brain cancer a couple years back and since then, he almost lives at the corner of this bar. I’ve teased him about making him a nameplate so he can have an assigned seat. Sadly, he’s here often enough assigning him a chair is unnecessary.
Making my way back to Sebastian, I fill a glass of soda for myself and prop my hip near the cooler across from him. “Something I can get for you?”
A ride home? Ibuprofen for the headache you’re going to have?
He shakes his head and sips more from the shot glass. “You ever get lonely?”
“Excuse me?”
“When traveling. You ever get lonely?”
There’s a strange look in his green eyes. He ditched his hat at some point so I can see him clearly. It’s almost painful to look at someone as beautiful as he is. I want to slide my hand through his hair, brush my thumb along the deep lines on his forehead to smooth away his stress.
“If I want company, I can find it.”
His eyes widen and it takes me a second to realize how that sounds.
Still a true statement, but embarrassment floods my veins, heating them. He’s not flirting with you or propositioning you, dumbass. Right. Of course not.
“I meant—”
“I like being alone,” I cut him off. I know what he meant. “I like the quiet and the peace that comes with it and I figure if you can’t be happy alone with yourself, you’ll never really be happy around another person. You know?”
“No.”
He sighs and drains the shot glass. When he reaches for the bottle, I take it from him, holding it out of his reach. He eyes the bottle of bourbon like I imagine he focuses on the puck during a game.
Softening my voice, I ask, “I know I’ve asked, and I know you lied. You can tell me what’s wrong. I won’t repeat it to anyone.”
His thumb on his left hand twirls his black, thick wedding band, but he doesn’t take his laser-focus off the bottle in my hand. “Just a shitty time. Can I have my drink now?”
I debate. He’s had enough. At this point, even getting his drunk butt into an Uber will be difficult. At five-two, I’m not exactly big enough or strong enough to carry the guy out if need be. Plus, who’s to say the Uber driver won’t figure out who he is and I don’t know… kidnap him? Steal his wallet?
The poor man is screaming sadness.
“Sure, hotshot.” I pour his glass, clean up the bar, and say goodnight to Steve when it hits one o’clock in the morning. He and his old war buddies take off with a wave and a concerned look at Sebastian still hunched over my bar.
Then we’re left alone, which he doesn’t seem to mind ironically given his earlier question and I’m left to figure out what in the heck to do with him now.
Chapter Three
Sebastian
“Fuck.” I press my hands to my temples to try to settle the thundering in my brain to no avail. Holy shit, I got trashed last night. I don’t remember much after the short conversation I had with Gigi. Like, how I got home.
I roll over and the scent of something minty makes my stomach roll and forces me to open my eyes. Madison doesn’t wear anything minty. She’s more floral and elegance.
Two things become immediately clear as I peel my first eye open, feeling like I might have scrubbed my eyes with sandpaper before passing out. One, the har
sh reminder of Madison immediately brings to the forefront her stupid, fucking insensitive note she had delivered with the divorce papers.
And two… I have absolutely, no damn clue where I am.
I’m staring at some bright, psychedelic colored wall-hanging. It looks like it was tie-dyed by a small child. The sheets I’m on are most definitely not the white linens I’m used to from either my home or my experience in hotels. The lemon-colored sheets are almost blinding and with all the bright colors, I squeeze my eyes closed and roll to the other side.
Nope. The view is no better on this side where the only thing in front of me is a dresser that looks to be fifty years old and is covered with all manner of jewelry and trinkets flung all over the top, barely hiding the thin layer of dust I can see from this angle.
“Holy shit. What the hell happened?”
I sit up and scrub my face.
If I wasn’t feeling two seconds away from emptying the bottle I drained last night, I’d be up on my feet by now. Or hell, if I didn’t drink that entire bottle, I’d probably know where in the hell I was or what happened or how I ended up here.
A scent of something else filters in and I crack open my eyes.
Damn, I hurt.
There’s no door to the bedroom I’m in that isn’t only full of bright colors and loud wall-hangings, but clothes and knick-knacks in every corner.
If I was in my home, I’d think I was robbed, but since this is most definitely not any home I’ve ever been in, I cautiously peek beneath the covers. I’m wearing the same shirt I threw on last night after I worked out for hours and I still couldn’t get rid of the permeating anger coursing through my system. My boxers are on too, and I tip my head back and stare at the ceiling.
A shaky sigh of relief flows through my parched lips.
There’s no way I screwed some random woman last night. No way. No way I could have been that drunk and even pissed off at Madison, there’s no way I’d cheat on my wife, if I can even still call her that.