What kind of man invites his brother out for drinks and doesn’t even show up?
And if you can’t show up, why not call and say so?
Why do I have to call you?
I’m a grown ass man. I ain’t the little kid who sits on the porch waiting for his daddy to come pick him up anymore but it seems Marcus and his father have forgotten that.
Couples laughed over cocktails, some guy in a suit pitched his business idea too loudly at the corner booth, and none of it touched me.
I massaged my temples and sighed as the irritation rolled over me.
If I had known he would pull this shit, I would’ve stayed upstairs. I could’ve gone over tomorrow’s events with my team one more time. I could’ve had drinks with Dillon instead and actually gotten work done.
I wish I had something to take this frustration out on. Maybe I could find some hotel bar pussy.
Nah.
Enough of my expectations have been crushed for the evening, so unless it falls into my lap, I ain’t going.
I was ready to toss some cash on the counter and head upstairs to be alone for the evening but when the bar doors swung open, my plans changed.
The emptiness of the bar filled instantly with laughter and the clicking of high heels.
I looked over my shoulder, interested in the source, when two young women walked in. Their perfume announced them before they even reached the bar, that and their height.
Squinting, I tried to see their faces, but was defeated as I left my glasses in my room for appearance. One of them, the taller one of the already towering women, had a little dog tucked under her arm.
But… is that really a dog?
The thing looked less like a dog and more like a goddamn rat.
“Two shots of Casamigos, please!” The woman announced, her voice loud enough to carry through the entire bar. Her accent wasn’t that of a native. Still, by the way her hair hung down past her ass, I knew she came from money.
The bartender raised an eyebrow. “Ma’am, you can’t have that dog in here.”
I smirked into my glass.
Damn right. Get that ugly shit the fuck out of here.
“Please?” she pouted, tilting her head as she placed her purse on the counter and sat on the barstool.
Next to me.
What if I was allergic to the flea bag?
I was tempted to voice my concerns, but held back in case she was pretty.
“He’s a service dog,” she offered. “For anxiety. I promise he’ll behave.”
As if on cue, the mutt scrambled from her arm to her lap and sat. I could tell that was bullshit, but unfortunately, the bartender couldn’t. That, or like the rest of the occupants, he was too busy staring at her chest.
He sighed finally.
“Fine. But if he causes any problems, you gotta go.”
She bounced with excitement and her friend plopped down next to her, both equally excited that they had gotten their way, like they were probably used to.
“Thank you, handsome,” she purred, flashing him a smile. With that, she tucked her bronzed hair behind her ear and exposed her side profile.
