“Not everyone has the luxury of fucking up without consequences.”
The implication hangs in the air like the garbage smell layered over everything. I cross my arms, nails tapping on my forearm. “But I do?”
He shrugs. Then he nods, as if deciding something. “Want to get a drink?”
“With you?”
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters.
“Sorry,” I say sweetly. “I’ve never been asked out next to a garbage can before.”
“I’m not asking you out,” he says, disgruntled. “I’m not doing anything even remotely close to asking you out.”
“Fine.” It’s fun to needle him. Way more fun than replaying what just happened until I cry. I should chuck my phone into the sewer. “Only if it’s somewhere I won’t be recognized.”
For some reason, that makes him grin. “I know the perfect place.”
I’m so disarmed by that unexpected smile that I follow when he strides into the dark.
Jack Hartman glowers even more than I remember.
He hasn’t said a word to me since we arrived at the bar. He clearly knows the bartender; the man set down two glasses and a half-fullbottle of whisky before Jack said a word. Raised an eyebrow at me, too, but something in Jack’s expression stopped him from asking questions. That was about ten minutes ago.
Ten minutes of torturous silence.
Ten minutes of resisting the urge to look at my phone.
Ten minutes of trying not to fidget too much on the bar stool, not that I’ve been at all successful. Silence makes me even more antsy than usual.
Maybe he has no intention of talking at all. Maybe this is a delayed, sick punishment for messing with him at Julia’s wedding. I sniff my drink, knee bouncing. Maybe—
“Worried I poisoned you?”
I jerk my head up. “No.” I take a sip and immediately start coughing. God, that burns. “I just—I usually order drinks that are like, pink. Or blue. Or bubbly.”
Jack’s eyes are simmering, clearly amused by my discomfort. This bar is filthy—and weirdly sticky—and I’d bet that he chose it just to see if I’d walk out on him. I sit up straight, crossing my legs at the ankle, and angle myself in his direction.
“You look like you want to kill something,” I say conversationally. “Or someone?”
He laughs.
“Why are you doing that laugh?”
“It’s just my laugh.”
“No. That’s the laugh of someone about to go on a killing spree.”
“Such a way with words, Princess.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“You told me I have dead fish eyes. I’d say I’m entitled to some retaliation.”
Of course he remembers that. “I stand by it.” I force myself to take another sip of the lighter fluid—I mean, whisky. “Is this what you do when you’re not in the kitchen? Drink and brood in the filthiest bar in Manhattan?”
“There’s usually some fucking thrown in the mix, but yes.”
“Gross.” But I’m blushing. He can tell, I’m sure, because he grins as he plucks the drink out my hand. He downs it in one swallow, his neck tattoo rippling in an oddly attractive motion.
