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She slaps her hands to her hips and narrows her eyes. “Do I look like I’m joking?”
Time to test the water. “Go on, call her. I’d love to hear what you tell her.” Her knuckles whiten as her shirt stretches at her hips. “Hey Ani, I lipped off to Micah. Then followed him into the men’s room and asked him about his dick. But then he made a sexually suggestive comment to me and my feelings got hurt,” I whine out in an attempt to mock her. Her face grows redder by the second. “I’ll stand next to the phone when you call. That way I can explain the real situation when you’re done bitching.”
Head tipped back, Peyton screams at the ceiling. Splotchy redness coats her throat and chest. I stand frozen in place, unsure what to do.
“You’re such an asshole.” She pauses, her eyes sweep down and up my body, then her lip curls. “Never thought I’d be this disgusted by you. Guess things never change, do they?” Then she storms out of the bathroom and leaves me stunned.
What the fuck was that?
Jesus, this woman frustrates the hell out of me. If someone threw hundreds of mixed signals into a blender and pressed liquefy, that might come close to what swirls in my head right now. Maybe.
I wash my hands and do a quick appearance check in the mirror while drying them. If Peyton wants to play hardball… game on. After all the bullshit surrounding my breakup with Rochelle, I refuse to bow or break for another woman. Ever.
Hours of ’80s and ’90s music drone on. At least the deejay plays enough variety we don’t hear the same song until three or four weeks later. I go about the night as per usual. Helping behind the bar. Schmoozing the customers. Sparking conversations with pretty blondes. For the most part, the slower days draw an older crowd. Monday through Thursday has more of the thirty-plus crowd. The weekend is more the twentysomethings. I enjoy both.
Two hours in and I can’t stop talking with a woman at the bar. Intelligent, gorgeous, and flirty as hell. From what I learned thus far, she works in corporate accounting and recently broke up with her boyfriend.
“He was too clingy,” she says with an eye roll. “I’m forty, for crying out loud. Not fourteen.”
My type of woman. “Some men don’t understand the need for independence. I get it, though.”
We chat and flirt and make plans for when the bar closes. Her maturity turns me on and is a nice change from the childish, younger women. I love a woman who knows what she wants and goes after it. A woman who stands tall and proud and self-sufficient. All qualities I deem sexy.
Down the bar, Peyton does her best to not look my way. She flirts and laughs and talks with several men. And as focused as I am on the woman in front of me, my eyes and ears drift to the other end of the bar every other minute.
Don’t let her dominate your thoughts, Reed. No woman owns you.
The crowd thins as the evening comes to a close. I follow my usual routine and start cleaning and closing out the registers. When all but the blonde leave, I speed up the closing process.
“In a hurry for disease transmission,” Peyton barks, loud enough for the blonde to hear. I clench my jaw and ignore her. But she doesn’t give up. “Baby Micah feeling better? Know he had issues earlier.”
Done. So fucking done.
I stomp over to her and immediately step into her space. “What’s the matter, hellcat? Jealous?” Note, this is the first time I call her hellcat to her face. Usually, I reserve that nickname for when it’s just me, my fist, and my cock.
She scoffs. “Please. Jealous?” A finger jabs her sternum. “Why would I be jealous?” I don’t miss the slight crack in her voice.
I take a step back and wave a hand up and down my body. “Because you hate how much you want me. You hate that you love when I piss you off.”
“Cut the music,” Peyton calls out as she slashes her fingers in front of her throat. The music dies a second later. “You think I want you? After all the bullshit you’ve put me through.” Word by word, her voice escalates. “News flash, asshole. The world doesn’t revolve around you.” Her eyes zero in on the blonde, who looks slightly alarmed. “You’re aware he fucks two plus different women a week, right? Might want to save yourself now.”
The blonde slaps me with her glare. Before I offer an answer, she shoulders her purse and walks toward the door.
Every cell in my body explodes with rage. She doesn’t want me? But she doesn’t want me with anyone else either? Did someone pick me up by the ankles, flip me upside down, and shake me? Because I have no clue what the fuck is going on.
Back in her space, I jab my finger in her face. “What’s your problem, Peyton?”
“You,” she screams. “You are my fucking problem.”
My feet stumble back two steps. “Why?” I want to yell, but my traitorous voice is feeble and small.
“Because you ruin everything you touch.” She pauses and shakes her head with glassy eyes. “Because you ruin lives and don’t care enough to remember.”
I narrow my eyes and really look at her. “What… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She huffs and shoves past me. Feet pounding against the concrete floor as she heads toward the back. I follow with no clue what is happening. She retrieves her purse from the locker and shoulders it.
Before I ask where she is going, she knocks her shoulder with mine and exits.
“I hate you,” she screams.
What the actual fuck just happened?
