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MICAH
Fourteen days have passedsince the meeting at Roar. Fourteen days since I knocked on the office door and waited for Ani to unlock it. Fourteen long-as-hell days since I asked Peyton what she and Ani were discussing in the office. And nearly just as long since she gave me some bullshit answer.
An answer I have done my best to ignore and move past. An answer my gut tells me isn’t all lies. But it isn’t all truth either.
Peyton and I, since the night before the meeting, aren’t the same people. As individuals or within feet of each other.
For more than a year, Peyton was at my throat. A lioness out for blood. Claws extended and ready to attack. She did her best to ignore my advances, but I never backed down. Never cowered under her snarl.
Now, she teases me. Eggs me on with her smart mouth and mischievous smile. Has switched from calling me Micky—thank god—to starlight. Which isn’t any better, but sounds less creepy.
And I have taken the liberty of calling her hellcat—a name I reserved for when I was alone with my fist and thoughts—more openly.
But fourteen days ago, some other force in the universe shifted. Made Peyton look at and talk with me in a way unlike our previous interactions. Yes, she still has that feisty edge I live for. But now, it has softer edges. And not knowing if Ani is the reason behind the change irks me.
At the end of the bar, Peyton delivers two beers and two fingers of whiskey in a tumbler. A man with dark hair and a protruding belly hands her a bill, flashes a toothy smile, then walks off with the drinks. The moment he disappears, she spins and catches my eyes on her.
In one, two, three strides, Peyton stands less than five feet away. “You looking at my ass, starlight?”
The corner of my mouth curves up and I waggle my brows. “What’s it to you, hellcat?”
She steps closer. So close her breasts brush the starched cotton of my button-down. “Maybe I don’t want your eyes on my ass.”
“No?” She slowly shakes her head. “Then where do you want them?”
A millimeter at a time, her lips form a wicked smile. “Get more creative.”
I press us impossibly closer. Her breasts flatten against my pecs. One of my legs between hers. Lips a breath apart. Fuck. In one move, my lips would crush hers. But damn if the foreplay doesn’t turn me on.
“Creative, huh?”
She hums and the vibrations ripple through my chest, my abdomen, my balls. “Yes, creative.” Her breath hot and damp on my lips.
Jesus fuck.
I lick my lips—almost lick hers—then unwillingly inch back. “I’ll work on that.”
She turns to the register, rings up the drinks, cashes the tab out and puts the excess in the tip jar. “Good. Creativity is the spice of life.” She winks, then sashays down the bar alley to the next waiting customer.
Screwed. One word and the definition of my current existence. But I wouldn’t want it any other way.
The rest of the night goes much the same. We work and tease and laugh. She provokes and bats her lashes with a wicked smile on her lips. Bets me she mixes and serves better drinks. Draws attention from the crowd as she challenges me to a face-off. My hesitation widens her smile and she pushes harder.
“What’s the matter?” She leans in, her breath hot on my ear. Her sweet scent in my nose. “Afraid to lose?”
I lean away, lock on to her radiant violet irises and shake my head. “What do I get when I win?”
“Ooh, confident.” Her eyes drop to my lips and I stop breathing. “Who says you’ll win?”
“Can’t deny facts.” I lick my lips and her eyes follow the movement. Her breathing hiccups once. But once is more than enough.
“We’ll see.” She spins to face the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she shouts with hands in the air. “Can I have your attention?” Everyone within earshot faces the bar and falls quiet. “Boss man and I are having a little showdown.” The crowd hoots and hollers and whistles. “He says his drinks are better than mine,” she yells. Men boo at this and she laughs. “So, I challenged him to a duel of sorts. Who wants to be the judge?”
Cheers erupt from the crowd and three people slap a twenty on the bar top.
I sidle up to her, my hand brushing hers. “Three people, three different drinks.”
“Agreed.”
Over the next few minutes, we decide on rules for the challenge. One—the customer selects their preferred drink. But it cannot be premade or from the tap. Two—they don’t watch us make or serve the drinks. They will be blindfolded. Three—they will blind taste test the drinks and choose the winner before removing the blindfold and meeting the maker. Four—best two out of three wins.
The three people shuffle up to the bar and take a seat as the crowd steps back. Becky and Jake—two of the servers—step up between them. After the rules are explained, makeshift blindfolds made from Roar tank tops are put in place.
Contestant one requests a mojito. Peyton and I dive for shakers and get to work.
I pinch a cluster of mint leaves from the bin, toss them in the shaker and muddle them with a pestle. Then I measure rum and lime juice before pouring it in. I glance over and spot Peyton adding fresh lime and crushing it with the mint. Fuck. Should have used fresh. No going back now.
Simple syrup and ice go in next. I cap the shaker and make a show of blending the ingredients. Several shakes later, I swap the cap for the strainer and pour the drink in a glass, adding a splash of soda water. I place the drink on the bar and Becky helps the first contestant find the glass.
As I rinse the shaker, I peer over at Peyton. She pours her drink, unstrained into a glass, adds soda water and garnishes it with sugar crystals and a mint leaf. Good thing these people aren’t basing the winner off of appearances, because mine is nowhere near as fancy as Peyton’s liquid art.
The man sips mine. Swishes it around in his mouth. Lets it sit on his tongue a moment. Then swallows. He asks for water, takes a sip, then moves to Peyton’s drink. Follows the same taste test routine. And then, silence. After seconds that mirror hours, he raises an arm for the drink he preferred.
Peyton. “Damn it,” I mutter under my breath.
