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I pause for a red light two blocks from my mid-rise just outside of Roswell. Pulsing lights from a neon sign suddenly catch my attention:Journey’s End. I must have driven past this little hole-in-the-wall bar two hundred times since I moved here. How have I missed it? It looks cozy and quaint. Peering into the window, it seems like the kind of place where locals become regulars and visitors make memories. A fun place. In other words, the last place you’d ever find me. Well, no more. I decide to take a chance and find a parking place in one of only three reserved slots for the bar. The tears I’m swallowing are bitter. I rationalize I could really use a drink to wash them down.
Typically, I’m not a drinker. Like, ever. I got totally plastered one night right out of high school on peppermint schnapps. And after the two-day hangover that had me literally hanging over a toilet a whole day, I vowed never to drink again. And I’ve held mostly true to my own promise. I occasionally enjoy a glass of wine at office dinner meetings or the company Christmas party. And I did have half of a glass of cheap champagne at my sister’s wedding last year, so I’m not a total teetotaler. But as a general rule, I’m a ginger ale kind of a girl.
Today, however, I definitely want a big-girl drink. It isn't like I need the job I interviewed for today in order to survive. I am responsible with my money and try to live within my means. I save as much as I can. I could easily go for five months, six if I cut back on luxuries like gourmet lattes and haircuts, before I have to take some job out of desperation. It is the reason Mr. Pencil Tapper didn’t hire me that keeps needling its way under my skin.
Since when does a company tell a qualified candidate with a proven track record for performance that she’s not “what they’re looking for”? I am so angry. I’m also disappointed and frustrated. For the first time in my life, I want to swallow it all down and cover it with the bitter bubbles of a beer.
I make my way to an empty stool at a long dark wooden bar, shellacked and shiny, and look around.Journey’s Endis equal parts bar and restaurant. It’s clear this place is for meeting friends, having a few drinks and occasionally enjoying a bit of fried pub fare.
The whole place is almost completely decked out in dark carved wood. The walls are painted a deep green with some sort of faux finish that gives them the look of rich, shiny leather. The booths and chairs are covered with a glossy cordovan brown material that blends with the earthy colors and jungle-like motif that moves throughout the entire space. It’s definitely a man’s place.
The focal point of the decor is the four oversized animal heads mounted above the bar — a zebra, rhino, cheetah … and a male lion. They’ve got to be fakes. But they are pretty darn good ones. They look terrifyingly real to me. The lion’s teeth are massive, his face looks menacing and powerful. The cheetah is chilling, too, with his curled lip and long ivory teeth, bared like razors ready to rip the flesh from your bones. My body gives an involuntary shudder.
Above the bar is a hand-painted sign on a piece of distressed wood:“It’s good to have an end to journey toward, but it is the journey that matters in the end.” — Earnest Hemingway.
The quote certainly explains the decor and name on the neon sign outside. I inhale and savor the fragrance of grilled meat, French fries and lemony furniture polish. I have no doubt it takes gallons of it to keep this place clean. Overall, the bar looks fairly new. Perhaps that’s why I haven’t noticed it before today. Not because I’m oblivious.
As a rule, I avoid fried foods. But my mouth instantly waters from the smells coming from the kitchen, and I’m tempted to skip the beer and drown my sorrows in a bacon cheeseburger instead. Hell, with the way today has turned out, maybe both. It sure beats the ramen dinner I had planned for tonight.
My gaze travels back to the lion looming above me. I know his eyes are just glass orbs, but it feels like they’re looking at me — almost into me. As if, in some strange way, the lion has chosen me to be his next meal. The world is set to devour me — the weakest of the pack.
“What can I get you?” A bartender glances down at me. The rumble of his voice startles me out of my daydream. My eyes suddenly feel huge. Well, they’d have to be to fit the whole of him within my vision.
The man in front of me is by far and away the largest human I’ve ever seen. And not in a way that would make him seem overweight. He’s simply … huge. He’s tall and muscled. His chest and shoulders are broad and the cotton T-shirt covering them is straining to contain the flesh underneath. Clearly, he knows his way around a gym.
His long light brown hair is tied into a neat ponytail at the base of his neck. If it were loosed, it would probably flow past his shoulders. And this guy’s scruffy beard is no amateur five o’clock shadow. It’s a bit darker than the hair on his head and looks a bit ragged in that super sexy sort of way.
Swirls of black ink peek out beneath his sleeves and above the collar of his black T-shirt that bears the bar’s logo in a neat font across the right breast. My eyes are roving to take him all in. My TikTok-addicted sister would brand this man as a walking thirst trap. And I would have to agree with her. He’s definitely making me thirsty.
His face, etched with tiny lines around his eyes and mouth, proves he’s no pretty boy Gen Z. This is a full-grown man. My lady parts instantly react. And my stomach begins a ballet pirouetting back and forth with flutters that float from my belly and then drift lower. My Inner Sex Goddess just licked her lips. What on earth? A man has never affected me this way before.
“The view’s included, but you have to buy a drink,” he says boldly. Whoa! He’s got this sexy bedroom voice that slides over me like a cashmere caress. I want to bury myself in its rich tones. It sounds like the deep notes of a cello and it thrums through my ears and nestles straight into my heart.
Holy crap! I’m staring. My eyes snap to his, and I’m instantly lost. His eyes are the most dazzling cobalt blue I’ve ever seen, and the contrast of his tanned skin against them makes him look like some sort of a mythical warlock.
His fingers drum on the sleek shiny bar top while I lick my lips and try to act as if I am totally contemplating my beverage options and not staring at this gorgeous hunk of a man who is staring back at me. I doubt I’m very convincing.
“Um, a beer, I guess.” My voice sounds foreign to me — scratchy and oddly strained. Thirsty. Well, of course, it is. Just look at what’s standing in front of me.
“Sure thing, what kind?” He rumbles back. His gravelly voice stirs a darkness that vibrates through every bone inside me.
“Excuse me?” I squeak.
“What kind of beer do you want? We have lots on tap, and if you don’t like any of those, we have bottles.”
I twist my head to consider the row of colorful plastic taps that provide an impressive assortment of draft options. I have absolutely no idea what to order. I shrug and try not to gawk at him again. Of course, trying to avoid his presence is impossible, and before I realize it, I’m staring again.
I blink to bring the rows of glass liquor bottles behind him into focus. They’re backlit with some sort of iridescent greenish glow that makes them look almost as if they’re alien favorites from the starshipEnterprise. I can almost picture Guinan pouring one of them for a Klingon warrior.
“Your day that bad, huh?” He asks. I can feel my shoulders drop. Tough day? Tough week, tough month, tough year.
“Yeah, you could say that. I was really hoping to land this great job, and I honestly thought I had, but they turned me down.”
“That sucks. Maybe a beer isn’t what you need. Maybe you need something stronger. You like whiskey?” Who knew thunder could rumble into words like that.
I’ve never had a whiskey in my entire life. I know that makes me sound like a complete loser: thirty-two years old and never enjoyed a whiskey. But I usually play it safe and stick to my seven-dollar glass of wine, trying to avoid drinks that require a payment plan option when ordering.
“I don’t know, maybe.” I shrug, still not sure whose weak voice is coming out of my throat.
