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Thirty
Sarah was only two hours into her shift and already this night dragged like no other. She handled each order with mechanical efficiency, gave a few mumbled words to appear somewhat social, her confidence meanwhile twisting in the wind.
To her mind, she’d reached a crossroads with Dean. Not so much that she wanted to step away, but that she had a decision to make on how close she could and should get to him.
He’d started out as someone meant to mend her battered ego, her breakup with Blaine still so raw and fresh, all while she decided whether to trust her judgment. She’d been wrong before, chased the wrong dream, and in this case, man.
For years, her life had been an immovable wall, except now she wanted to move. She wanted change. Small change. Not more than she could chew. She was open to being wrong. Not so much about Dean—she trusted him—but where her initial feelings for him lay, as well as the trajectory of this relationship.
Sure, that first meeting had been everything impulsive. She wasn’t a dreamer, had never been one to take a risk. But what if she tried? What if she gave in? Just once. And let there be more to that initial spark at the soiree.
She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head, the whole dreamer thing so ill-fitting. If she wasn’t at work, if it wasn’t so late, she’d go for a run and let the confusion settle around her.
A thud sounded behind her and she opened her eyes, turning to three plates now waiting on the pass. Down a server, she welcomed the chance to move, grabbed the plates, and took a short trip through the dim bar, where two unfamiliar college boys sat at a table with Ally nestled beside them.
Sarah paused, something about this scene instantly off. Something about the way Ally shifted her gaze to the tall, blond, football-player type next to her, or that he used Ally’s shoulder as an armrest. Arrogant prick.
Sarah forced back a frown and lowered the plates to the group’s table, the sudden silence churning a sick feeling just below her ribcage. The shorter guy peered up at her, his frosty gray eyes shadowed by his flop of muddy brown hair.
His emotionless gape changed to a lopsided smile, and he dragged his stare over her in unguarded appreciation. “I’m Marcus Martin.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, at his expensive-looking knitted blue sweater, but turned away before she could unleash her desire to tell him she didn’t care what his name was and that he should keep his leering to himself.
A high whistle cut through the bar’s noise, that irritating whistle of course coming from Marcus Martin’s direction. “Now that’s a firm piece of ass.”
She stopped in her tracks and spun around, the muddy-haired little jerk leaning his elbow into his table, his gaze still at her hips, like he had no intention of hiding his staring.
She scowled at his woolen sweater again, the upturned collar with a white shirt underneath somehow annoying her more while he drummed his stubby fingers over the tabletop. “What did you say?”
His gaze finally lifted and met hers, and he pitched forth a greasy smile. “My buddy and I hear Mirabelle Falls is the place for an intimate night swim. We’re heading down there later. You should come, honey.”
He looked her over again, his arrogance still ringing in her ears since he’d used an obnoxiously loud tone. Meanwhile, Ally’s overt laugh pinged across the space, her head now resting on blond boy’s shoulder.
What was she doing?
Sarah grimaced at the stumpy guy before her and muttered nothing more than an abrupt, “No.”
She turned away again. Having dealt with countless sleazy types over the years, she wanted nothing more than to return to the bar and for Ally’s strange choice in companions to leave already. What was with the strange choice, anyway? She’d need to talk to Ally. Find out why she’d suddenly decided to drop her standards.
Then again, hadn’t Sarah done similar the first time she’d met Dean? Taken a risk on an out-of-towner? Not that Ally knew anything about that. Still, at least one of these guys was acting like trash and that didn’t bode well for Ally’s safety.
“Is she always such a sour prude?”
Once again, Marcus’s dull-brained words stalled her exit, the volume and vileness of those words enough to send a blanket of silence over the other nearby patrons. Some stared back at her, mouths agape and hands frozen mid-air as though they dared not complete their next bit of food or sip of drink.
“I don’t know about that.” She turned slowly and tucked the frostier edge of her mood behind a tight smile before swanning closer and adding a little extra sway to her hips, along with a brightness to her tone. “I guess it depends what’s on offer, Mr. Martin.”
She rested a hand on Marcus’s table and leaned in, giving him a healthy view down her t-shirt’s V-shaped collar. The tension across his cheeks subdued, and he sank back in his chair, a smirk taking over his expression. “Like I said. Mirabelle and a swim. You and me. Naked. I’ll take things from there, honey.”
His smirk inched higher. A man used to treating people like shit and being rewarded for it, but she refused to slink away and hide, so she bit her lower lip and played coy instead. Let the fucker underestimate her. Let him believe that was the smuttiest thing a small-town woman like her had ever heard.
The room’s eerie silence grew, and she couldn’t escape the stinging awareness that most people in the bar watched her now. At least that meant someone might back her up if this turned sour. Maybe Ally would also rethink who she spent the rest of her night with.
Sarah leaned in farther, not stopping until her face was mere inches from Marcus’s. “How old are you, sweetie?”
His gaze bore into her, predictably over-confident. “Twenty-two.”
“Hmm… I just don’t know. The river sounds mighty crowded…” She lifted her hand off the table and ran a fingertip over his non-existent bicep, biting her lip again, this time to keep from laughing. “I mean, what with your friend there and all…”
