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He chuckles. “I know. Why do you think I didn’t bring you here until the deal was done?”
“Bastard,” I mutter.
Two hours and four whiskeys later, I’m feeling the call of nature. “Where are the restrooms? I didn’t see any downstairs.”
“I’ll show you.” Tom leads the way, back the way we came, then through another tunnel to a hallway that, surprisingly, is not full of fish. The walls are a stark white. Two black doors indicate the men’s and ladies’ bathrooms, and I disappear inside one.
I’m unzipping my fly when a couple of guys stumble in, chatting so loudly I couldn’t ignore them if I wanted to. I stare at the tiled wall in front of me as they continue their conversation.
Guy one says, “Brent, I’m telling you, bro. That is the same chick out there. We dated two years ago for like four months, and she was into fish, and the sex was out-of-this-world good. Then, boom. After three months, it turned to shit.”
Guy two responds, “You think ‘cause her name was Hannah, and she liked fish, and the sex was awesome till it wasn’t that it’s the same chick? That’s the dumbest shit I ever heard.”
His slurred words have me glancing at him from the corner of my eye. He hiccups and sways on his feet, clearly drunk off his ass.
Guy one snorts. “No, it’s not. It makes perfect sense. You told me the first three months were awesome, then one day, it just wasn’t anymore.”
“So?” Guy two hiccups again.
Guy one slurs his words as the conversation continues. “Let’s go find ‘er and I’ll prove it.”
At this point, I’m not even pretending not to listen while I wash my hands then lean back against the counter.
Guy two snorts. “It’s not the same Hannah.”
Guy one shakes his head vigorously. “Itisthe same one. There’s no other explanation.”
Finally, they notice me standing by the sinks. They’re so tanked they can barely stay upright without the assistance of the urinal dividers.
The first guy frowns. “Are you listening to our private conversation, bro?”
“If it was a private conversation, I wouldn’t be able to hear it from across the room,” I state.
Guy two turns to look at me, dick still in hand. “Okay. What do you think then, Mr. Know-it-All?”
Crossing my arms over my chest, I smirk. “I think this Hannah has low standards if she was dating either of you two.”
Guy one shakes his head and sways on his feet. “No, that’s not what he meant. You believe me, right? It’s the same chick. It must be, like, her M.O.”
I shrug. “Could be.”
Guy one glares at guy two. “I told you, fucker!” Then he punches him in the shoulder, and streams of piss splash across the floor and urinal dividers. They start yelling at each other, and I take that as my cue to leave.
I roll the drunken dickwads’ conversation over in my head as I walk back to Tom’s private booth. Sitting beside him, I ask, “Does a Hannah work here?”
He eyes me over the rim of his drink. “I don’t know. I haven’t met everyone yet. Mostly just the bar staff. But there’s another dozen or so that handle the tanks and fish. Why?”
“I think I might have found the woman who will give me exactly what I want.”
Red alert!Red alert!
Why did I stick around and grab a drink before heading home tonight? Oh, that’s right, because Amy begged me to. Stupid Amy and her stupid ideas.
I duck behind a couple involved in an intense conversation and receive a nasty glare from the woman. “Sorry,” I whisper but don’t move away from them. “Dodging an ex,” I say quietly before peeking over the man’s shoulder to check if I really did see what I thought I saw. Yes, yes, I did.
Brent and a guy I dated a few years ago, Peter, sit at one of the tall tables just six feet from my hiding spot. How do they even know each other? Why is this happening to me? I’m very particular about not dating men from the same circles, so this never happens. So what the hell?
Sweat gathers on my nape and palms. I rub my hands over my purple skinny jeans then reach for my phone from my back pocket to text Amy.
