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He sits, regal and untouchable, right smack dab in the middle of the booth, one arm casually hung over the back of it, the other hand holding a drink on the table. He’s wearing a solid black dress shirt that fits snug across his chest and arms, but the black shirt seems faded compared to the deep, shiny black of his hair.
His eyes are locked on the girl sitting in the booth with him and my heart immediately drops into my stomach, adding another emotion to the blender inside of me. Jealousy.
As if he can feel my eyes on him, he moves his head slightly and those cold eyes lock with mine. This far away, I can’t make out their color, but there’s no forgetting them. They’re seared into my mind like a fucking brand on the back of my eyelids. His jaw clenches, his body goes from relaxed to taut with tension, and his eyes simmer with heat. Everything about his demeanor screams anger but I can’t quite decide if it fills his eyes completely or if that heat has even an ounce of something else.
Fuck, he looks like a sexy, wicked, and sinful king. All he’s missing is a menacing crown.
He’s the first to look away, breaking the trance his eyes seem to cast me into every time he fucking looks at me. I let out a shaky breath and push my way through the crowd and up to the bar. It seems that most people like to sit at the tables, near the dance floor, leaving a few bar stools empty for the loners like me.
I slide onto a stool, careful not to flash anyone in my barely-there red dress. This one, I have to admit, does walk the line between sexy and slutty, but I felt like I had to up the ante. Like I needed to do more to get his attention.
The attention of a king.
And I mean, how the fuck do I do that other than look as hot as possible? If I was a peacock, I’d be fanning my feathers out for the world to see from outer space, but all I have are sexy dresses, heels, my curvy body, and my personality. My personality is shit lately so I’m banking everything I’ve got on the dress and heels. I’m closing my eyes, tossing the dice, and hoping my body secures the winning roll.
The same bartender as last night idles up to me from behind the bar, appraising me with not so friendly eyes, as she wipes her hands on a rag hanging from her belt. I barely made eye contact with her last night but tonight is different. Tonight, I’m on a mission and I’m betting she has information.
“What’ll it be?” She asks, impatiently.
“Whiskey on the rocks, dash of coke,” I say back, a bit of bite in my tone, but not too aggressive. Just enough for her to know I won’t be walked on but not rude enough to be considered a bitch.
She looks me up and down again with her shrewd hazel eyes, well what she can see from my waist up, before she navigates her way behind the bar, preparing my order.
I watch her closely and, as I do, I can’t help the small amount of envy that comes over me. She’s all fluid grace and confidence. You can tell just by watching her that she knows exactly what she’s doing and exactly who she is. She’s comfortable behind the bar and she’s comfortable in her own skin. Shedoesn’t need a skimpy dress
to build her confidence.
She’s wearing a pair of high-waisted black denim jeans with rips and tears all over them, tucked into shiny black combat boots, a green belt that matches her green pixie cut and bra, sinched snuggly around her tiny waist, and a black mesh crop top hanging off of one shoulder. She’s everything cool, hip, and original I’ll never be.
The skin between my shoulder blades starts to tingle and the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. I can feel his eyes on me again. I subtly look over my shoulder to where he still sits at the booth, but his eyes are still on the girl in the booth with him.
Not on me.
I must have imagined it. At least he looks bored and completely uninterested in the girl sitting next to him. Even though she’s totally giving off thefuck mevibe, leaning towards him, giving him a great view down her top I’m sure, smiling coyly, batting her
eyelashes, and fussing with her hair shyly.
FUCKING GAG.
Is that what it really looks like from the outside looking in? Do I look like that when I’m flirting with a man? I fucking hope not, fuck. She looks pathetic and desperate.
The slam of a coaster on the bar in front of me makes me jump and I turn back to see the bartender eyeing me, completely unfriendly now, as she sets my drink on the coaster.
“Thanks,” I mumble. She’s about to walk away when I gather my courage. I clear my throat and speak up, “Hey.”
She stops and turns back to me, hands on her hips and cocks an eyebrow. She’s asking me what the fuck I want without ever speaking a word.
“Who’s that guy? In the booth?” I gesture with my head in the direction behind me.
She slowly walks back until she’s standing right in front of me. She leans on the bar, closing the distance between us, as if she’s about to tell me a secret. I can’t help but mimic her body language and lean in towards her, too, eager to find out more about the devastatingly handsome stranger.
“Off limits,” she practically growls.
My brows furrow in confusion, “What?”
“That’s who the fuck he is. OFF. LIMITS.” She bites out each word, holding my gaze with her hard stare, making sure I get the message.
She must finally be satisfied with whatever she sees on my face, which honestly must just be confusion, but she pushes off the bar and gets back to work without giving me another glance.
