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He had tried to stand in the way of my investigation from the start. He’d never wanted me to do well and made that clear. He had always said that if it came down to a choice between helping me or protecting the SEALs, he would choose the SEALs.
The fact that we’d slept together didn’t change that.
It was stupid of me to have ever thought that it would. He didn’t care about me as a person. It had only ever been about my body.
It wasn't like I'd never had casual sex before. But this was not like the others. Sex with Brian had felt… well, there had been a moment when it felt like communion. When the hookup was casual, most guys either wouldn’t go down on me at all or would act as if they were doing me some favor.
With Brian, it hadn’t felt like that.
It had felt like I was the one doinghima favor, like having me riding his face was the best thing he could imagine.
It was probably just some odd fetish for him. I was the idiot for thinking it had anything to do with me.
I found an empty stool at the bar and sat down. The bartender approached me right away. “What can I get for ya, ma’am?”
I’d had every intention of drinking shots, but for some reason, the smell of alcohol made my stomach turn. I guessed that was to be expected. I was pretty sick with guilt over what I had done, even though I knew it had been the right thing.
“Just a soda,” I decided.
“Just a soda?” he raised his eyebrows. “I don’t get many pretty girls coming to the bar to drink soda.”
“First time for everything, I guess,” I bit back my irritation.
Ordinarily, I would have liked that he’d called me pretty. Today it annoyed me. It made me think of Brian’s accusation that I had slept with him to ease my investigation. I’d known I would have a rough road as a young woman in the FBI, but for God’s sake, what a rude thing that had been to say.
And besides, he had wanted to sleep with me. I still felt like he had started it.
He would say I had because I’d been the one to hit on him in this bar. But that was before I had known the two of us would be working together. I’d backed way off after that. At least I’d meant to.
The bartender brought me a soda. “On the house,” he spoke quietly. “You must bereallydepressed to come to a bar and not even order a drink.”
“At least let me give you a tip.” I fumbled in my purse. I had a few dollars, and I passed them over.
He shrugged and accepted, adding them to a class full of bills and coins beside the cash register. “Thanks,” he said. “Thoughtful of you.”
“You didn’t have to give me the drink for free.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“About what?”
“Whatever’s got you so sad.”
“Who said I was sad?”
He gestured to the glass of soda.
“Maybe I’m just not in the mood to drink,” I suggested.
“Maybe,” he agreed. “Weird that you came to a bar, in that case.”
“Look, I don’t even know you.”
“Name’s Evan.”
“Okay, Evan,” I said. “I still don’t know you. I’m not about to spill my life to a guy behind a bar. Does this usually work?”
Evan shrugged. “I’m not trying to pull anything fancy on you here,” he said. “Most people find it relaxing to talk to their bartender. It’s like free therapy.”
