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I roll my eyes. “I take it back. Just asshole, delete the prefix.”
His scent and proximity drag me into a high stronger than anything behind the bar will.
“What do you want, Kyle?”
He smirks—a sign he came over to fuck with me. “Didn’t expect you to show your face in public tonight.”
“Fuck off.”
“You’re plastered,” he states.
I shoot him a glare. “And you’re an asshole. A smart one, with your very intelligent revelation, but still a definite asshole.”
He rests his elbow on the bar and leans into it while facing me. “Areassholeandfuckyour favorite words in the dictionary?”
“Only when it comes to you.”
He places his palm over his chest. “Aw, I’m flattered I have a special place in your brain.”
“Fuck off.”
“And there you go, thinking about me again.”
“What do you want?” I repeat. “You want to rub my shitty life in my face?” I pause. “Wait, why are you here? Isn’t everyone and their damn dressed-up dog attending the stupid wedding of the cheaters?”
His eyes meet mine with humor. “Shouldn’t you be there, objecting?”
“I hate you,” I grumble.
“Good.” He sets his beer down and situates himself into the seat next to mine as if my insult were an invite.
“Now,what are you doing?”Why am I constantly asking him this?
“I’m giving you the pleasure of my company to help clear your head,” he says as if it were as obvious as my Social Security number.
I hold my empty glass up. “I’ve already found the solution. Go annoy another poor soul.” I’m not surprised when he makes himself comfortable.
“You know what would do aneven betterjob?” he asks.
I hold my cup up. “Shattering this glass and then slicing your genitals off with a broken piece?”
“Damn, you’re brutal.” His attention swings from me to the bartender, Maliki. He yells out an order of fries and water.
Maliki nods in response and then calls out the order to the kitchen. Maliki owns the Down Home Pub and insisted all drinks were on him tonight when I plopped down earlier.
Kyle stays quiet while sipping his beer, and I play with my glass, uncertain if I should order another vodka I can barely stomach.
What’s his play here?
He doesn’t speak again until Maliki slides the fries and water down the bar, and they land in front of me. I glance over at Kyle in question, and he snags a fry before holding one out to me.
“Eat up, drunkie,” he demands. “And drink the water if you don’t want a hangover tomorrow and risk oversleeping. It’d be an unpleasant start to my day if I couldn’t annoy your ass while enjoying my coffee.”
I narrow my eyes at him but bite off the end of a fry. He’s right, but I won’t admit that to him. When I finish the fry, he pours ketchup on the side of the basket and slides it closer to me. My stomach growls. I had no appetite earlier and worked through lunch and dinner.
He snags a few fries, and we eat in silence until his arrogant voice breaks through.
“Aw, we’re sharing a meal, Fieldgain,” he teases. “Consider this our first date. Do I get laid?”
