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I huff and step away from him. On paper, he’s the one I should be with. He’s sexy as hell, confident, cocky, but not too cocky, and we both like sex. Well, we’ve never had sex together, but if we can’t get past this kissing part, how are we supposed to get to the sex? Our chemistry should be explosive, like the grand finale of a Fourth of July firework celebration, instead it’s a dud. You light the wick, but nothing happens. No oohs and ahhhs. No one likes those. Over the past two years, we’ve danced around this attraction to each other. Finally, when we act on it, there’s nothing. Maybe we’ve spent too much time building it up? The anticipation is greater than the act. My blue eyes meet his steely gray ones and I make one more attempt. I place my palms on both sides of his face and bring his lips to mine. Once they connect, I feel…absolutely nothing.
Pulling away, I turn and pace the small bathroom. “What’s wrong? Why don’t I feel anything? There’s no spark. And I need a spark. I need to feel something.” When I twist around to continue to walk the other way, my gaze meets Trey’s and I sigh. Maybe it’s because we’re kissing in the men’s bathroom at a dive bar.
“Why did you pick this place?”
“Because we can’t go to either one of our houses in case one of our friends drove by or showed up unannounced. All the hotels are booked for the tourist season. Too many people know us at Porter’s. This is pretty much the only place where no one gives a shit.”
“Ugh. Fine.” I eye him up and down. He is everything I should want. But I don’t. “Sorry, Trey. I’m just not feeling it.”
His gaze casts downward for a moment before meeting mine. “Hey, it’s alright. It would be better if you felt something, but I get it.” He wraps his arm around my shoulder as he pulls me in for a tight hug. “We’ll always have the men’s bathroom at The Blue Anchor.”
We both chuckle before I pull away, gliding past him and toward the sink. Careful not to touch anything, I check my hair and make-up in the mirror. When I’m done, I turn around.
“Shall we?” Trey unhooks the latch and pulls open the door. I take a few steps and pause, lifting my shoe to inspect the bottom. A glob of bright green gum is smooshed to the bottom. I groan. Trey eyes me suspiciously as I pass through the open door.
“There’s gum on the bottom of my nine-hundred-dollar Jimmy Choos.” I snarl my lip.
“Be lucky it’s only gum. I’ve seen much worse come out of this bathroom,” Trey quips as he follows close behind me.
“Finally,” the guy from earlier says as we walk past him in the dimly lit hallway.
“It’s all yours, man,” Trey replies.
“What the fuck? There’s no one else in here.” We hear the guy yell as he slams the door shut.
Before we reach the end of the hallway, Trey tugs on my hand, halting my progress. “I’m going to get out of here. My ego can only take getting turned down once in a night. I’m going to go home and lick my wounds.”
I purse my lips and tilt my head. “Or you’re going to Porter’s to find a girl to lick them for you.”
“I can neither confirm nor deny any of that.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Want me to walk you out?”
I pause to think about his question for a moment. Sitting in the half empty bar with a drink sounds better than going home alone right now. “Actually, I’m going to stay and lick my own wounds.”
Trey scans the partial view of the full bar that isn’t blocked by a wall. “This doesn’t seem like your kinda place to throw one back.”
“Good. Then no one I know can see me wallow in self-pity. But you go ahead. We’ll talk later.” I stretch up on my tippy toes and place a chaste kiss on his cheek. Trey nods before he strides along the far wall and out the exit.
My shoulders slump as I stroll over to the front of the building where the bar is located.When did this happen? When did I become the girl who lost her spark? And how the hell am I going to find it?
Most of the stools along the long, worn wood bar are empty, but there are a few people seated while they drink their bottled beer and stare at the tv screens that hang on either end of the bar. I find an empty stool, plop down, and wave the bartender over.
A man in his mid-fifties with salt and pepper hair and a full beard with the same coloring stops in front of me. He tosses half of the bar towel over one shoulder and narrows his eyes at me.
“I’ll have a cosmopolitan. No ice.”
The bartender crosses his arms over his chest. “We have beer or light beer.” His voice is deep, and raspy, like he smoked a few too many cigarettes.
“Oh. I guess I’ll have a light beer please. With two olives.” I hold up two fingers.
“We don’t have olives,” he deadpans.
I drop my hand. “No olives then.” I watch him as he takes a few steps and pulls out a bottle of beer from the cooler. He twists off the cap and tosses it into a bucket under the bar. He grabs a cardboard coaster and sets it down in front of me before placing the beer on top. Then he walks away without saying another word.
People are really chatty here.
“What kind of bar has only two kinds of beer and no olives?” I mumble. My fingers grip the cool bottle and bring it up to my lips for a drink. “I’m kind of feeling the three strikes you’re out vibe right now. No cosmopolitan. Strike. No olives. Strike. And the biggest one…no spark. Shit. That’s three. Alright, new rules. Four strikes. Or maybe one of those can be a ball.”
I pick up my beer for another drink, then turn to the guy next to me. If I had to guess, he’s mid-thirties. Possibly forties. Certainly, the youngest out of everyone here. With the scruff along his chiseled jaw and his dark locks loosely pulled into a man bun gives him a rugged, mountain man look. All he’s missing is the red flannel shirt, and I’d be tempted to climb him like a lumberjack scales a tree. The dirt under his nails confirms he works hard for the beer that sits in front of him. Definitely not the suit and tie I’m used to, but attractive nonetheless. Everything about him screams, bad boy. Maybe it’s time I start being a little bad.
