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“What, do you think I can’t handle it?”
The bartender lifted a brow, giving me a skeptical look. “I don’t think you’re ready to face it.”
“I think that’s the rudest thing anyone’s ever said to me. Of course I’m ready to face it. Tell me the truth.” What could he possibly mean?
“You sure you want to hear it?” he asked again.
“Spit it out.” I took the drink from him, taking a long pull.
“You look at him like you want to fuck him, and if anyone else touches him, you’ll kill them,” the bartender said deadpan.
I spit my drink out, accidentally spraying his shirt. “Fuck.”
“I told you,” he said while looking down at his shirt in disgust. “You weren’t ready.”
“What the fuck makes you say that?” I made a face, feeling a little bad as he grabbed a towel to wipe himself off. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it; I should have waited until you swallowed.” He cleaned himself off, and I was glad he at least had an apron on that saved most of it.
“If you want me to sign that, you probably could sell it for a mint.” I laughed
“Can’t. We have NDA’s working here. There would be no way to even say how I got it.” He brushed his fingers through his hair.
“Fair enough. I’d make it up to you if I could figure out some way how to.”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “Stop fighting it.”
“What?”
“How badly you want to fuck him.”
I glared right back, realizing how I hadn’t even registered what he’d said. “I don’t know if I can do that.”
“Then someone else will. Even if you drag him out of here tonight, for every night after, it’s going to be a bigger possibility. Can you really live like that?”
This bartender was sitting here with all the truth. Making more sense than all the anger management had this whole time. I wasn’t sure if I should thank him or punch him.
Maybe I needed more anger management.
I sighed and finished my drink. “Why did you have to tell me that?”
“Because I have a feeling no one else will, and you can’t really report me for being out of bounds with unsolicited advice.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Because you aren’t allowed to be in this bar, and if you say you were, you’re telling on yourself and, frankly, everyone else in this room. I don’t think you’re a snitch.” He grinned at me, his dark eyes amused.
I glared at him and tapped my glass. “Course I’m not a fucking snitch.”
He refilled the glass and held out a fist for me to bump. “I thought not.”
I reluctantly bumped it, but it felt like I was agreeing to something. “I really gotta do this, don’t I?”
He shrugged. “How long will you regret it if you don’t?”
“Probably the rest of my life.”
He nodded. “Then it sounds like you do.”
