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Izzie
Sitting at the bar in this town, I am highly aware that I am out of place. In my crisp white sneakers, blue figure-hugging jeans, and frilly white tank, I definitely don’t pass for a local in this place. The bearded man next to me looked me up and down when I’d made a beeline for the seat next to him, and grunted in displeasure. He clearly wasn’t looking for small talk. I’d already committed to that seat, though, so I sat anyway and realized my mistake when he quite literally turned his back on me.
The bartender, at least, is friendly, despite her tough exterior. Her tattooed arms and pierced face are in contrast with her bright smile when she greets me.
“Drink?” she asks, sounding like she knows the answer, and knows it’ll be hard liquor. Bartenders’ intuition.
“Please,” I sigh in response, “Scotch, on the rocks, whatever one you have, I’m not fussy."
She nods, and what feels like a second later, an ice-cold glass of scotch is placed in front of me. As I take a leisurely gulp of it, I cast my gaze around the space, focusing on the many objects that are arranged along the walls: the plush leather seating, the wooden oak finish, and the whiff of smoke that is still there in the air. Everything around me seems both familiar and foreign at the same time, as if I've entered another universe for the night.
Living in Cali, it's rare that I ever see, let alone visit, these small towns. I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that my father has moved here and put down roots; he's actually committed to living here. Thinking of him, my heart feels heavy about the prospect of his upcoming wedding. I just can’t bring myself to accept the person he's chosen as his wife; she’s not the woman for him.
I sip my drink slowly as I contemplate going back to Cali. I haven't seen my father yet or anyone I know, so it wouldn't be too difficult to slip out now and pretend I had some sort of transportation issues that meant I couldn't get here. I tap my fingers on the table, lost in my own thoughts.
When I turn to look to my left across the room, a deep and honey-like smooth voice calls out. I immediately forget whatever had been going through my mind.
"How are things going? If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to buy you a drink." Startled, I jump up from my seat and spin around, and when I see him, the corners of my mouth drop ever-so-slightly open. In front of me stands a god. There’s no mistaking him. In spite of a seemingly rough exterior, he exudes an authoritative and commanding presence. He is also tall and very attractive. My stomach starts to churn from nervousness, and a tingling sensation fills my entire body as excitement pounds through my veins. My first thought is that I’m going to throw up.
This is a man who is obviously conscious of the fact that he’s in a position of authority, because he is standing there exuding an air of superiority and wealth while looking down at me. I’m intending to say something, but as soon as my face starts to redden, I am completely blank on what I was going to say. My capacity for thought has been eradicated. I am aware that he is waiting for a response, so in an attempt to provide one, I stutter out something. "Y-yes," I respond, attempting to sound more self-assured than I would normally like to come across in conversation. My attempt to clear my throat is unsuccessful. Izzie, I tell myself, you really need to get a grip on yourself here. I couldn't let this opportunity with the most alluring man I'd ever seen go by without taking advantage of it.
While I’m gathering my strength, I gesture for him to take a seat, and before I can say another word, he has already ordered two shots of whiskey for both of us. I’m surprised. Because he’s sitting so close to me, I can feel the sparks that are flying through the air. I have the distinct impression that I’m way out of my league, but I’m determined not to let that show. He’s obviously much older, possibly even significantly older, than I am. But it didn't matter because he issohandsome.
He has the face of a model, complete with a five o'clock shadow that doesn't give a damn and a jawline that looks like it could cut you open. I take a second look at him as he sits down. "So, what brings you to town?" he inquires as he moves closer to me and leans in to ask the question. When I look down, I see that our hands are very close to touching, and I can feel those sparks of electricity flying between them. His self-assured grin gives me the impression that he is accustomed to having people want him. Well, I’m accustomed to people wanting me to do things for them. The game is over.
I smile at him in a way that is both sincere and flirtatious, and explain that I’m only in town for the evening. Of course, that’s a fabrication; I'm not willing to go into the whole story about my dad's second marriage, and the broken home, and divulge my entire life story to this complete stranger. I am aware of the interest that is present in his eyes.
It's time to ramp up the flirting. I make a very slight adjustment so that my hand is now touching his, in order to gauge his reaction. He does not attempt to pull away; on the contrary, he appears interested.
He continues to grill me with questions in an effort to coax my story out of me, so I decide to inject some humor into the discussion.
“It's a shame I don't have longer here, really, from what I've seen; it's a great place," I add, smiling seductively at him.
He chuckles deeply, understanding my insinuation.
“Yes, it can be.” He places his hand on mine now. I don’t move an inch, holding our eye contact.
“What's your name, blondie?"
“Daisy,” I lie. A habit I’ve picked up when going out alone. I'm not quite sure why I do it. Possibly to pretend I'm someone else for the night. I sometimes even take it too far, coming up with entirely ludicrous backstories. He nods and sips his drink. I watch as his full lips make contact with the glass and feel hot. God. He is so sexy. And he knows it, judging by the way he holds himself. No ring, I mentally note. Older men are sometimes sneaky and hide them, though.
“You here alone?” I ask boldly. I’m not one for small talk, especially not tonight. Tonight I came to this bar to forget the world and escape for a little while. And I think I have my eyes set on my escape route. I feel so drawn to him; it was like his gaze was pulling me in deeper and deeper.
"Yes, Daisy," he draws out my name as if he has the luxury of all the time in the world. Like he's savoring the letters.
I glimpse around the bar, realizing that the barmaid is intentionally not watching us, but I catch her eye for a second. She can sense the tension between us, and she winks in my direction.
I blush and hide my face with my hair, not wanting him to notice. He looks directly into my eyes, and I feel as though I’m melting. “Wait,” I question, “what's your name?”
He looks deep into my eyes; now I'm melting into his brown eyes. It's official: I am melting into this man. My will power dies on this day. I officially have no will power, and I'm ready to be molded into whatever this man wants from me.
"Zak," he replies, his deep voice sending shivers down my spine. Zak, Zak, Zak, what a great name.
I nod and gulp. The tension between us is thick and palpable. More than I have ever experienced.
"Look, Zak," I like the way his name feels rolling off my tongue. "I'm going to be straight with you; I'm not here for long and not here for small talk." He looks surprised but allows me to continue. I take a deep breath and, with a confidence that isn’t entirely natural, ask him if he wants to come back to my hotel room for a more private chat. “Would you like to…continue this conversation in my room?” Daisy is much more bold than I am. Izzie would never ask such a thing, but Daisy knows what she wants and asks for it.
He finishes the rest of his drink in one gulp. I watch his neck elongate as he tips his head back and have to resist the urge to kiss it. “Lead the way, petal."
