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He smiles a bitter smile. “Whatever age you’re at.”
Crossing my arms, I fire back, “I grow older by the minute.”
That smile of his hardens. “Not nearly fast enough.”
My pulse speeds up and I lick my lips, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
The man chuckles before groaning and he slides a hand down his face. “Nothing. I was way out of line.”
Then that means he was...hitting on me. The skin on my face warms and I eagerly take sips of my whiskey when it arrives. I didn’t even notice the man when he first sat down but now I’m not aware of anything else in the bar but him. My hand trembles around the tumbler and it feels as if I’ve just dragged a deep breath, dived beneath the surface and now all my senses have gone numb.
I can barely hear the music anymore and I discreetly glance at the man from the corner of my eye. He’s wearing a leather shearling jacket over his viciously muscular body, his short beard a steel color that makes me think of strength and fortitude. And that steely hair of his...a thrill moves through me when I notice the cornrows on the sides and one word flares through my mind...
Warrior.
I’m curious about him but I’ve never seen someone so unapproachable. An invisible shield seems to surround him and it doesn’t allow anyone to come close. His head is bent over his drink, his jaw clenched, muscles tense and I wish I could see his eyes. Eyes can say so much about a person and I want to know more about him.
“So, um...,” I clear my throat, already feeling embarrassed when I flick my hair back to attract him to me, “do you come here often?”
Shit! Who even says that and the man glances at me from the corner of his eye.
“Merman’s a good place,” he rasps, taking a sip of his drink, “but it’s not a spot for a girl like you.”
My brows rise. “Women can go to bars too, you know? This isn’t the 18-th century.”
He nods. “Because I’m such a dinosaur, right?”
I pinch my lip because I didn’t mean for it to sound like that. The man’s mature age stirs something inside me and I find it attractive that he’s not in his twenties or even in his thirties. Most girls my age go for the handsome, clean cut poster boy with oiled gym muscles but I’ve always been drawn to something with more of an edge, a little bit dirty, a little bit smoky and my lids flicker when I notice he’s got ink on his hands.
What kind of a man tattoos his hands? Probably the kind who doesn’t care what society thinks of him and I wish I could be just as brave. Mustering up the courage because there’s just something about the man that makes me feel he’ll bite my head off if I snoop too much, I whisper, “What does that stand for?”
“What?” the man grunts, his voice already a bit sharp and inwardly I wince.
“Those letters on your hand.”
The bartender’s eyes flare when they land on me and he shakes his head as if warning me about pressing. “None of your business, little girl,” the man replies and a fire explodes inside of me because of what he just called me. Hiding my face, I struggle for air, clutching the bar and my lower lip trembles. This man, even though I don’t know him has a massive effect on me and I don’t know what to do with it. It slithers, wraps around my body and dances slowly with me until I’m coated in something primitive, feral and ancient. Everything’s heightened around him, intense and sensitive and I want him to touch me with those tattooed hands.
I’ve never been kissed by a boy, never been hugged by one either and the most affection my foster mother ever gave me was a pat on the cheek every birthday. It wasn’t much and not enough to satisfy a love starved girl.
“Then can I at least ask for your name?” I say, ignoring the bartender who’s fretting as if I’m walking into waters full of deadly stingrays and I’m not aware of just how fatal one single sting can be.
“Why do you want to know my name?”
“Don’t you want to know mine?” I blurt but to my surprise the man gives a curt, almost impatient nod as if I better give it up fast now that I’ve offered. “Silver.”
“Relic,” he grits, “but those who know me call me Ric.”
Does that mean he wants me to get to know him? It doesn’t seem like it, because he’s turned away from me but there’s desperation in his voice as if he’s a fallen man, grappling for the edge. He wants to hold onto something but he doesn’t want to reach out and compassion flares in me.
This man is a legend and I want to know the ending of his story.
“You’re the girl from the radio,” he rasps to my surprise, “I listen to your voice every day when I’m at work, when I’m on my way home...,” he drags a frustrated hand down his neck, “when I’m in bed.”
His words hit me straight in the chest and I inhale. I don’t broadcast during the night, which means he must be recording me and I can’t imagine a gruff man like him having the patience to listen to my silliness but apparently...he does.
Gulping, I murmur, “What do you think about when you listen to me?”
“You don’t want to know.”
