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“Sorry,” he apologizes sarcastically. “I’m pretty sure this is a public place, but let me walk away from you because I’m here for another reason. Your clumsiness just happened to catch my attention… again.”
I open my mouth to respond back, but it’s too late. He walks away in the opposite direction, suddenly crowded by a bunch of women who appear to be literally throwing themselves at him. They’re young girls who don’t even look of legal age and shouldn’t be in the bar. He doesn’t seem to care, lapping up the attention with his arms wrapped around two of the girls and easily ignoring my presence.
I force myself to ignore him, finishing the gin and tonic and waiting for the set to start. The entire band is on stage, and with a short introduction, they open up with a remake of Help! by The Beatles, remade to sound like rock which appears to be a big hit with the crowd.
Flynn is in his element. His talent to play music in beat with the band comes naturally to him. I wish Mama could see him now. She would be so proud of him, watching him perform and come out of his shell, something he struggled with back home. That piercing, though, I highly doubt she will be proud of that.
The atmosphere is buzzing, people congregate in circles enjoying the time with friends. I have never felt so lonely. Aside from Flynn, who rarely spends time with me, I have no one here. Emerson is a great manager, but she isn’t exactly someone I hang out with or pour my guts out to. I miss Phoebe. She would have been drunk already, picked up several guys, and managed to climb onstage to play air guitar with the band.
And then, there’s that longing just to feel wanted.
Something I took for granted with Liam. Liam is a great boyfriend, but I guess over time like many relationships, we fell into the comfortable basket. It never bothered me at all, we would easily spend our time in the basement watching David Attenborough documentaries with a tub of popcorn between us. It was simple, yet comforting.
This new life I have created in just two weeks is slowly growing on me. I enjoy the drive around Los Angeles, although traffic is a bitch. Visiting new places and talking to different walks of life if only for a few minutes, is fantastic and I love it. My neighborhood, while completely ghetto, is even growing on me a little.
The loneliness is the only thing bringing me down.
I stir the straw in my drink in circular motions trying to rid myself of these thoughts when a whiff of cologne strikes me. Trying not to seem obvious, I slowly peek at the arm beside me with the corner of my eye. It’s all muscle, nice and hard. Taking a deep breath, the part of me below that stirs, does nothing to cure my blues as if I could hook up with someone. One, Liam and I aren’t over. Two, this guy could be really unattractive. Three, I’m not that person. Sleeping with someone else is completely out of my comfort zone. I have been with one guy for four years. I might as well have been a nun. It’s like my past never existed.
But I can flirt—harmless flirting.
“Nice drink. Scotch?” I ask.
The man stops drinking, holding his glass in mid-air, which gives me a chance to look at his face. A little older than what I like, but he has a mature face with slight wrinkles around his baby-blue eyes.
“Bourbon.”
I smile, unsure of where to go from here. “Nice.”
He doesn’t say another word, glass in hand and walks away.
Oh, that’s terrible.
Damn! Is it really this hard?
Maybe it’s not hard, I’m not exactly a supermodel with a banging body. I have gained weight over the past few months—stress eating as they call it. I’ve always had this complex about my looks—the fact that I look kind of Asian but also not is because of my mixed-race background. People often ask me about my ethnicity, confused by the almond-shaped eyes and scattered freckles across my nose coupled with my light hair that almost touches my waist.
Alone at the bar with one failed flirting attempt, I’m so ready to call it a night.
Just as I’m about to give up and say goodbye to Flynn, a cuter, younger guy walks to the bar, easing his body between myself and another lady, ordering a Corona. He smells nice like fresh waterfalls mixed with something manly.
“You’ve been sitting on that drink most of the night.” His voice is husky, the kind of voice that would sound great on a sex hotline.
“Not much of a drinker.” I grin. He’s cute—Ryan Gosling in The Notebook cute. “Here to support my brother.” I point toward the stage. Flynn is banging it out to a rendition of Eye of the Tiger.
“He’s pretty awesome. He should play when the agents visit. I’m Mitch.” He extends his hand, and I shake it, trying to ignore Phoebe’s words about hands and sizes of genitalia.
“Milana.”
“Beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”
A deep laugh erupts from my mouth and he appears confused at my sudden outburst.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to laugh. It’s just… this is weird.”
He smiles, raising a brow, resting his elbow on the bar and drawing himself closer to me. “Explain?”
“I don’t flirt if that’s what this is.”
