“Want to know a fun fact? When a worker bee mates with a queen bee, his penis explodes,” I say, lips curving up.
“Jesus,” he mutters, his face twisting in horror.
Which almost makes up for him calling me Jeopardy earlier. My smile grows as I lean in for the kill, whispering, “If you listen closely, you can even hear it go boom!”
Despite everything, he grins. “Well, aren’t you a little fucking ray of sunshine?”
I lift my eyes and signal for another glass of wine from the bartender.
But then the cowboy goes and annoys me further. Raising his eyebrows when he hears me order another drink, he starts, “Look, you may want to slow down—”
Cutting him off, I mutter, “I neither asked for nor want your opinion on my shirt, my drinking habits, or anything else, asshole.”
I feel the judgment in my neighbor’s stare, so I reposition myself on the stool, giving him my back. Whatever he’s thinking is nothing I’m not already telling myself.
Getting drunk won’t solve my problems.
Tomorrow’s hangover will only make things worse.
Shit, how much worse can my life get?I bark out a laugh that borders on hysteria, sharp and brittle.
Resting my forehead on my hand, my eyes well up again. I swipe my fingers across my cheeks when a few traitorous tears spill over.I’m worn down from months of being strong, pretending to have my shit together when, really, I’m falling apart inside. The kaleidoscope of emotions that I keep on lockdown seems hellbent on breaking free tonight.
Fine, I huff to myself.Ifmy feelings refuse to be ignored, I won’t suppress them.Tonight, I’ll allow the emotions I’ve bottled up to rush to the surface, overflowing like a shaken-up soda. I’ll acknowledge them in hopes of moving past them.
The sadness, the betrayal, the anger and rage.
The aching loneliness.
But as swiftly as that idea springs to mind, I dismiss it.
No, tonight, I’ll give myself the gift of forgetting. Instead of accepting my godawful feelings, I’ll stick with denial. I’ll drink copious amounts of alcohol to forget my problems, if only for a night.
Yep, that sounds better.
Next to me, the cowboy clears his throat to get my attention. “Umm, are you okay?”
His concern irks me. “You sure are talking a lot for someone who isn’t here to socialize.”
Surprisingly, he holds up his hands in surrender and apologizes. “You were right earlier. I was being an asshole. It’s been a tough day, but that’s no excuse.”
Through narrowed eyes, I scrutinize him. He’s ruggedly handsome. The type of handsome where the cumulative sum of his features is far more striking than each individual one. The type of handsome where his features align just right, coming together to form a face that is almost unfairly gorgeous, framed by those enticing caramel-colored curls. My fingers itch to comb through them, to see if they're as soft as they look. When his fingers flex around his beer bottle, my eyes track up his hand to his tanned forearm. His flannel shirt strains overmuscular arms and broad shoulders, and the sight alone ignites my long-neglected libido.
And then he smiles. It’s lopsided, one side hitching up a little higher than the other, and somehow, that imperfection makes him even more attractive.
God, he looks like trouble.
Clenching my jaw, I grapple with my vacillating emotions, so I take a few seconds to respond. “Same. Tough day, tough week, tough month, tough year.”
My neighbor calls for another round of drinks and some food from the bartender. With this glass of wine—my third, I think—I sip it. The lukewarm alcohol is working its way through my system, my body feeling sluggish and languid. Hopefully, my brain will soon follow suit.
I shift on my stool and lean my back against the bar to survey the place. I would never have been caught dead in this type of bar before my life imploded.
The atmosphere is dark and hazy. Even though Nashville outlawed smoking in bars years ago, the stale scent of cigarettes stubbornly lingers in the air. The space is lit by green lights over the pool tables and mismatched strings of colored Christmas lights strung haphazardly across the ceiling. Based on the dust and number of burnt-out bulbs, I don't think Tank's management is simply feeling the holiday spirit. My guess is that those Christmas lights have been up there for at least a decade. An old Dwight Yoakam song reverberates from the jukebox, mingling with the sounds of cracking pool balls and scattered conversations. After glancing around at the clientele in Tank’s—bikers in black leather vests and others who look like recent parolees—I shift my attention back to my neighbor.
His clothes, though plain, have a polished, high-end quality to them. The watch on his wrist, a Rolex, I think, gleams under the lowlight, and those ostrich boots? Definitely not cheap. While I might be dressed in a tee and jeans with my hair tossed in a ponytail, the last traces of my old life still cling to me. Hell, my purse alone cost almost as much as my monthly mortgage payment.
Note to self: Look up what used luxury bags are going for on eBay.
