I need a little something to clear my head before Carmen shoves another shot down my throat.
Chuckling to himself, he grabs a thin rimmed glass, filling it up at the sink and pushing it towards me.
I utter my thanks, wrapping my fingers around the cold material, bringing it to my gloss slickened lips and sipping slowly. The water slips down my throat easily, cooling my overheated skin. Taking another small sip, I turn to lean my back against the bar, taking some of my weight off my feet. I’m rather used to wearing heels, but still, it’s nice to not feel my pulse pounding through the ball of my big toes.
Blowing out a breath, I allow my eyes to take in the space around me.
Myth is packed out. Not that I’m surprised. It’s a popular bar to start with; parked smack bang in the middle of Soho – the partying borough of West End, London.
Plus, it’s a Saturday night. Socialites, influencers, and the regular 9-5 office work crowd, fill the tables and high stool bars of Myth, taking up space to let their hair down withouthaving to worry about deadlines and managers and being… perfectly perfect.
Monday through Friday is a never-ending hamster wheel of work.
We’re supposed to eat a healthy breakfast, be on time, look presentable, act perfect, mind our manners, never say a bad word about our co-workers or our senior bosses, head home, cook dinner and then dip into bed ready to do it all again the very next day.
Saturday and Sunday are a completely different story. Liberty awaits in the form of no alarm, leftover takeaway for breakfast, comfy clothes, a family sized chocolate bar devoured on the sofa, in front of the TV, hardly even listening to the reality show playing in the background.
There’re no deadlines; the emails can wait. There’s less pressure to be perfect twenty-four/seven.
Our life is actuallyour ownfor those forty-eight hours of freedom, and I plan to the make the very most of it.
Skipping over a gaggle of freshly turned eighteen-year-old boys, – they stand out like a sore thumb with their baby faces and too baggy jeans – I gulp back another two mouthfuls of my water, feeling it smother out the warm flames of alcohol bubbling in my stomach, until I feel a little more sober.
I make eye contact with a few men dotted around the bar, but none of them—
“Isn’t Cinderella supposed to be only wearing one shoe?”
I glance over my shoulder at the sound of a male voice. Except, it’s not one man, buttwo,who catch my eye.
Straightening up, I knock back the rest of my water as I gloss my eyes over both men.
They’re both tall, towering over me even in my heels. It’s the dirty blonde who spoke to me, I’m sure of it, I can tell inthe silent quirk of his lips. While his friend –the brunette– stays silent, face mostly unreadable, watching me watch him.
We lock eyes; the overhead strobe lighting swinging above us at just the perfect time that I can make out the forest green of his irises.
Good god, he’s attractive.
Tall, brunette, cuts a lean figure in the button down and the jeans he’s wearing; he’s my type to a T.
I lick my lips, taking stock of the way his eyes widen imperceptibly at the sight of my wet tongue darting out.
“What’s your name?”
I see the stranger’s blonde friend smile out of my peripheral vision. A faux one if I’ve ever seen but I don’t mention it.
Slapping his friend on the back, he waves his hand between the two of us.
“I see how it is. Leave him in one piece, won’t ya?”
Narrowing my eyes, I feel the edges of my gloss slicken lips curl up at the corners with mischief. “Maybe I will… maybe I won’t.”
Blondie guffaws, slapping his friend on the back one last time before slipping away. I don’t care enough to watch where he goes.
“Do you have a name or are you going to make me work for—”
“Blake,” he rumbles.
“Blake.” I taste his name on my tongue, the single syllable rich like a decadent piece of chocolate.
