“Right, but why? I mean…”
“Do you know how much time I spent looking for you, Sugar?” He asks, topping off our glasses. “I wasn’t about to find you and pretend you didn’t exist anymore.”
“Why buy all the tables?”
He pulls in a breath, taking his arm from my shoulder to bring his hand up to the back of my head, scratching at my scalp almost possessively. “Keep assholes like that blond guy and his buddies away from you. Oh...sorry, that guy’s yourboyfriend, right?”
Is he jealous?
“Yeah,” I breathe. “Well, maybe. We got into a fight the other night.”
His entire body tenses around me, but he doesn’t move other than to massage his fingers against my scalp before draping his arm back over my shoulder. “Over what.”
“You, actually,” I laugh.
“Did he hurt you?”
“God, no,” I answer with a shake of my head.
I tell him everything, every single little detail about that night, from Ethan’s pouting to my kicking him out; and all of the gifts that he’s sent instead of the only thing that I actually want from him: a proper, grown-up apology. Withwords.
The entire time that I’m talking to Eric, I let my body melt into his, eventually bringing my hand up to the one that has draped over my shoulder, intertwining my fingers with his. A blush heats its way across my cheeks, flooding my system.
He’s literally been inside of me, tasted me; but his hand in mine has my heart racing.
His free hand trails over my thigh, his fingers dipping between my legs, and he lightly traces a finger over my pussy through the lace of my bodysuit, like he’s waiting for an invitation to touch me, and I almost give him one.
Almost.
“Eric,” I breathe, “I have a boyfriend.”
“For now.” His hand travels up the length of my body, slowly, torturously, until he reaches my hair. He twirls the buttery strands between his fingers, bringing them to his face to breathe in the smell of my shampoo. “You do this because of him?”
“Eric,” I warn.
“That’s a yes.” His mouth rests close the shell of my ear, less than a hair away, and he whispers, “You’re not a blonde, Sugar.”
NINETEEN
Davis
I love this bar. I don’t think in the eighteen years I’ve been coming here, the owners have replaced a single piece of furniture or so much as a patch of carpet, and you can tell with the poorly-covered stink that hangs faintly in the air.
We started coming here because I was only nineteen and they never carded, but now, these people are my family. I stop in every now and again to check in on them, drop off shit for their kids’ birthdays and graduations, or for nights like tonight.
“What’ll it be tonight, boys?”
I don’t think Lynn ever takes a day off from this place – she’s here every time I come in, and when Colt and I tuck back into our usual booth for a long night, like we are tonight, she’s always around to take care of us out the entire time we’re here.
She’s kind of stuck in the early two thousands; her short hair is teased up high on her head, the ends flicking up in an outward curl, she wears a cropped tank top that show off the boobs she got done probably twenty years ago, and a pair of low-rising bell bottom jeans hug her hips.
I’ve thought about it. Never did anything about it, but…I’ve definitely thought about it.
Thought about her eldest daughter, too, but Colt would have me strung up by my ankles for that one.
“What the hell,” Colt shrugs. “How about a sazerac? We’re celebrating, tonight.”
“Damn straight we are, rat bastard!” I reach over the table to smack him in the arm. “Bring us a couple glasses and a bottle of something strong, darlin’.”
