However, no matter how many drinks I consume, I can’t shake the feeling of eyes following my every move.
I’m just paranoid. And drunk.
I twist on the barstool, watching the liquid slosh around in my beer glass as I twirl it in circular motions. It is something so simple, yet it’s entertaining.
The dark-haired bartender with pattern tattoos crawling up his arms and neck reaches over and snatches my glass from my hands.
I stare at him, dumbfounded. Clucking my tongue, I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “That was incredibly rude. I still had several sips left!”
He tosses the glass into the sink and returns to stand in front of me on the other side of the bar. Up until now, I have only seen the gray Crocks T-shirts, but the one he wears is black.
He presses his hands onto the counter and leans over them, getting closer to me. “I was going to get you a fresh drink, but if you prefer that one…” He pauses, letting me think about it.
Reaching for my phone tucked into the back pocket of my jean shorts, I glance at the time. Eleven.
I roll it over, debating whether I should have another or request an Uber home. Thinking that hard makes me nauseous.
Do they even have Ubers here?
Plus, I left Rossco outside in the fenced backyard, so he should be content for another hour.
“What are you going to give me?” I ask.
He tilts his head back and forth thoughtfully and glides a hand over the back of his neck, giving me a flash of his muscular biceps. Maybe he would kindly take me home once his shift is over. I’ve never slept with anyone, but he’s hot and friendly, and I’ve had enough drinks already that my body craves something more than my vibrator.
He eyes me up and down. “How about a margarita?”
I hum in approval. “Sounds great!”
He leaves me and wanders into the back kitchen. A minute later, he reappears, tossing a red apple into the air. I trace its movements, observing it rise and fall into his palm. I’m too wasted to let the sight of it affect me. I can’t be spooked out by the sight of the fruit my entire life.
He places it on a cutting board and picks up a knife, cutting it down the center. The juices leak out, glistening on the wood from the overhead pendant lights. Similar to upstairs, there are sconces on the walls, which are turned off to allow the flashing strobe lights to flicker on the dance floor in the middle of the space.
It’s a little classier down here. Around the floor are leather chairs, round tables, booths, and one pool table in the corner, where bikers are challenging each other to a game. A jukebox and dartboard are on the opposite side of the room.
The knife taps against the cutting board as the bartender slices the apple into thin sheets.
I hop off the stool. “I am going to use the restroom quick. I’ll be right back.” The rush of alcohol bolts through my body, impacting my head.
I make a beeline for the bathroom—down a short hallway with the kitchen doors at the end—and reach up to massage the skin on the side of my temple as my brain pulses against my skull.
Damn, maybe getting another drink wasn’t a great idea.
Staring at the floor through slightly blurry vision, I lower my hand, and my face smacks against something hard. A set of hands grip my forearms to steady me as I sway.
Goddammit.
I lift my spinning head enough to stare at the chest directly in front of me, clad in a black sweatshirt. Heat rushes to my cheeks with embarrassment. The warmth from his rough hands sears through my long-sleeved flannel.
He clears his throat, and I swallow.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry! Excuse me,” I apologize, hurrying away from him to the bathroom to avoid eye contact. I knew it would make me feel worse since I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going.
Exiting the stall in the bathroom, I stride to the mirror and stare at myself. What am I doing? I don’t drink like this when I’ve hit a low. I mean, this is much lower and more problematic than the situations I usually find myself in, but I don’t resort to alcohol.
My eyes sting with unshed tears. I wish I could call my mom. I wish I had the type of relationship with my parents growing up where I could pour my heart out to them about my issues, even if they were simple, juvenile things that every girl went through. Where they would stroke my hair and tell me everything would be okay. Or maybe my dad would offer to kick a few guys’ asses for hurting me.
Sometimes, when I turn my phone on, I long for a text. Or a missed call notification. But always being the first to reach out is exhausting—asking them how their day has been and learning their latest whereabouts even when they don’t seem to care about mine.
