I didn’t even think I would be her type, either. But when I’d called myself her boyfriend, her eyes twinkled with mischief beneath the dimming lights above us, and I knew, at the very least, that there was potential for me to get her number.
Now I’m kicking myself because I didn’t even get her damn name.
And I only have myself to blame.
I was too caught up in the thrill of keeping it a mystery.
When I’d gotten back to my table after escorting her to her own, I whipped my phone out of my pocket and booked the closest available hotel to where this event was taking place. It just happened to be directly upstairs. Of course, given the hotel knew there would be a demand for rooms, they hiked the prices way above what should’ve been. I understood it, but my poor—now overdrawn—credit card fucking hates me for it.
I shook it off, telling myself it’d be worth it, and that if I just kept my head down and worked even harder to make repayments over the next few weeks, it’d work itself out. None ofit seemed to matter when she and I were hauled up in my hotel room.
Then she took off with my shirt, and I had no choice but to make the walk of shame with a bare chest, now scuffed leather shoes, and an arrogant grin on my face.
I got looks from everyone that I walked past. Some women winked, some licked their lips. Some were even ballsy enough to try and slip their number into my hand or the back pocket of my slacks. But I politely declined, or threw the pieces of paper into the next trash can that I’d walk past.
I’d just had a night I’d never forget, with a woman that I’ll compare every future one-night-stand to.
Unintentionally, of course.
But it was justthatgood.
“Hey, man,” Shane, one of my colleagues, says to me as I push through the heavy wooden door of the Lotus. I’ve worked at this exact bar for the last three years, and lived in the apartment above it for the same time.
It pays my bills—only just—but it wouldn’t if the customers didn’t tip so well. I rely on those more than a grown man should. It helps that a lot of bachelorette parties make their way through on their journey elsewhere.
They take my shirt off, and utilize me as their own topless bartender while sliding notes beneath the waistband of my jeans. It used to make me feel uncomfortable, but hey, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.
Especially if he’s earning minimum wage.
“Hey,” I say with a nod, noting his eyebrows as they pinch together while he looks me up and down. He isn’t subtle about his disapproval, but I ignore it. He and I have never really cared for one another, and I don’t think that’s ever going to change.
It’s not my fault his girl hit on me right in front of him. He witnessed me turn her down, too, but apparently I shouldn’t have been walking around the place ‘half-naked’.
“Rough night?” he asks, and I nod again, face emotionless as I walk behind the bar to pour myself the tallest glass of ice-cold water I can.
I chug down the entire thing, making myself another. “You could say that.” I’m surviving off adrenaline right now, running on fumes, and I think it’s obvious that I need to crash for the foreseeable future.
“You look pretty beat. Are you working tonight?” he asks as I wash my glass to put it back on the drying rack, ready to go for later.
“Unfortunately. I think I’ll head up and get some sleep until then,” I tell him, owing him no explanation, but feeling the need to tell himsomethingso the small talk ends. He chuckles to himself, reaching for the broom to sweep underneath the bar, and I head for the unstable stairs that lead to my apartment.
“See you later,” he calls out, and I wave my hand in the air in response. I’m too exhausted to conjure up anything further.
The wooden steps creak so loud beneath the soles of my shoes, I’m surprised they haven’t given out on me yet. This place is well overdue for a renovation—bar included. But every time I mention it to Oscar, the owner, he rolls his eyes and ignores me as if what I’ve just asked of him is completely ludicrous.
Unlocking the front door to my ‘home’, I kick off the once brand new shoes that have now walked through most of L.A, taking the two steps to my bed, and sit down to rub out any potential blisters on my heels.
Usually I’m immune to the smell in here, but my nose is sensitive this morning, my hangover is looming above me. I dread the inevitable nausea that’s on its way.
The walls are stained yellow, water stains streak down them, with the lingering smell of moldy alcohol and old cigarettes penetrating every inch. I guess after spending the night in a luxurious hotel; you come to realize all the things you don’t have when you finally get back to your version of reality.
It’s gotten to where my clothes need to be stored in vacuum-sealed bags or even my oven, just so I don’t have the permanent stench following me everywhere I go. I was churning through my wardrobe so quickly it was sending me broke.
It’s not exactly sexy when a woman is getting up close and personal, only for her to scrunch her nose up at the smell of you and turn away.
My brother, Tate, teases me about it. He lives in an expensive apartment across the other side of the pier, andbegsme to move in with him, but I kind of like it here.
The place is tiny. Barely enough space for a single bed—that my feet dangle from—a kitchenette, and a bathroom, but I make do.
