That’s a lie. I don’t like it here and I barely make do. But I don’t do handouts, even from family. I’d rather live in a dodgy, old apartment than have to owe him, or anyone, anything.
Besides, this life is only temporary.
I’m edging on bigger and better things.
I know it.
***
“What can I get you?” I ask a busty brunette who sits at the bar alone. She twirls her soggy paper straw between her fingertips that sits in her empty glass. She’s been here for the last two hours, sitting alone, claiming she’s waiting for God knows who, but I don’t buy it.
I’ve felt her eyes burning into the side of my face all night.
“Espresso martini,” she tells me with a flirtatious smile, and I give her one back out of habit. But also, I need the tips, and she’s a fantastic tipper. I’ve noticed her throw a few bills in the tip jar every time I smile or wink.
I guess she’s a fan of the dimples.
“Won’t that keep you up?” I ask, noting the time. It’s well past midnight, and I’m about to call last drinks to the only five customers that have shown up and stayed all night. Besides, making a cocktail at this time of night is the last thing I want to do. I just want to bury my face in my pillow and sleep for the next three weeks until I’m out of here.
“I’m hoping it’s a long night, handsome.” She winks at me, and I feel all the alcohol from last night slowly making its way back up. As if I didn’t just spend my afternoon hugging the toilet bowl for dear life.
I didn’t even have a lot to drink, I just don’t handle my liquor as well as I used to.
Tate claims it’s old age, but I only have three years on him.
“Sorry, I’ve got places to be after this.” It’s not a total lie. My bedisa place. It just happens to be directly upstairs where I could easily invite her, but I don’t want to.
Besides, she isn’t my type.
Though, before last night, I didn’t really have a type.
If she was attractive and we got along, I wouldn’t turn her down if she hit on me.
But now, apparently my only type is curvy blondes with ice-blue eyes, and lips that can do a lot more than handle herself in uncomfortable situations.
That’s not true. If a woman fitting that exact description walked through the door and wanted to fuck me on the bar, I wouldn’t let her, because it wouldn’t beher.
I guess my type is the girl from last night, which leaves me completely fucked. I’ll probably never see her again, and Ihave absolutely no way of finding her—no name, and no phone number. No way to track her down.
“Well then, don’t let me keep you, Mr. GQ.” She winks, giving up easier than I expected her to.
I don’t flinch when she calls me that, but I did when the name slipped off Snow’s tongue. I freaked out that maybe she knew who I was and was playing dumb. Using me for clout when my name was finally out there. But I realized pretty quickly that she genuinely didn’t know who I was, and I could relax.
Sliding off the bar stool, she almost stumbles on her high heels before steadying herself, giving me an awkward wave and walking out of the door.
I guess I don’t have to make that cocktail after all.
Chapter seven
Jenna
“My feet ache,” Lizzie,Cassandra’s sister, groans as we stumble our way through her apartment door. We’ve just gotten back after Cassandra and Harley’s surprise wedding, and I’m exhausted.
“Can you believe we pulled it off?” Olive says with a slight slur, and if I didn’t grow up with a drunk for a mom, I wouldn’t be able to easily translate the string of words that she threw together.
Olive, the self proclaimed non-drinker, got drunk out of her fucking mind tonight, flirting with every single eligible man and woman within eye shot. I never thought she had it in her, but it was so fascinating to watch. I always assumed Lizzie was the minx of the group, but I’ve got a feeling I might be wrong.
“Did you and Robbie hook up?” Lizzie asks me. The three of us make our way to the luxurious kitchen, desperately in need of a glass of water.
