Yeah. I’ll definitely need one more to numb the hollow ache in my chest—or to obliterate this mindfuck long enough to get laid.I still can’t believe she didn’t invite me.
It’d hurt a hell of a lot less if I at least knew why. And it’d be easier to be happy for her if I believed she was actually happy.
But I don’t. Not for one second.
I know her. And Dr. Richard—whatever-the-fuck-his-name-is—is not her type. He’s not the guy for her.
A deep voice startles me back to reality. “Hey, Boss. Can I get you something?”
I glance over at the thick-bearded man beside me. He’s crafting one of the bar’s signature cocktails, peeling an orange and burning the edge with a lighter. “Hey, Bronson.” He’s been one of my best bartenders for years. “I’m good, man. Just helping myself. Let me know if I’m in your way.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, okay. Like I’d ever tell you that.”
I laugh under my breath.True.
He wouldn’t. No one ever does. But sometimes I wish they would, just to feel normal for once.
It gets boring, how easy everything is.
And right on cue, the two women I’ve been mentally undressing head my way, eyes locked on me. I take a slow sip, peering over the rim of my glass.
If I were sober, I might try to keep my gaze on their faces.
But I’m not sober. Not even close.
I’ve had one too many, and that blonde’s tits are practically begging for attention. My eyes drag down to the neckline of her dress, held in place by invisible tape at best. One wrong move and a nip will slip.If I’m lucky, anyway.
They reach the bar. The blonde leans forward on her elbows, pressing her cleavage together like an invitation. My grin says I’m enjoying the view, and she smiles, clearly pleased. My gaze lingers half a second too long before it flicks to the brunette beside her. She’s stunning—long brown hair, sun-kissed skin, dark eyes. Just like Jordan.
Fuck. Don’t think about her.
I force my focus back to the blonde, away from the ghost I can’t seem to shake.
She grins. “It’s my birthday.”
“Is it now?” My voice drops low, dark, teasing. “Did you get everything you wanted?”
Her eyes roam over me. “Not yet,” she says, voice dripping with suggestion.
“Is that so?” I lean forward on my elbows, closing the space between us. “Anything I can do about that?”
“Maybe.” She glances at her friend. “What do you think? Is he our type?”
The brunette rolls her bottom lip between her teeth, a mischievous smile peeking through as she lets her gaze wander. “I think he might be.”
Two hours ago,I was trying to drown my sorrows in a bottle of Macallan.
Now I’m buried between the blonde’s thighs while her dark-haired friend works my cock like a fucking pro.
If there’s a better way to forget about that goddamn wedding, I haven’t found it.
It’s loud and messy. Shallow and meaningless. Naked bodies, whiskey, sin—everything that feels good and numbs fast.
My kind of heaven.
Even if it is only temporary…
It’s a hell of a lot better than picturing Jordan in that wedding dress, knowing exactly how gorgeous she must have looked. Better than self-pity. Better than feeling anything at all, unless it’s the buzz of alcohol. The throb of my cock. The pure, mindless pleasure of skin on skin, the kind that doesn’t ask for anything back.
