Isaac seems to realize he’s painted himself into a corner because he doesn’t answer.
I don’t push it, simply hold out my hand. “It’s nice to officially meet you.Isaac.”
He accepts my palm, his gaze skipping up my arm before he tears his hand away. “Well, uh…”
“Go on,” I tell him, notching my head toward his friend.
“I don’t need your permission,” he bites out, immediately shutting his eyes in an extended blink. “Sorry, I…”
“No, you don’t,” I agree, fairly certain he’s simply thrown at finding me here when he wasn’t expecting it. And he’s lashing out. Because, for whatever reason, Isaac doesn’t want me getting close to him. “Have a good evening, Red.”
He puffs out a breath I can see in the fall of his chest before nodding once and walking off. His friend passes him a drink he wrinkles his nose at, but he takes a small sip, eyes darting to me before he turns away.
The two get lost in the crowd before long, but I keep an eye out for bright red hair as I man the entrance to the bar. Neither Isaac nor his friend seem to be drinking heavily. They hang out near the pool tables for a while, chatting, Isaac looking at his phone now and again with what appears to be frustration. Todd is animated as he talks, body and arms moving wildly. Isaac saves his friend’s drink from spilling more than once.
I wonder, ever so briefly, at Isaac’s off-limits declaration. Did I get it wrong? Is it his friend he has feelings for?
I dismiss the thought as quickly as it forms. I don’t see it. The two are close, yes. But nothing about their interactions leads me to think Isaac is harboring deeper feelings.
After letting in a group of women who are decked out for the evening, I feel a heavy presence behind my shoulder. I swivel on my stool, finding Isaac standing there without Todd.
He lifts his chin, arms crossed with his drink in one hand. “You have a shit-ton of tattoos.”
I try to keep my amusement to myself. “I do.”
“How, uh…”
“Far do they go?” I fill in.
Isaac’s eyes flare wide, surprise there. “How long did they take?” he asks pointedly.
I rub my mouth to hide my smile. “Years. My uncle did most of them. He’s a tattoo artist.”
“Ah. Did they hurt?”
“Of course,” I answer. “But pain is relative, don’t you think?”
His eyes skip from my clasped hands to my chest above the deep V of my t-shirt, and then up to my throat. His own bobs. “How so?”
I shrug a shoulder. “If you expect the pain, it makes it easier to handle.”
Isaac’s brows draw in. “Still hurts.”
“Sure.”
He shakes his head a little, jolting before uncrossing his arms and retrieving his phone from his back pocket. He scowls at the screen and shoves the device away.
“Need to take that?” I ask.
“Considering it’s my dad, no.”
Isaac sucks down the rest of his drink, eyes casing the inside of the bar.
My hum is lost to the music, but I raise my voice some. “And what sort of pain has your dad caused?”
Isaac’s eyes dart back to me, wide once more. “This isn’t…therapy hour.” When I don’t say anything, he adds, “That’s a really personal question.”
“If it’s off-limits, just say so.”
