He leans his forehead on the glass, his breaths forming a misted cloud in front of him. “Thank you for bringing me here. I needed this.”
Chapter 7
Oliver
“Table four needs three whiskeys – top shelf – on the rocks and a Cosmopolitan,” my colleague at Bar La Vella says before he rushes back onto the floor, weaving between the high top marble tables.
There’s soft jazz playing, barely audible over the clink of glasses and chatter of the elite clientele that frequent the high end bar in Mayfair. I work as fast as my hands allow, lining up the glasses and filling them as required.
My phone vibrates where it’s tucked into my pocket. I ignore it, because I’m far too busy and it’s frowned upon for the staff to be on their phones when out front. I tell myself it’s probably Darius. Ihopeit is. We exchanged numbers after our trip to London and have been chatting all day. He’s not the only person who’s messaged me though, and my gut clenches when I think of the unanswered thread on my phone. The ones from my mother, asking me to call her.
I’ve ignored my phone every time it’s rung with her name filling the screen. Head in the sand is a safer place to be than facing whatever reality awaits me at the end of the call.
I add vodka to the cocktail shaker, then a serving of Cointreau, before throwing in the rest of the ingredients and giving it a good shake. My colleague, Ryder, returns with another order, which he rattles off while placing the whiskeys on his black tray.
I pour the cocktail into a frosted glass and slide it over the black marble bar to him.
“Give me five minutes for the next order.” It’s a large one with complicated cocktails and is going to take me a moment to prepare. Crouching down, I take a gulp of the energy drink I’ve hidden below me, ignoring the pang of hunger in my belly.
When I straighten up, looking for a clean cocktail mixer, Ryder is still standing at the bar despite having a full order to deliver and more tables to serve.
He leans on the bar, dropping his voice. “You free after work?” My eyes dart up to meet his. He’s new here, only his third week and yeah, I’ve fucked him already, his shirt pushed up, trousers around his ankles in the back of the storage room. He’s hot. Short and twinkish with dark black hair and piercing blue eyes. But I’m not looking for a repeat performance, as tempting as he is.
I haven’t fucked anyone recently, and Iamhorny. My hand has been my constant companion these last few days, and it would be so easy to give in. To take him back to mine and throw him on my bed, enter him from behind and fuck away the tension in my shoulders. So fucking easy.
But I can’t bring myself to want it enough to follow through. I’d much rather spend my free time with a smiley blond who makes my heart race something fierce, while watching a shitty documentary and drinking craft beer.
And I fuckinghatethat I wantthatso much.
Ryder taps a hand on the bar, waiting for my answer.
“Nope.” I turn my back to him, locating the cognac I need for the Sidecar. When I meet his gaze again, he’s pouting, his tongue flicking out to lick his bottom lip and fuck methose lips are dangerous. But despite him being literal walking sex, there is no part of me that wants him. “It’s not going to work, Ry. You’re sweet. Your ass is sweeter, but it’s not happening again. Sorry, sexy.”
Ryder huffs. “You’re such an asshole.” He pushes away from the bar, balances his tray on one hand and walks off. He returns moments later for his next order, but he doesn’t talk to me again all night. Good.
It’s nearly two am before I’ve finished with the last round, cleaned up the bar and changed out of my uniform. I store it in my messenger bag, then, eyes heavy and body weary, I walk out towards one of the two night buses I need to take to get me home. I’m hungry, having not eaten much today, and I rustle in my bag and take out a granola bar I stashed in there earlier. It’s gritty and dry but settles my stomach.
Only once I’m on the bus, sitting right at the back, my feet up on the seat in front of me, do I take out my phone and read the waiting messages.
Darius:This guy came into the coffee shop today with the sweetest cockapoo. It reminded me of you.
I smile, despite the heaviness in my chest over the other unread message. I ignore it – for now – and read the rest of the thread from Darius.
He’s attached a photo of the dog.
Darius:Look at his eyes! Big and brown, just like yours, puppy.
That nickname hits me right in the solar plexus. It’s the first one I’ve ever been given, and it’s mine, chosen just for me. It wraps me in warmth in a way I didn’t know was possible. Hell, I didn’t even realise how cold I’d been inside and out until I met him.
Darius’s next message contains another photo. This time it’s of the two of us, last night. A selfie, with a darkened London in the background. There’s a glare on the glass so you can’t see much outside the window, but that’s not what I’m focused on, anyway.
Darius’s eyes are bright, his face lit up with genuine delight, deep dimples in both cheeks. And me? I’m looking at him like he holds the bloody moon.
Jesus. What the fuck is he doing to me? Walking with him last night, I had this intense need to tell him everything. To tear myself open and let him see the parts trapped inside my fractured heart.
But fear, my old friend, stopped that from happening. In the harsh light of day, with fresh eyes, I know I was right to hold back. I’m getting too attached to him and I can’t do that.
Darius:I love this photo of us.
