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Fifteen
Conner
2017
It’s getting late. Edging toward midnight and noone has piqued my interest. Not that there isn’t plenty of volunteers. It’s Thursday. There are so many women in this place I couldn’t slip a piece of paper between them, and more than a few of them have made it clear they’re down for whatever.
I practically have them lined up around the bar, and I’m not sure if I’m physically capable of caring any less. Because really, I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to do this.
But this isn’t about want. It’s about need. I’m crawling around in my own goddamned skin. Thoughts and memories rattling around my skull.
I go through the motions. I flirt, I wink. I mix drinks and call them beautiful. I even laid down on the bar and let a bachelorette party do body shots off my abs, Setting the shot glass in my open fly, I squeezed lime juice and rubbed salt all over my stomach—but that was mainly to piss Declan off. And it worked. Earning his disapproving glare was the best part of my day.
“The suits want to buy the redhead over there a drink,” Declan says, jerking his chin down the bar. He’s standing beside me, yanking the caps off a round of Sapporos for a bunch of suits at the end of the bar. Drafts are on special tonight, and these assholes are ordering bottled imports. I could piss in a bottle, slap a fancy label on it and sell it to these jack-offs for twenty bucks a pop.
My eyes instantly follow and find her. She couldn’t have been there long because there is no way in hell I could have missed her.
Every junkie has a flavor. All alcoholics have a brand. That particular taste they can’t say no to. That itch they have to scratch—damn the consequences.
Mine is perched on a stool at the end of the bar.
Exactly what I need.
“Don’t even think about it—she’s waaay out of your league, little brother.” Declan leans across the taps and says it low in my ear. “Just pour her a glass of whatever and let the Wolves of Wall Street over here do the heavy lifting, okay?”
He’s right. I can see it from here. The money. The privilege. Silk blouse. Black pencil skirt. Heels that cost more than I make in a week. Purse that probably cost more than the shoes. Prim and proper. Pampered and kept. For guys like me, women like her were untouchable. Unhaveable.
It’s like someone waved a red cape in front of my face.
“Sure thing, Dec,” I answer back, wiping my hands on a bar towel before making my way toward her. The closer I get, the more I realize that the word stunning doesn’t even begin to describe her accurately.
She’s perfection. Dark auburn hair falls as straight as an arrow past her shoulders, clipped back to frame a heart-shaped face set with the most amazing pair of brown eyes I’ve ever seen, like liquid chocolate, shot with flecks of gold and copper. A patrician nose set over a set of full, lush lips colored a dusky sort of pink that I’d bet my half of the tip jar matched her nipples perfectly. I don’t care about any of that, really.
It’s the freckles that do me in.
Up close, I can see a light scattering of them across her nose beneath the carefully applied make up. They’re faint, but one look and I’m fighting the urge to adjust the sudden erection that pushes against the front of my jeans.
“The gentlemen at the end of the bar would like to buy you a drink,” I tell her, forcing the words out as I incline my head toward the gaggle of pretentious ass clowns, watching our exchange with rapt attention. Her gaze trails down the bar and lands on them, her brow slightly furrowed.
“Are they regulars?” she says, her tone saying she’s considering their offer.
“Yup,” I say, whipping my bar towel off my shoulder. “They’re in here every Thursday night.” I lift her half empty glass and give the bar in front of her a wipe.
“Thursday…” she says, taking the glass from me, her long, slim fingers trailing lightly across the back of my hand. “Why Thursday?” She takes a swallow of whatever she’s drinking, waiting for my answer.
“Ladies night,” I say, my gaze nailed to the line of her throat. The way it moved, shifting the triple strand of creamy white pearls around her throat. More freckles dappled her collarbone, dipping into the demure swell of her breasts. My cock is throbbing so hard I can feel it knocking against the bar. “Best odds of getting laid.”
The corner of her mouth lifts while she trails a shell pink nail around the rim of her glass. “So, they’re not then?”
“Not what?” I say, watching her finger, imagining it was her tongue circling the head of my cock. Which is weird because I don’t let women go down on me. Ever.
“Gentlemen.”
The word jerks my gaze back to her face. She’s watching me, waiting for an answer. “Well,” I say casting them a look over my shoulder. They’re all watching us, waiting for me to pour her drink so they can descend like a pack of Armani-wearing jackals. “They look the part.”
She smiles into her glass, like we just shared a secret, before setting it down. “Is that why you work Thursday nights?”
I open my mouth to deny it even though it’s exactly why, but before I can lie to her, she continues. “If I accept,” she says, tilting her head before catching her lush bottom lip between perfect white teeth. “Which one of them do you think will come over here and try to pick me up?”