Page 8 of Holly Jolly July
Mariah
To have a third drink, or to not have a third drink, that is the question.
I’ve driven to the far end of town, getting as much space between me and that damn movie set as I could, before pulling into
Grumpy Joe’s, the diviest of dive bars. The empty parking lot beckoned me like a siren out at sea, sans the singing. A sign
out front said karaoke Sundays , and today’s a Monday so I’m safe for at least another six days.
The inside is drab, smelling of stale beer and the lingering odour of cigarettes despite nobody legally smoking indoors since
the eighties. The carpeting is some weird mix of green and brown, the bar is battered and stained, and half of the old boxy
TVs are playing keno games while the others repeat sports highlights. There is absolutely nobody in here but me and the bartender,
some old guy with a “piss off” attitude who keeps to himself at the other end of the bar cleaning a shelf of dusty liquor
bottles.
It’s perfect.
The ice clinks in my glass as I tilt it to and fro, the juniper and citrus notes of my gin and tonic tempting me to have another.
Not smart. Even though Mom and Dad’s place is only a ten-minute drive from here, I know better than to risk driving while
impaired—even if being impaired will help me cope with being back in that house. Maybe I’ll swing by the liquor store on the
way home.
I’m about to call it quits and flag down the bartender for my bill when his crotchety old voice breaks the silence.
“Hey, Jax,” he says, giving a nod to someone on his right.
My ears perk up, and my gaze follows. My heart stutters when I see him and I forget to breathe.
Of fucking course I’d drive out of my way to be alone and end up running into someone from high school. And not just anyone from high
school, oh no. One of the popular jock assholes who barely acknowledged my existence, aside from teasing me about my large-for-my-age
tits. Like almost all the other girls—and some of the guys—in my grade, I had a massive crush on him. He was impossible not
to like.
I watch him through my peripherals as he makes his way behind the bar while surreptitiously checking him out.
And damn, there’s a lot to check out. He may still go by his childhood nickname, but everything else about him is very, very adult. A tight black V-neck hugs his well-defined chest, wrapping tightly around thick biceps, tapering loosely around his
middle and giving the impression of washboard abs beneath. Above his body is a face that matches in decadence: square jaw,
perfectly trimmed light beard, and luscious wavy brown locks that settle upon his shoulders. His thick brows frame his face
and accentuate his dark eyes in a moody way, with a straight nose and thin lips pressed firmly into a serious line.
On top of that, he radiates BDE, carrying himself with a straight back and a confident stride. Despite myself I’m immediately
drawn to him, straightening my own posture in response to his presence.
“Hey, Mike,” he says, his deep voice rich and smooth.
I feel his eyes upon me but don’t return his gaze, keeping my attention firmly on the empty drink in front of me. As the two
men go over the day and swap out cash drawers, I’m hanging on to every word that comes out of Jax’s sensual mouth.
The old man, Mike, leaves through the back and Jax stays behind. If only I’d left ten minutes earlier.
Maybe he won’t recognize me. I hardly recognize myself; I look nothing like I used to.
I made sure of it.
Besides, it’s not like we spent any time together—aside from being in the same grade since he moved here in grade six. And
when we sat next to each other in eighth grade English class. And when he dated my “best friend” Bethany in grade eleven.
Other than occasionally ogling my breasts, Jax didn’t really acknowledge my existence.
“Can I get you another?” he asks, his forearms resting on the bar.
“Thinking about it,” I reply, gracing him with a flash of eye contact.
“Sorry it’s so dead in here,” he says, not moving from his place. “There’s a Christmas movie being filmed downtown, and everyone’s
over there trying to catch a glimpse of some famous actor.”
“You don’t say.”
“I’m guessing you don’t like Christmas,” he says.
I huff a breath through my nose. “Nope. I’m a Grinch.”
“I hate Christmas, too.” He has a playful half smirk on his face, just enough for the right-hand corner of his mouth to twitch
up. He continues, “The only good Christmas movie is—”
“ Die Hard ,” we say at the same time.
Jax smiles, and I can’t help but bite my bottom lip as we regard one another. He nods at my empty glass. “What are you drinking?”
“It’s okay. I was just about to grab my bill.”
He reaches for the till, then pauses, leaning back on the bar. “Wait a second...”
My heart hammers in my chest. Facing the inevitable with as much grace as I can muster, I lift my chin and look at him head-on.
His eyes search mine, shifting right to left. Then his brows shoot up, eyes widening as realization dawns. “Maria?”
Even though it shouldn’t, Jax remembering my name warms my chest, my belly, and various other regions lower down. “Mariah,” I correct.
Jax crosses his arms, biceps popping, as he leans against the bar behind him. He gives his head a slow shake. His eyes roam
over my body from top to bottom, then back up again. I shouldn’t be flattered—I should be offended. But I’m not. It pisses
me off that getting checked out by Jax still turns me on like it did when I was a teen.
“I thought you moved away,” he says finally.
“I did.”
“Here visiting family?”
Not the entire truth, but true enough. I nod, pursing my lips.
“And not happy about it.”
“How’d you figure that?”
He gestures to the drab environment.
I sigh. “Fine, yes, I’m avoiding them.”
He grabs the bottle of gin off the counter and swirls it. “If that’s the case, I’m sure I can provide a suitable distraction.”
I slide my glass toward him. “Is that so?”
“Since you’ve always found a way of distracting me—” His eyes flit to my cleavage momentarily, a smirk upon his face.
I can’t help the blush that rushes to my cheeks, turning my chest pink. So he does remember me. My tits, at least. Admittedly, they are quite unforgettable.
“Distracting you? I don’t think we said two words to each other in all of high school.”
“Doesn’t mean I didn’t want to say more.”
His admission stumps me, and for once I don’t have a witty comeback prepared.
Jax swirls the bottle of gin once more, the liquid inside sloshing. “I’d love to hear about where you’ve been, what you’ve
been up to. Not all of us have been able to escape Chilliwack as you have. I’m not surprised you did.”
“Is that a fact?”
His eyes bore into mine, searching. “You were always different.”
I drop my gaze to the damp coaster in my hand, which I’ve been absentmindedly tearing into tiny pieces. Despite my best attempts
at fitting in, it was apparent even to Jax—who didn’t know me at all—that I didn’t belong.
Jax leans closer. “In case you didn’t know, that’s a compliment.”
I look up at him from under my lashes, surprised by the sentiment. We regard one another, neither moving, as my curiosity
piques. “I suppose you could distract me for a while, then.”
He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Happy to oblige. Only if you answer a question for me, Mariah .”
The way he pronounces my name, all raspy and throaty like that, does things to me. Warm, melty, tingly things.
Unable to stem my curiosity, I bite my lip. “Fine. What do you want to know?”
Jax leans on the bar, filling the space between us, his dark eyes capturing mine. “If you had to choose between getting your
hair pulled or being choked, what would you pick?”
Oh, fuck. He went there. I hoped he might. I lean slowly toward him and watch as fire lights up his eyes. “Can’t a girl have both?”
Something sparks in the space between us, sending a wave of heat down to my belly. I haven’t felt this kind of immediate attraction
toward a man in a long, long time, and I can’t help but squeeze my thighs together in response. The way his pupils dilate
makes me certain the feeling is mutual. Besides, the kind of man who can ask such a lewd question in broad daylight and know it will be taken well suggests he is well-versed in saying such things. This should be a warning, but instead his confidence
only excites me—possibly because he was so out of my league when we were younger. Maybe all those years of pining are coming
to a head now.
I’m not naive; I know this is probably a bad idea. And I know a red flag when I see one.
But sometimes I’m in the mood for a bit of red.
I nod toward my glass. “One more drink won’t hurt.”
Jax doesn’t take his eyes off me as he pours another gin and tonic. “Good. After all, we have a lot of catching up to do.”
He slides the glass toward me. I give it a stir with my finger, then suck the moisture off, watching as Jax’s throat bobs
in response. “Yes, lots of... catching up.”
SIX DRINKS LATER.
We burst into Jax’s apartment, the door slamming into the wall. Jax presses me against it, grinding his hips into mine while
lifting my leg and wrapping it around him, our lips locking and unlocking fervently between gasping, shuddering breaths. My
hands greedily claw at the muscles of his back, his shoulders, his biceps, while he manoeuvres us farther into his place,
kicking the door shut behind him. Jax continues pushing me backward until we’re in the kitchen, where he lifts me onto the
countertop so I can wrap both legs around him.
We separate from kissing to tear off our shirts and fling them across the room. He has tattoos hidden under his shirt, but
it’s too dark and I’m too rushed to make anything out other than dark, swirling, sexy patterns before his hands grip my breasts
roughly. I gasp at the contact, arching my back toward him.
“Jesus Christ,” he mumbles, gaping at them in awe, as if he’s been waiting since high school to do this. Making up for lost