I about leapt out of my chair. Apparently, I hadn’t experienced much sobriety over the past few years, and this clear mentality had made me a little jumpy. I scratched my neck, trying to play off my reaction. “No,” I said, turning to face the jump-scare queen.
She had dark blonde, wavy hair that curled at the ends near her shoulders. Her blue eyes appeared black in the low-lit room. She drank red wine, and lipstick marks stained the rim of her glass. Tilting her head to the left, she asked, “Just here alone?” Her voice moved through my hearing holes like pure silk.
I wanted to ask her to sing me a song, but I thought that might be too weird. Shit. I had no idea what to say. I just sat there nodding like a bobblehead, holding my glass of beer.
You know what I was most worried about right then? If I nutted-up and held her hand, would she hate the fact that my fingers were ice cubes on her tanned skin? That thought literally sprinted laps through my mind, even though I would never in a thousand years attempt to hold a woman’s hand at first sight. Still, it nagged at me and forced me to set my beer on the counter and rub my palms on my jeans to warm them. I mean, I didn’t understand the nerves. She wasn’t even my type. I preferred brunettes, which was beside the point. I would never hold her hand.
With an awful sense of dread, I realized she had asked me a question about an hour ago, but I had no recollection of what it was. Clearing my throat, I asked, “What’s that?” I pointed at the ceiling. “Sorry, it’s loud in here.” It wasn’t loud at all. A gentle murmur from the patrons intermingled with the light play of smooth jazz.
She smirked. “You here alone?”
I nearly said no, thinking of Xander. “I am.”
She finished her red wine in a single gulp and pushed it forward on the bar. “Well, should I leave you alone?”
My mind turned to static. As soon as a coherent thought entered that soft noodle I called a brain, it broke apart into a million, incomprehensible pieces. Was talking to women really this hard? Or was I just a jackass for no reason at all?
I cleared my throat again, then asked, “What’re you drinking?” Good start. Simple, but not intrusive. It’s like learning to walk again. Baby steps.
“Red wine,” she said, smirking at me like a downright asshole.
Usually, a comment like that would fire me up. Now, it sent me retreating into a shell I didn’t know I had. I wiped a finger across my nose. “The vintage?” I’m pretty sure I used it right this time.
She glanced at her empty glass, then back at me. “The ’15 Mettler Syrah.”
“Sounds expensive,” I said, just allowing my stupid thoughts to vomit from my stupid mouth. I should have told her I worked demolition for minimum wage and lived in a trailer that had just burned down, but I couldn’t afford insurance—so, I was technically homeless, which I hadn’t really considered until that moment.
Communicating with strange, beautiful women was exhilarating.
“It’s not,” she said.
I nearly laughed in her face, convinced that the word expensive had a sliding-scale definition between the two of us. “You here alone?” I asked.
“I was with a couple friends. One of the girls drank too much, started vomiting before she reached the bathroom. She was asked to leave. My other friend, her roommate, said she should take care of her. I still had a glass of wine in my hand.” She smirked again, tossing my stomach upside-down.
“Well,” I said, clearing my throat yet again. I was very aware of the obtrusive noise of my nervous tic, but I couldn’t seem to help myself. I pulled out my wallet and counted seven dollars. Xander and I hadn’t really considered the idea of buying drinks for the women we spoke to… or maybe he had considered it. But his employer offered him a generous salary, and he could probably afford to buy a drink or two. I had seven dollars in greenbacks and not a credit card to my name—it’s easier to disappear that way. I pinched the money from my wallet and threw the bills on the bar. “Go crazy. Top shelf liquor, if you want.”
She giggled, and I realized I still didn’t know her name. How had I not asked for her name yet? If I asked now, would it be weird? Was it too late?
“Well, lucky for you,” No-Name said, “I’m a sucker for their house tequila. I’ll buy your shot, if you buy mine.”
“Deal,” I agreed, searching for the bartender and signaling her over. To hell with Xander’s rules. I needed a shot if I planned to have any kind of normal communication with a woman.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked. She had a shaved head and tattoos scrawled over her scrawny arms.
“Two shots of the house tequila,” I said. Then I glanced at the woman beside me. “Separate tabs.”
She widened her eyes and giggled, biting her lower lip in a way that drove me batty.
The bartender went right to work at pouring the drinks, placing them in front of us a few seconds later. “Keep the tabs open?” she asked.
“How much were the shots?” I asked.
“Ten bucks each.” She placed her hands on her hips.
I glanced at the unknown blonde beside me and frowned. “She say ten bucks each?”
“She did,” the woman said, grinning. I hated that devilish grin. It made me think of sinful deeds.
“Well, I only have seven dollars, as we established earlier.”
“Lucky for you, I have some extra cash.” She cleared my tab, then held her shot in the air. I mirrored her. “To friends that get too drunk,” she said.
“And good roommates.”
We tapped the bar with the shot glass, then threw back the
