Just power through, one more drink, and you’ll be fine.
“Bartender,” I yell, impatiently. “My beer?”
Pulling a glass from the tray, he tilts the nozzle of the tap and pours me a beer, placing it right in front of me. I pull out my purse, only for the asshole to throw a twenty on the countertop.
“It’s on me,” he tells the bartender.
“Um… no.” I take the twenty, shoving it into his shirt pocket. His hard chest lays flat beneath my palm, and for some unknown reason, I take my time pulling away. “I can pay my own way. I am an independent woman, and no man will tell me what to do.”
Thank you, Tiffany.
“Calm down, okay? I just want to see you chug a beer. In fact, I place all the money in my wallet that you can’t finish that schooner without throwing up all over those sexy shoes of yours.”
I scan my shoes, noticing him eyeing them at the same time.
“Arrogant much? You’re on! Show me what you got.”
He pulls out two hundred dollars from his wallet, placing it flat on the bench.
Damn! Now I have to prove him wrong.
Something about him irritates me. Perhaps it’s his arrogance or the way he expects me to cave like a girl. He has no clue who I am, therefore, I can be anyone right now. And anyone is the girl who chugs the whole glass without hurling on the sidewalk.
Either way, I have no choice but to finish. I won’t back down.
Bringing the glass to my lips, I see him out of the corner of my eye staring at me with amusement.
C’mon, Gabriella, you can do it.
Three.
Two.
One.
And drink.
Oliver
It was a great night until she walked in.
A few blokes sit around me watching an old Manchester United game airing on the flat-screen television located above the bar. We bonded over beers, our frustration over the penalty kick, and despite my initial hunt to get laid tonight, I am content just drinking a schooner and unwinding with same-minded company.
Jerry, the Irish backpacker with the mouth of a sailor, decides to take a piss leaving the barstool beside me empty. Honestly, I am beginning to enjoy the break from his profanity, until she stumbles into the bar wearing a tight little black dress and high heels that ride up her lean legs just shy of her knees. Her long reddish curls bounce as she moves around, making every man and his dog turn their eyes toward where she stands.
She has an infectious laugh, unaware of her grand entrance along with her group of friends is causing a scene. None of them seem fazed with the attention, especially the redhead with the short, white dress and sash, who practically throws herself at the bar and demands a drink. She turns to face me, flashes her tits to catch my attention, but I don’t waver. It seems to piss her right off.
I don’t do fake tits, sweetheart.
Then, curly pulls up beside me oblivious she’s standing so dangerously close to me that I can practically smell her skin. It smells fucking good, something girly but oh so fucking sweet.
In the corner of my eye, I can see she’s struggling to compose herself, barely able to stand straight, relying on the bar for support. Judging by her indecisive nature to order a drink, I assume this is common behavior for her. A typical American girl. I bet she’s going to fangirl over my accent and throw herself at me.
Until she doesn’t.
She has a chip on her shoulder, and it’s a large one at that.
I’ve rubbed her up the wrong way, and when it comes to playing the game of cat and mouse, you’re dealing with the master.
I throw down a twenty, paying for her beer until she voices her offense at my rude gesture which then forces me to up the ante. Now, to be clear, I have no idea if she will chug the whole glass to prove a point. I assume she will do that girl pout thing then call defeat.
Fuck, was I wrong.
I pull out the money I owe her after the bet, reluctantly handing it over which she happily accepts.
“You know, it’s rude to assume my accent is fake. As an Australian, I’m offended,” I retort, watching her lick the remnants of the glass.
“Fine, then, let me test you?” She places the glass on the countertop, flicking her hair away from her face as she gazes at me with curiosity. “Do you put shrimp on the barbie?”
My expression remains flat. A pathetic first attempt. “Firstly, we call them prawns, not shrimp. And secondly, I like to throw a good snag on the barbie.”
“Snag?” She laughs, almost snorting. “What kind of made-up word is that?”
“S.A.U.S.A.G.E.S,” I annunciate. “It’s an abbreviation.”
“Fine, so while you’re eating your ‘snags’…” she uses air quotes, “… do you cuddle with your pet kangaroo?”
I roll my eyes. This girl is a piece of work. “Sure, if I want to get throat punched. Sweetheart, give up now while you still have some dignity.”
Her laughter stops, and she slows until she looks ready to hurl right in front of me. The color of her face drains, almost to a pale white.
“You okay?”
“What do you care?” she bites back. “I’m fine.”
When a woman says she’s fine, she is so far from fine it’s not even funny. She’s North Pole to fine. And curly here is anything but fine.
“How about you ease up on the beer? You’ll pay for it tomorrow.”
“Maybe I want to pay for it tomorrow.” Her hazel eyes flicker with anger. “Maybe I need to live a little because a hangover will be a nice change from a world I don’t want to be in.”
She doesn’t give me a chance to respond, stumbling off the stool and crashing into a bloke beside her. She asks him to dance, glancing at me to goad some sort of
