I trace a fingernail along the rim of my tumbler. I bat my mascara'd-up lashes. “Maybe I am objectifying you. Maybe I need an object for all this affection I’m feeling tonight.” I wink.
I'm no good at winking—especially when I'm half-drunk—so I probably just look twitchy.
If Connor notices my horrible, cheesy flirting, he’s obviously willing to overlook it. He gets a couple bonus points for that.
He laughs. “Well, I’m your object tonight, sweetheart. All you've gotta do is say the word.”
I let my eyes freely roam his body, silently searching for one flaw, one physical fault that I can hitch onto. Unfortunately, I can't find one.
This is what I always do. I see a cute guy from a distance and I hype myself up about going home with him but the minute he approaches, I get nervous and I start looking for a way out. Tonight will be different.
Connor glances around then pins me with a downright naughty expression. One elbow on the bar, he leans close and his husky voice goes low. “You wanna get out of here?”
My smile slides off my face at his question. My insides twist. A trickle of perspiration glides down the valley of my boobs. Well, this is moving...fast. "Out of here?" I squeak, suddenly not so badass anymore.
But I mean, shouldn't we get to know each other some more? This man hasn't even told me his last name. What if he’s a serial killer? I can just imagine the look of disappointment on Walker’s face when he has to come identify my dead body at the morgue.
I laugh, but it falls flat. “How about another drink?” I suggest. “The night is still young, don’t you think?”
Connor shakes his head. “Got an early morning, sweetheart. Teeth cleaning. Oral hygiene is important." He flashes me a neon-white smile. "Besides, I’m at my limit." He tilts his chin at his empty beer bottle. "But I can always make time for the affection of a gorgeous woman like you.” His gaze zeroes in on my exposed cleavage.
I feel my shoulders curl in a few degrees. My heart is pounding. And boob sweat. So much boob sweat. Why the hell did I wear this? I resist the urge to pull my dress up higher, because the only thing worse than showing a little boob is flashing the whole bar my hoo-ha.
"A-are you sure you don't want to, y'know, talk first? Get to know each other a little?” My fingers go tighter around my glass. I take another huge swallow, hoping to drown my nerves.
"How about we talk in my bedroom?" His eyes roam my body again. He tilts an eyebrow suggestively. "On second thought, I probably won't be able to do much talking since you'll be sitting on my face.”
The alcohol that was halfway down my throat somehow spurts back up out my nostrils. The rest of the whiskey rockets down the wrong pipe and ignites a sudden coughing fit. I'm choking for real this time, and it feels like my sinuses are on fire.
With one hand, I clutch the center of my chest. My other hand clings desperately to the edge of the sticky counter as my cough grows more violent.
Looking alarmed, Connor rushes into action. He leaps out of his seat and rounds my stool to pound vigorously on my back. He growls encouraging things to me, patiently soothing me until my coughing finally subsides.
Brimming with gratitude, I blink up at my savior through the mascara-poisoned tears leaking into my eyes. Maybe he isn't so bad after all.
I can feel my hair sweat-plastered to my forehead. I can only imagine what I look like right now. Connor takes the wad of napkins the bartender stretches out to him and he blots my wet cheeks, wearing a tender smile the whole time.
When I've finally caught my breath, he gives me a hopeful look. “So, about getting out of here...?”
Seriously, dude?
Snatching the napkins from him, I glare. “It’s a no.”
On a disappointed huff, the man frowns, pulling out his wallet, flagging down the bartender and paying his tab. "Fine, then."
I watch in stunned silence as he strides off across the bar, without even giving me the courtesy of a proper goodbye.
Just like that?
A heavy sigh leaves me. I flop against the back of my stool, feeling disappointed in myself. Why is it getting harder and harder to go home with a guy? I’m such a chicken. I know the one I want doesn’t want me back, so why can’t I just get over him? Why can’t I just fall into the arms of an Aquaman lookalike and have a wild, passionate night?
Looks like the object of my affection is gonna be an inanimate object tonight after all. Only this time, I’ll have to suffice without any stimulating vibration.
It’s going to be a long night.
I drain my glass and slide off my stool, suddenly noting how unsteady my feet are. I catch a glimpse of my haggard reflection in the bar's mirrored wall as I shrug into my short leather jacket. Eesh! I won't be able to un-see that sight. This whole night turned out to be a bust. I wasted my one night off getting dolled up, just to drink alone in a dirty bar, and get myself all hot and bothered. Now I’m drunk and stranded two towns away from home.
I push through the crowd of mushy couples spinning and swaying on the dancefloor. One waif-like blonde stink-eyes me up and down then hugs her man closer.
The rowdy bearded dudes around the pool tables pause to catcall me. "Lookin' real pretty, Red," one of them shouts.
Extra annoyed, I grumble bitterly. "Yeah, yeah, I'm pretty. So what? Doesn't change the fact that I'm lonely as fuck."
As I'm trudging toward the door, I consider my options before pulling out my phone. I could grab an Uber. Or maybe I could call one of my girlfriends to come pick me up. But after the night I've had, I just want to burrow into the space I've always
