Rhett

This place is dead, but that’s exactly why I came here. No one in their right mind drinks on a Monday night.

I like this bar.

They know me here.

No one gawks or stares.

They don’t allow patrons to snap pictures.

And I know when I’m ordering top shelf liquor, I’m actually getting top shelf liquor.

“Another one?” the bartender asks, rapping on the wooden counter in front of me. He’s hunched over, lips tight as he tries not to judge me.

“I’m good.” I lift my crystal tumbler, giving proof that the glass is only half empty. Fitting.

“Anything else I can get you?” he asks with his sad little eyes. He knows.

He’s read the articles.

He’s heard the news.

Everybody’s heard the fucking news.

“Yeah,” I chuff. “Can you tell those fucking girls down there to keep it down?”

He turns in their direction, and their annoying little giggles waft our way like high-pitched pollution. Seven empty bar stools separate us, but even an ocean wouldn’t be enough at this point.

“Can’t do that, Rhett. I’m sorry.” The bartender lifts a white rag, wiping at an imaginary speck of dust on the counter. “They’re paying customers, and they’re not making too much noise. You want to go to the back room, get away for a bit?”

I huff. No, I don’t want to go to the back fucking room.

I don’t want to sit in a red-carpeted VIP lounge all by myself like a goddamned, self-important loser.

I toss back the remainder of my drink, sliding the empty glass his way, and he nods in silent understanding.

The girls haven’t stopped chatting since they sat down. They’re talking about flowers. Engagement rings. Dresses.

Fuck my life.

“An old fashioned, please.” A dark-haired beauty with red lips takes a seat two spots down from me. She places a little black clutch on the bar and brushes her bangs from her eyes, revealing two pools of hazel lined in black.

“That’s a man’s drink.” It takes a moment for me to realize I’m the asshole speaking those words.

She whips her attention toward me. “Excuse me?”

“An old fashioned,” I say. “What are you, an eighty-year-old man?”

She exhales, rolling her pretty eyes. I’ve always been a sucker for pretty eyes. The second she looks away, I steal a chance to take in the rest of her. Tight, curved body wrapped in head-to-toe black. Sexy heels that come to a point at the toe. Her breasts spill from her top just enough to make a man’s gaze linger a bit too long. She must be meeting someone for drinks. No one comes to a bar dressed like that just because.

A second later, she’s pulling her phone out, pressing the power button and groaning at the blank screen. When the bartender returns with her drink, I hear her ask if he has a phone charger, but he gives an apologetic “no.”

Sucking in a deep breath, she focuses on the wall of liquor bottles ahead. She’s choosing to ignore me, and maybe I deserve it, but I’m not going to apologize. She’s drinking a man’s drink. Whiskey. Bitters. Sugar. All she needs is a Cuban cigar and she’s my grandfather reincarnated.

“You’re not the first person to tell me I drink like a man.” Her voice is dry, her tone sardonic. She’s still staring ahead when she swirls her spoon in her drink before taking a sip. “You’re lucky I’m not doing Jäger bombs tonight.”

She laughs—at herself I presume.

“I’m lucky?” I ask. Girl has some nerve. Anyway, Jäger bombs remind me of Bryce, and the last thing I want to think about right now is that bastard.

“I make bad decisions when I drink Jäger.” She pulls in another tiny sip, then stares into her glass. “At least that’s what people tell me. I don’t usually remember.”

“Convenient.”

Her body swivels toward me, her elbow resting on the bar and her fingers wrapped lightly around her tumbler. “Nothing about my life is convenient.”

“I’m not trying to talk to you about your life.” I snort. That’s women for you. They take a perfectly good conversation about liquor and twist it into something deeper, more meaningful.

Fuck deep.

Fuck meaningful.

I’d fuck her if I could, but she’ll probably want to lie in my arms when it’s all over and tell me her life story, and quite frankly, I’m not interested.

“How about you not twist my words?” She takes a sip, her hazel eyes locked on me like a silent challenge. They’re bewitching, her eyes. I’m drawn in, and I can’t look away. “And while you’re not twisting my words, how about you not jump to conclusions either?”

She’s bold. I like that. And I respect that in a girl-from-the-bar-I’d-consider-fucking-if-she-weren’t-so-smart-mouthed.

I finally turn away, and we marinate in silence, nothing but the sound of giggling girls wafting our way from the opposite end of the bar.

“God, they’re annoying,” she says to me, speaking under her breath. She leans a little closer, but keeps a careful distance at the same time.

The bartender returns with my forgotten drink, and then moves to the girl, leaning over the bar to tell her that her friend called, isn’t coming because something came up, and will get a hold of her tomorrow.

She got stood up.

Who the hell stands up a pretty girl like that? And she was dressed like she was down to fuck, too.

Oh, well.

His loss is my gain.

An inch of liquor remains in her glass, and I watch her toss the rest back like she’s in a hurry to get the hell out of here.

Maybe she’s hurt. Maybe she’s feeling embarrassed or her pretty little ego is bruising in real time, but I can’t let her go. Not yet. Not until I’ve had my fun.

I rise from my seat, and the ground beneath my feet tilts. I’m not sure how many drinks I’ve had now—probably too many—but I don’t give a rat’s ass. I’m going in for the kill. I want this girl. I want her against the wall. I want her in my bed. I want to fuck her until I can’t feel a damn thing and she can’t walk straight, and then I want her out of my life because that’s the kind of sorry bastard I need to be from now on.

Commitment is for losers.

Hearts and flowers are for assholes.

Truth, above all else, is the only thing that matters from here on out.

“What are you doing?” she asks, a slight chuckle in her tone when she sees me taking the bar stool next to her.

“I’m Rhett,” I say, elbow on the bar and eyes glued on hers. And in my truthful, drunken stupor, I add, “And I’m going to take you home tonight.”

“Worst. Pick up line. Ever.”

“Do I look like I care?” I huff.

“No. You look like a man who’s never had to try to get laid in his life,” she says, eyes rolling.

“Fair point.”

“You don’t even know my name,” she adds, the corners of her mouth pulling up. I have her undivided attention, and the fact that she didn’t throw her drink in my face is promising.

“Care to tell it to me?” I ask.

Her lips press together, fighting a smile, and she seems amused, entertained by this. Nothing about the way she looks at me tells me she’s star struck, which is yet another reason this woman is undeniably fuckable.

“Ayla,” she says carefully after a good, hard pause. Her hazel eyes squint in my direction, like she’s trying to figure me out.

Good luck.

She rises, gathering her things.

“Where are you going?” I stand, confused, because clearly a second ago this was going pretty fucking well.

“Home.”

“Why?”

“You’re drunk. Like, really drunk.” She seems annoyed by that fact. “And you just offended me by assuming I was that easy.”

I laugh, following her toward the exit. The giggling girls stop chatting and stare in our direction, but I don’t give a shit. Let them watch. Let them see what they could experience if they stopped planning their Pinterest weddings for two point six seconds and found themselves a real man. An honest man. One who won’t bullshit about the fact that the only thing he gives a damn about is sex.

I place my hand on her shoulder to stop her, and her body freezes. I shouldn’t have touched her because now I look like a goddamned creep and she looks a little bit horrified.

This got dark, fast.

My mouth opens, and I’m on the verge of apologizing, but I’m not the kind of man who’s ever really been sorry for anything, so I stop myself.

Removing my hand from her, I straighten my shoulders and take a half of a step back. In the span of a couple of seconds, I see the two of us in bed, sweaty and spent. It could’ve been hot. And I sure as fuck could’ve used the release. But now my chance is shot to hell, so ...

“Do you need help? Or anything?” she steps closer to me, keeping her voice down.

“What? Jesus. No.”

“You’re really drunk and you’re coming onto complete strangers at some random bar. I think you need help.”

This isn’t some random bar, but I don’t have the mental stamina to sit here and defend it to her.

“It’s been a rough couple of weeks,” is all I tell her. It’s all she needs to know, and I refuse to elaborate if she asks. I’m not in the habit of making excuses, but in this case, after the last several days I’ve endured, I’m making an exception.

Her rosebud mouth bunches in one corner as she studies me. “You need me to take you home?”

“No, I do not need you to take me home,” I repeat her words. “I don’t need a fucking caretaker.”

Ayla’s hand splays across her chest. “Believe me, I’m not a caretaker. I can barely take care of myself most days. I was just offering to help you home, not wipe your ass.”

Goddamn.

This woman, this Ayla ... she reminds me of … me. The way she talks. The way she drinks. The looks she gives. The take-no-shit attitude. The only other person I’ve known who was remotely like myself was Bryce, but I’ve never met a female version.

“What?” she asks. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You can take me home if it makes you feel better.” I sound pathetic. I know that. Well aware. But if Ayla leaves this bar tonight, I’m never going to see her again. I’m never going to know what it’s like to fuck my equal, and in my warped, little drunk mind, I’m kind of curious to know what it would be like.

Plus, she’s the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. That, alone, is all the reason a man needs, truly.

“If it makes me feel better?” she mocks me. “I’m not doing this for my health, Rhett. I’m doing this because you need me to.”

My lips part, and I almost come back at her with a line about how I don’t need anyone, but then I remember I’m playing the part of a wounded bird, and the second I get her into my nest, she’s all mine.

“Come on.” She hooks her hand into the crook of my elbow and leads me to the door. “You’re paying for the cab.”