CHAPTER TWO
JORDAN
It was a two-drink night. Possibly a three-drink night if I could get the bartender to give me at least five minutes of his attention. Instead, he was pouring free shots, which I’m sure were frowned upon by the establishment, and trying to get some hot blonde’s phone number.
I sat back and watched in rapt fascination.
She twirled her hair.
He leaned closer.
More twirling.
He tilted his head.
And then she arched her back, which made his eyes focus on her perky breasts before he shoved another shot in her direction. I sipped what was left of my rum and Coke, irritated that the drink was already gone. Okay, so maybe it was a four-drink night. I could always call a cab, right?
The girl laughed loudly. It wasn’t an attractive laugh either. I imagined it was the exact sound turtles made while getting it on, an almost guttural groan that emitted from her tiny body before she plastered her long fuchsia nails across his forearm and rubbed.
Her nails were getting tangled in an abhorrent amount of forearm hair.
It was like watching a really horrible dating show.
Damn, I wished I could hear the dialogue better.
“Beautiful,” he whispered looking down at the mating dance of her nails with his body hair.
She blushed.
On demand.
But no way was that girl a virgin.
Neat trick.
I cleared my throat and waved in his direction. As entertaining as it was watching fake boobs seduce the hairy bartender, my drink was gone, and I was having a hell of a day—or week was more like it.
He ignored my raised hand.
I flipped him the bird.
He ignored that as well.
That was the problem with being me. I was the in-between girl. I wasn’t knock-your-socks-off gorgeous or ugly. If I were ugly, at least people would stare long enough to give me some attention.
No, I was invisible.
The one men passed over, not because I was an eyesore, but because in a sea of faces, mine was literally the last one to be noticed.
When I was little, I thought it was because I was shy.
As I got older, I realized people just didn’t see me.
In third grade when we were asked to do self-portraits, I presented mine to the class only to have my teacher give me an F for drawing a complete stranger.
I used my own picture. I kid you not.
I was continually sat on in the fifth grade. The bus driver eventually had me sit up front with the extra backpacks because it was becoming a problem.
High school was just as bad. During my freshman year, I guess I was too close to the gym wall, because when the janitor was painting it he painted me too. He said he didn’t see me standing there.
In my bright pink shirt and yellow shorts.
My thighs were Charger red for two weeks.
Sigh.
I twisted the straw between my fingertips again and winced.
My feet ached from wearing my heels all day, my tight pencil skirt felt two sizes too small, and my white oxford shirt was wrinkled from sweat.
So maybe it was good I was invisible, because there was nothing attractive about the way I looked right then. My red lipstick had been chewed off hours earlier, and my eyes never did that sexy thing where they kept on eye shadow for longer than five minutes.
It was amazing—I’d leave the apartment excited about my makeup only to take a bathroom break a few hours later and realize it had disappeared from my face.
It was as if a magical makeup-removing unicorn had come and licked it off my face during my coffee break, leaving me pale and lifeless. Damn unicorns.
I slumped in my seat and stared into my empty glass, where two ice cubes remained.
“Rough day?” a deep voice rumbled behind me. Now, I’m not one to exaggerate, but I could have sworn in that moment my ovaries stood up and cheered as my body tingled with awareness only a voice like that could stir. Immediately I regretted my reaction. After all, my relationship with men was just as bad as my cloak of invisibility. If a man did notice me, it was usually to point out something that was wrong with me, making me wonder if it was even worth being noticed in the first place. My personal favorite was when a man approached me only to ask me to move to the left so he could hit on the girl behind me. On rare occasions when I lucked out and was the object of their attention, they were gay and loved my shoes, which usually meant at least I’d have a decent conversation.
I sighed and glanced down at my heels. I really did have great taste in shoes.
With that voice, my money was on the latter.
“Vince Camuto,” I said in a bored tone. “Last season, though I’m well aware they look like this season, thus the pairing with the pencil skirt. And no, the skirt isn’t Chanel, it’s Burberry.”
And . . . silence.
See? This is what I mean. He was probably talking to someone else, or thought I was someone else and was so embarrassed he hightailed it out of there. Chill, dude, I’m not going to throw myself at you and insist you have my babies. Even if your voice sounds like smooth caramel on crack.
A warm hand grabbed my shoulder, scaring the crap out of me. With a yell, I jerked my hand, causing the ice to topple out of my drink and down my white shirt.
I was too busy trying to get the ice out of my bra to look up.
“Wow, that’s new. Can’t say I’ve ever caused a woman to dump ice on her own shirt before.” The voice just got sexier by the minute, didn’t it?
“Aha!” I pulled out the almost completely melted cubes and dropped them to the floor, then looked up. I blinked to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. And then I turned around like a complete loser.
Nobody sat behind me.
Damn, I guess I’m back to the gay thing.
“Sorry.” I turned back around and forced a smile. “Long day.”
The man had crazy hypnotic eyes. They were an aqua blue that I could have sworn full-on shimmered after I stared at them too long. Note to self: don’t look directly in his eyes for fear that clothes will spontaneously pull themselves off my body. I cleared my throat and narrowed my gaze.
His wavy auburn hair fell perfectly parted to the side, revealing a shaved section on the left right above his ear. It was trendy, sexy.
Full, bow-shaped lips curved into a smile. “That’s all right.” He pulled out a bar stool next to me and sat.
What was I supposed to do with my hands? Panicking, I grabbed my empty glass and clenched it so tight I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if it shattered in my hands.
The bartender finally made his way over. Bastard.
“What can I get you?” He placed a napkin in front of the hot and mysterious stranger.
“What she’s having?” He pointed a long, gorgeous finger in my direction.
A confused frown marred the bartender’s face. “Er, you just get here?”
I fought back a growl. “No. Been sitting here for a half hour now.”
“You sure?” Did he really have to press the issue?
I gritted my teeth. “Pretty sure.”
“Hmm, maybe Keith helped you then.”
It hadn’t been Keith.
“Rum and Coke,” I grumbled, wanting him to go away so I could stare at the pretty man candy next to me.
“Diet?” the bartender asked.
“What?” I felt my face flush. “No, regular Coke.”
He paused, giving me a once-over, and then shrugged and made my drink. In that moment, I had a very vivid daydream that involved a malfunctioning nutcracker.
“Double,” said Handsome on my left. “Make both of ours doubles. Hell, maybe give her a triple.”
“Ha.” I tapped the counter with my fingertips. “Getting drunk on a school night is frowned upon.”
The mesmerizing aqua eyes darn near bugged out of his head.
“Relax.” I smirked. “I have a fake ID.”
He clearly didn’t understand I was joking. With a curse, he stood to leave.
I burst out laughing. “I’m kidding. I’m thirty, I promise. I’ll even show you my ridiculously obnoxious photo on my driver’s license.” I nodded. “There was a storm that day.”
He flashed a smile and sat again. “I’m sure it’s not that bad.”
“I call chicken,” I announced, then jerked my ID from my black Coach clutch and thrust it in his face.
“Damn.” He shuddered. Yup, I’d just made a hot stranger shudder in disgust. That’s how awesome I was at picking up men. Then again, he was gay, so the poor guy was probably horrified at the sweatshirt I was wearing in the picture.
“Yeah, well.” I put the ID back just as our drinks arrived.
Handsome Stranger paid for them, then took a large sip.
“So.” I twisted the two straws in the drink with my fingers. “Where’s the lucky guy?”
“Lucky guy?” His eyes narrowed as he took another drink. “I’m confused.”
“You’re gay,” I announced in a defeated voice.
Rum and Coke sprayed all over the counter. Handsome Stranger proceeded to choke on what I could only assume was an overly large tongue as he continued to cough and then finished his entire drink, slamming the glass back onto the countertop.
“Did Max put you up to this?” he rasped.
“Ah, lover boy has a name.” I winked. “Max. Sounds . . . flimsy. He the chick in this relationship?”
“Holy hell, I’m going to kill him.” He shook his head. “See, this is what happens when he tells me to take a chance!”
“To be fair”—I gave him a polite nod—“he was probably trying to encourage you to live a little.”
He glared. “I live just fine . . . in a penthouse.”
“Didn’t ask.” I held up my hands in defense.
“With floor-to-ceiling windows.”
“Awesome.” I started to scoot slowly away.
“Oh, no you don’t.” Mr. Handsome hooked his foot into my stool and jerked it toward him. I nearly collapsed into his lap. “What did Max tell you?”
“Is this a game?” I whispered. “Because I don’t think I know how to play.”
“Game.” He bit down hard on his full bottom lip. “If it was a game, I’d be losing.”
“O-okay.” I tried to inch away again, but this time his hand came down on my arm, holding me still.
“I’m not gay.”
“Then who’s Max?”
“My brother.”
“Whoa.” I laughed. “Okay, that’s a little too much crazy for one night. Thanks for the drink, but I think I’ll . . .” I held up my hands and waved into the air. “I’ll pass on whatever game you and your lover are playing. Have a good night.”
“But—”
“See ya!” I grabbed my coat and darn near collided with a wall in order to get away.
The minute I walked outside it started pouring rain.
I tried to hail a cab and only succeeded in getting drenched from head to toe. Hanging my head, I finally decided to walk back to my apartment. Was it wrong to wish to get mugged? Because that would at least prove to the universe that I wasn’t invisible.
Or that the only people that hit on me were either gay or crazy or—lucky me—both.