Thirty-five

 

Conner

 

“What can I get for you, Sweetness?”

It comes out automatically while I dig my scoop into the ice bin. I don’t look up. Don’t have to. I’m in charge of college girl specials. That means whoever’s standing in front of me is a woman, looking for a cheap drink.

We kept the little system Tess set up a few months ago. With Patrick working the taps, Declan bar backing and mixing the odd cocktail, and the army of waitresses and shotgirls slinging drinks on the floor, we’ve got everything pretty much handled. Tess will pop in when she feels like it to lend a hand, but mostly she just comes in to pick up my slack. Any other Friday night, I’d be working the crowd, looking for my next victim. Someone to punch or someone to fuck. Same, same as far as I’m concerned.

That was the plan, but it all fell apart within seconds of me walking in the door. I shouldn’t be here. I’m not fit for human consumption right now, and really, if I step one foot from behind this bar, someone’s gonna get hurt. Unfortunately, it probably won’t be me.

So, I’ll stay right here. Mix drinks. Keep my head down and my hands to myself. As soon as the crowd starts to die, I’ll bounce. Go home. Alone.

For the good of humanity.

Dumping my ice into one of the squat rocks glasses I have lined up on the bar, I flick a quick glance at my customer. Brunette. Curvy. Cute. Absolutely fuckable, in that fresh-scrubbed, Midwesterner, never seen you before in my life kind of way.

Seventy-two hours ago, I’d had her panties around her ankles by now.

Now, I just stand here, hand poised above the well, waiting for her to tell me what she wants to drink. She’s new. Maybe she doesn’t know how this works. “Cran or sour, sweetheart?” I say, trying to make it easy for her. “Malibu and Cranberry or Whiskey Sours—that’s what I have.” When she still doesn’t answer, I stifle a sigh “If you want something different, you’ll have to go—”

“Uhhh…” She shoots a look over her shoulder, and I follow her gaze to a tight cluster of women—all of whom I’ve fucked—watching us with avid interest. One of them makes a shooing motion with her hand, telling my customer to get her head back in the game.

Jesus Christ.

When she turns back around, I reach blindly into the well and pull out a random bottle. Cran it is.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” I say, giving the glass in front of me a measured pour of Malibu.

“Kaitlyn,” she says, wide-eyed and breathless.

Do it, fuckface. This is why you’re here. This is the plan. This is how you get Henley out of your system. Keep her out. This is what you do.

So, get to work.

I give her the Gilroy grin. “Hi, Kaitlyn,” I say, aiming my mixing gun over the glass, giving it a shot of cranberry juice. “I’m Conner.”

“I know.” As soon as she says it, her eyes bulge slightly, face suddenly red and flushed. “I mean, I heard—shit, what I meant was—”

“I know what you meant,” I say, sticking a short straw into the glass before pushing it at her across the bar. She picks it up and puts the straw between her lips, gazing up at me through her eyelashes while I mentally fumble around for my auto-pilot switch. The switch I flip when I’m not into it but have to get it done anyway. The switch that’ll set me on cruise control. Helps me get through the next few hours without putting my head through a wall.

I can’t find it.

Probably doesn’t help that I’m stone sober and can still feel the weight and warmth of Henley pressed against me. Her fingers digging into my muscles. Her soft, uneven breath on my neck.

Make me come for you, Conner.

Shit.

“So,” she says, giving me a shy smile. “Do you think maybe you want to...” She trails off, no doubt catching the scowl I can feel rooting itself on my face.

“You ever been fucked in a public bathroom before?”

Shut up, Genius.

When her mouth opens slightly, but no sound comes out, I keep going.

“Around here, it’s called getting Gilroyed—how it usually works is, I spend a few minutes chatting you up to make sure we’re on the same page and laying down the ground rules—no kissing. No oral. No repeats—”

Stop talking, dickface. You’re gonna scare her off.

“—then, when I’m sure you understand that all I want is to stick my dick in you, I take you to the ladies’ room where I get you naked from the waist down, strap on a condom, bend you over one of the sinks and fuck the shit out of you.”

What the hell is wrong with you? Shut your fucking mouth.

“You’ll have the kind of orgasm that’ll still be setting off tremors when you're eighty and living in a goddamned nursing home, so you’ll be able to convince yourself that it’s all good—you used me and got what you came for but in reality, I’m the one who’ll be using you, so I can forget how fucked up I am for ten whole minutes—I get you off, not because I want to, but because the rules of reciprocity demand it—then I walk out the door before you even have time to pull up your panties. Less than an hour after I’ve fucked you, you’ll have the distinct pleasure of watching me do it all over again with some other random stranger.

“That’s what I do. That’s what this is.” I jerk my chin at the cluster of women who sent her over here. I know this is my fault. I did this to myself. I made me who I am. I’m Dr. Frankenstein and the Monster. But knowing that doesn’t make me any less angry. “That’s what I did your friends, and that’s what they signed you up for—sounds fun, right?”

She still can’t find her voice. She just shakes her head at me, because no—it doesn’t sound like fun.

Not anymore.

“Drink’s on the house—get better friends,” I tell her, moving down the bar a bit to get away from her. She stands there awkwardly for a moment, probably trying to figure out how she managed to screw up what she’d been assured was a sure thing.

Way to scare the fish, asshole.