Page 2 of Just A Kiss

“What can I get you to drink?” I’m more specific this time.

His eyes drop to my chest when he answers. “A tall glass of you.”

Okay. I’m done. I push off the bar and spin around to walk over to the other side but come to a stop when I catch sight of a man entering the dimly lit bar. He doesn’t fit in here. The Horseshoe is full of college kids and men who know their wives would never come to this side of town. The guys who occupy this run-down joint wear wrinkled T-shirts and tennis shoes, so this guy stands out like a sore thumb in black slacks, a dark blue button-up, and a black vest and tie. He’s alone, which also surprises me. Men like Asher Kyle are never alone. Or in this part of town.

“Hey, bitch! You gonna get me my drink or not?” the guy shouts from behind me. Mr. Douche.

When I spin back around to face him, he glares at me. Reaching over, I grab the bottle of vodka, pour it into a shot glass, and then throw it in his face. “Drink up.”

He jumps up from his seat so fast that the barstool falls over and hits the floor. “What the fuck?”

“It’s on the house,” I say with a smile.

He slaps his hands down on the bar and then begins to climb over it when a hand grabs his shoulder and yanks him back. The guy looks the man up and down and then points at me. “Are you the manager? If so, I want her fired. She just threw alcohol in my face.”

Asher crosses his arms over his broad chest, his dark blue eyes looking down at the douche, and my heart begins to race. This is why I avoid him. Men don’t make me weak in the knees or my palms sweat, but Asher Kyle isn’t like any other man. He’s much more. And that scares the hell out of me.

“And you insulted her.”

Vodka drips off the guy’s face and onto his shirt. It was only a shot glass, so it’s not like it had much in it. “Fuck you, dude …”

Asher grabs him by the collar, shoving him through the crowd and right out the front door while the guy cusses me the entire time.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I dig it out quickly, accidentally grabbing the letter as well. I slap the folded piece of paper on the bar and open my messages to see what my brother has to say, but it’s not him. It’s my best friend, Hadley.

I called you earlier, but you never called me back.

I close out the message because I don’t have time to talk to her right now. I look up and see that the woman with the gold top now occupies the vodka-shot-in-the-face guy’s seat. Setting down a hundred-dollar bill, she says, “Thank God someone finally put that bastard in his place. He’s continued to hit on me all night even after I repeatedly told him I wasn’t here for him.” She blows some brown strands away from her face.

I smile at her. “What can I get you?”

“I’ll take a shot of vodka in honor of the jackass.”

I pour her a shot and grab the money off the bar. She downs it while I get her change. “How long have you worked here, sweetie?” she asks.

“Four years.”

She gives me a kind smile. “Ever thought about moving up in the world?”

I chuckle. “Moving up? Where to exactly?”

She takes a twenty-dollar bill from her change and picks up a pen off the bar. She begins to scribble something on it and then slides it to me. “Call me. We can talk.”

The man who was sitting by her earlier walks out of the men’s restroom and comes to stand beside her. “Ready to go, beautiful?”

“When you are.” She smiles at him.

He grabs her hand and pulls her away from the bar as she throws me a wink. I look down at the twenty to see she wrote Cherry and a phone number on it. I go to look up to ask her why she gave me this, but instead, I come face to face with a set of dark blue eyes. I swallow nervously and try to plaster a smile on my face as though he doesn’t affect me. Even though we both know he does. “So what do I owe you for taking out the trash?” I ask, placing the twenty in the glass tip jar on the bar.

Asher doesn’t smile at my joke. Instead, he sighs heavily. He’s disappointed in me. Well, get in line, buddy. “Why are you here, Andi?”

He calls me Andi. No one has ever given me a nickname before, and I hate how it does something to me. He took the time to call me something no one else does as though I’m special. Not that I am, though. He probably nicknames every girl he fucks. I’m just one in a long line.

I place my forearms on the bar, ignoring the way my pussy throbs when his eyes peek at my chest. “Why are you here?”

“Meeting a client,” he answers, his voice sounding indifferent. But I don’t miss the way he licks his lips. I wonder if he thinks of me as I do him?

“Isn’t that why you have an office?” Stay behind the bar! You are not a wild animal, and we are not in the jungle. Do not attack!

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