Page 2 of Dropping Like Flies

Griffin

I gritted my teeth as the tingle of sexual arousal started. Sexual arousal that had absolutely nothing to do with the bartender I’d been appraising, and everything to do with a man I hadn’t seen for three years. A man I’d ended things with but could hardly forget when we were still so closely linked. That damn fated mate necromancer bond had a lot to answer for, and I didn’t care that it was technically my fault because I was the necromancer. I hadn’t asked to be one. There’d been no dotted line to sign on. No selling my soul to the devil. I just was, and had been since birth, even if I hadn’t discovered it until my teenage years. And I hadn’t been stupid enough to look a gift horse in the mouth. Not when it paid so well.

The secondary sexual arousal dissipated—thank God—and I went back to studying the bartender over my tumbler of whiskey. Twenty-one? Twenty-two? Definitely no older than twenty-five. Were they getting younger? Or was I just getting older? I suspected the latter was true.

He was all wavy chestnut-brown hair and tight clothing to show off his assets. And who could blame him when his lean, muscular body was well worth showing off. Was he gay? I contemplated that question while he served a trio of young women, all of them already well on their way to being paralytic. He flirted with them, but no more than if he were just being polite, no answer to the sexuality question to be found there.

Did it matter if he was gay when I wasn’t going to pick him up? It was something to think about, though. Something other than the pit of despair that threatened to drag me down into its depths every evening when I stared at the TV without having the slightest idea what I was watching. And it was definitely better than thinking about what Ben was doing. And who with. I knocked back the rest of the whiskey in one gulp, the bartender’s gaze flicking my way as I banged the empty glass down on the bar harder than I’d intended.

“Refill?” he queried.

I nodded, studying him some more while he set about pouring it. Pretty green eyes. Nice shaped face. Clean shaven. I bet he got hit on a lot working here. Occupational hazard, I supposed. Purple Paradise—and whoever thought of that name wanted shooting—wasn’t busy tonight. Neither was it empty. Therefore, it was a perfect place to blend in, to be amongst people while not having to talk to anybody, which was just the way I liked it. Should it fill up too much, I’d move on.

The bartender placed my glass in front of me once more, the fingers still wrapped around it signaling he was waiting for me to acknowledge him. I dutifully raised my gaze to his, and he smiled. It was a smile worthy of a toothpaste commercial, the only thing missing the ping and the flash of light. “You look like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders,” he said. “Want to talk about it?”

Did I? With a complete stranger? I laughed because how could I not? He looked affronted and let go of the glass, taking a step back. “Suit yourself. I just thought it might help.”

“I tell you what would help.” The bartender stilled in his intention to turn away. “It would help if people don’t psychoanalyze me and I could just sit and have a quiet drink. That would help a lot.”

He held up in his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Sorry, dude. Just trying to help. Didn’t mean to upset you.”

“People rarely mean to do it,” I said, my words sharp. “Doesn’t stop it from happening regularly, though, does it?”

He’d already turned away, his salvation coming with a young couple arriving at the bar. The way they were intertwined suggested they were in the first throes of love. My lip curled. Fucking happy people rubbing it in other people’s faces. They were everywhere you looked. I ignored the voice in my head that pointed out that had I stayed home, I wouldn’t have had to see any couples fawning over each other. I wouldn’t have had to see anyone at all. I took a sip of my refreshed glass of whiskey, the amber liquid burning pleasantly as it slid down my throat.

After my rejection of his sympathetic ear, the bartender went out of his way not to look in my direction. Good. That was the way I liked it. Just me, myself and I. Life was better that way. Who needed people sticking their noses in? It was like that kid at work—Calisto. Always asking me if I was alright with that same look of concern on his face. And when I inevitably told him to fuck off and leave me alone, it was like kicking a damn puppy, my colleague acting like he’d been in the wrong instead of me being a complete bastard.

At least John was happy to ignore me. No expressions of concern about my wellbeing from him. Although, I suspected that behind my back, he had a lot to say, and none of it good. It didn’t matter. They were just work colleagues. I didn’t need to like them and they didn’t need to like me.

Another burst of secondary arousal hit me, this one stronger, and I cursed out loud, causing a pair of bankers who’d come straight from work judging by their suits to turn in my direction. I raised my glass in a silent toast and they went back to their conversation. What did they see when they looked at me? A drunk? A man down on his luck? Or was I being too hard on myself? Did they just see a guy having a drink or three at the bar? Did I even care?

The feeling continued, heat pooling in my groin and causing my cock to stir. For fuck’s sake. Not now. Not tonight. I was already way too maudlin to deal with it. Please let it just be a quick blow job down an alley that was over in minutes. It only grew in intensity, though, until I was squirming in my seat, my cock hard enough to cause quite the stir should anyone glance at my crotch. Going to the restroom wasn’t an option. Not unless I was prepared to walk there with a raging boner.

I slammed my hand down on the bar, the bartender pausing his conversation to shoot me a wary look. “I need the bottle,” I demanded, a slight slur in my voice. “And I need it now.”

“Well,” he said as he reached for it and brought it over, “seeing as you asked so nicely.”

I could barely think as waves of sensation that weren’t my own bombarded me, waves that threatened to make me come in my pants if I didn’t find a way of lessening them or stopping them altogether. When the bartender didn’t immediately hand over the bottle, I held my hand out for it. The look he gave me in return was more than I could deal with in my current state, as was the patronizing tone that accompanied his words. “Do you not think you’ve had enough?”

“Clearly, I don’t,” I ground out. “Or I wouldn’t have asked for it.”

He surrendered it with a slight sigh that showcased his reluctance perfectly. I poured a generous measure and knocked half of it back, the burn of the alcohol helping slightly. “Olives,” I demanded as he went to turn away. “I need olives.”

“Olives!” I could forgive him for the slight eyebrow rise. I doubted it was the snack of choice for most of the drunks he dealt with.

“Do you have any?”

“Only in a jar. They go on the side of the glass for some of the cocktails we do.”

“They’ll do. I need the whole jar.”

He crouched to reach into the fridge, pulling out a jar before straightening to deposit it in front of me. He inclined his head toward the bottle of whiskey as I unscrewed the top of the jar. “Bottle takes you over the threshold. You’ll need to pay off your tab.”

“Fine.” I pulled my bank card out of my wallet and flicked it on the bar, just as another wave of pleasure crashed over me. Bastard! I hooked an olive out of the jar and popped it in my mouth, pulling a face as I chewed it slowly. I disliked the taste of olives, but not as much as a certain someone else. Someone who was currently having way too much fun. If this didn’t put a dampener on his ardor, I didn’t know what would.

Sure enough, by the time I’d demolished half the jar, my cock had shrunk, and I was no longer being assaulted by waves of pleasure. Smug satisfaction had me smiling as I chewed on another olive for good measure. Bastard hadn’t even come. I wondered how that had gone down with whoever he was with. I almost wished I’d been there to witness what excuse he’d come up with.

“First time I’ve seen you smile.” I looked up to find that the bartender was back. During my olive eating banquet, the bar had emptied, only a few of the most dedicated drinkers remaining. He leaned against the bar, the way his gaze roved over me unmistakable. “My name’s Flynn,” he said. “Just in case you’re interested.”

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