Page 8 of Pretty Heartache

“I want you to taste me. Right here.” The woman in front of me falls against the crusty, faded wall of the dirty stall we’re standing in. Her voice is flat, and every few words, I swear I hear a distinct Boston accent, reminding me I’m not thousands of miles away from the home I dread coming back to every week.

The woman spreads her legs and slides her hand down the length of her stomach, then lifts her skirt, displaying her bare pussy to me. Her breasts are shoved together by the tight, black corset wrapped around her frame, the tops of them spilling over. My eyes follow her arm down to the hand she has pressed against herself. She parts her folds with her fingers, telling me exactly where she wants me to taste her. She massages her clit as she bends her left leg, hitching it up to rest her foot on the roll of torn toilet paper. Her foot slips, and she stumbles forward, gripping onto my waist to keep herself from falling face first onto the sticky, beige, tile floor. Her long fingers grip onto the lapels of my suit, crinkling the smooth fabric. Righting herself, she giggles as she straightens her back, lazily wiping flyaway strands of her curly hair away from her face.

She giggles again, hiccupping as she falls back against the wall. It’s comical to see her in front of me. She’s a stranger,pawing and clawing at another stranger. I wish I was more into this than I am.

My dick twitches, with another vibration rippling from my pocket.

“I’m really drunk.” She covers her mouth, unable to contain her laughter.

“I gathered as much.” I sigh. “Do you normally drink on the job?”

“Not always.” She giggles—again—and tosses her head dramatically from side to side. “Usually, I can get away with it, though. Especially on nights that are slow. You walked in at the right time. I was beginning to get bored.” She leans forward, half closing her eyes. Her mouth comes close to mine, but I stop her before she gets too close.

“Do you think because you own this bar, it means you can drink on the job whenever you want?”

“Maybe.” She shrugs on another hiccup. “My boyfriend is never here and doesn’t care that I drink with the other customers. And while I might not officially own this bar, you could say I do.” She leans forward again.

I fall back against the door of the stall as she lifts her face to mine, biting down on my lip. She winds my tie around her small hand, keeping us only inches apart. I brace myself against the dirty walls of the bathroom stall, and she looks up at me with drunken eyes that are swimming with heat.

After swiping her tongue across her lips, a heavy breath and deep moan passes her mouth as she slides her other hand down the front of my pants. Instinctively, I grunt when she wraps her thin fingers around my hardened length over the fabric of my suit.

“What do you mean you don’t officially own this bar?” I ask, closing my eyes and clearing my throat, telling myself to focus on the task at hand. I can’t allow myself to get distracted. Not yet.

Business first.

Pleasure second.

I’m here for work, but it doesn’t hurt to have a distraction. Anything to get my mind off how fucked my life has become.

“Technically, my boyfriend owns it, but I pay the rent.” She winds her hand tighter around my tie. Her voice is heavy and weighted, and the sour scent of whiskey blows across my face.

I roll my eyes, irritation bubbling under my skin. It seems the business side of the encounter with the bartender of this pub is quickly fading. She isn’t the one I’m supposed to be talking with.

“You told me you owned this place when I walked in.”

She flexes her hand around my tie, tugging me impossibly closer, and I hold my breath, wondering how I’m going to get out of this situation. I shouldn’t have come in here with her like this, but my head, heart, and dick are in a persistent battle. Three sides refusing to surrender easily.

“I didn’t lie.” She giggles with a glint in her eye. “Like I said, technically, I do own it.”

“But you don’t,” I say, my eyes bouncing across her face. I press my fingertips into the dirty plastic walls. The incessant vibration from my phone has finally stopped, but my dick is relentless. It wants to be inside something. Anything to make me forget the horrible, wretched human being I’ve become.

“Are you disappointed?” She pouts. “Does that change things?”

She tries to pull me closer, but something in my brain has flipped. My stomach sours. Suddenly, the memories I work to bury in the dark recesses of my brain have come out to play. They taunt me, refusing to retract the claws they’ve sunk in deep.

“Come on,” the woman begs. “Don’t get soft on me now. My boyfriend won’t be back until later tonight. I’m a quick fuck.” She slips her hand under the waist of my pants, cups my length, and starts rubbing.

“Stop,” I grunt, pulling her hand out from my pants. “I didn’t come here for you. I came for your boyfriend.”

She cocks an eyebrow, crossing her arms over her chest with an exaggerated huff. “Then, why are you in here with me?”

“That’s not what I meant.” I sigh and dig into the front inside pocket of my suit jacket to pull out my business card. I pinch it between two fingers before handing it to her. Her dark eyebrows knit, eyeing me curiously as she snatches it from me and holds it annoyingly close, as if she can’t read it unless it’s three inches from her face.

She snaps her head up, wide-eyed as she sucks in a sharp breath, realization dawning on her.

“You’re a Harding,” she whispers shakily.

Her face has paled. The loose, curly strands framing her face cling to her damp cheeks. I’m not as intoxicated as her, but suddenly, I’m aware of the alcohol we shared before deciding to come into the bathroom. The dingy walls close in around us, and the air is tight.

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