Page 21 of What's Left of Us

She stares down at her drink, which is nearly empty, before looking at the time on her phone. I wonder if she’s about to make an excuse as to why she has to leave or tell me to go fuck myself.

“It’s Lincoln,” I tell her, holding out my hand.

Her gaze dips down before peeking up at me through her lashes.

“I don’t bite.” I wink. “That hard.”

Narrowing her eyes, she takes my hand and squeezes it gently. Her painted pink nails are sharp, digging into me as she tightens her hold in challenge. “There are plenty of other women here for you to flirt with, Lincoln.”

“True,” I appease, my thumb brushing the back of her hand. “But then you’d get jealous. Wouldn’t want that, would we?”

Pulling back her hand, she grabs the rest of her drink and downs it in one go. Her hair cascades behind her as she takes the drink like a shot. It turns me on. I know women who can handle their alcohol but never whiskey. Especially not one of my favorite kinds.

My eyes go to her hair, and my fingers twitch with the desire to wrap around it. I wonder if it’s as silky as it looks. If she’d like it if I pulled it. The possibilities are endless.

“Why me?” she asks, sliding the empty glass toward the bartender.

Good question.“Whynotyou?”

Georgia doesn’t answer. Instead, she grabs the purse hanging from the back of the chair and sets it in her lap, digging through it and pulling out a tube of red lipstick.

I watch as she reapplies, my eyes tracking the movement along her plump bottom lip before she rubs them together. I picture what they’d look like wrapped around my cock. Would they leave a stain? God, I fucking hoped so.

“I’ve never seen you here before,” I note. The Barrel has a specific clientele—cops and bikers being the main two. Once in a while, criminals will show up. I’ve been offered drugs almost as much as I’ve been offered blow jobs here. I haven’t taken up either offer, though there were times I was tempted for the latter.

She sets her lipstick back into her purse and pulls out a black credit card, sliding it over to the bartender. It’s not her name on it but a man’s name. Nikolas. Her father? “My friend and I were supposed to go out together, but she bailed on me for a guy.”

My answer is genuine. “I’m sorry.”

She shrugs, waiting for the receipt and signing her name on the bottom. She stares at it when she says, “It’s officially my birthday.”

I look at the clock. It’s midnight—12:02.

“Happy birthday,” I tell her almost immediately. “How old are you?”

Her lips tilt up slightly. “Twenty-one.”

“And they served you?” I question. The Barrel tends to be pretty lenient, so I’m not surprised. But they also got hit witha massive fine after they were raided and checked for serving underaged people a few years back. The department that did it got over fifty fake IDs from the clientele that night. They had to close for a few months before reopening under new rules.

Georgia puts her card away before turning to me with watchful eyes. “What are you going to do, Officer? Arrest me?”

A thoughtful noise rises up my throat as I picture her in handcuffs.Onlyhandcuffs. “I guess we’ll see how the night goes.”

Her teeth bite down into her lip again, suppressing a smile.

I lean my arms on the edge of the counter. “Do you want another drink? On me, of course.”

My salary definitely doesn’t cover expensive top-shelf liquor, but I could probably scrape together enough for a glass of blue label.

“No.” Her lips curl downward. “Thank you,” she murmurs, almost as an afterthought.

Sadness dulls those unique eyes.

“What is it that you want for your birthday, Georgia?”

When her gaze finds mine, there’s indecision in the hues that roam over my face. “I don’t think you can give me what I want.”

Curiosity blooms in my chest. “Oh? And what is that?”

---