Page 6 of Hap

“I haven’t seen you in here before,” she states.

“Is that your best chat-up line?” I tease, arching my brow in question.

“I wasn’t chatting you up, merely enquiring,” she says, pursing her lips in annoyance, but I don’t miss how her cheeks heat a little from embarrassment.

I hold my hands up defensively. “You started talking to me. I was just sat here quietly enjoying my drink.”

Her eye twitches. “You were eye-fucking me,” she argues.

“I may have been, or not. That could have just been the way I look at everyone,” I say with a shrug.

Her eyes assess me for a moment. “You’re right.” She looks across the bar. “Look at the gentleman that is sitting at the thirdtable from the toilet door.” She gestures to the obese guy with a dirty shirt, and I notice his jeans are hanging low with his ass crack hanging out the back. “If you look at him the way you were looking at me, then I will apologise,” she challenges, taking a sip of her drink.

“Okay,” I accept before downing the last of my drink and lean slightly to my left to get a better view of the man. I sweep my eyes over the guy all the way down to his ass crack, but as my eyes reach that area, he reaches round with his hand and scratches deep in between his cheeks and then proceeds to remove his hand and sniff his fingers. I scrunch my nose up in disgust.

“Ha-ha!” she cheers. “See?” She laughs.

“The dude scratched his ass crack and sniffed his fingers,” I argue in defence, my grin widening. She takes another sip of her drink, and her hazel eyes are alight with amusement. I hold my hands up in surrender. “Fine, you got me. I was checking you out, but you can’t blame me. This isn’t exactly the type of place a woman like you comes to at...” I pause, looking at the time on my phone. “One in the afternoon,” I finish.

She knocks back her vodka before holding out the glass, shaking the ice in it to get the bartender’s attention for a refill. As she turns on the stool, she twists her body towards me, and with her long legs crossed, it causes her skirt to ride up her thigh a little.

“What do you mean, women like me?” she presses, arching her brow.

I reach for my glass of whiskey the barman had refilled and take a slow sip as my eyes slowly sweep over her. As I place the glass back down on the bar, not breaking my gaze from hers, I roll my bottom lip between my teeth. Her eyes instantly flicker to my mouth.

“A beautiful woman, a classy woman, and clearly a woman that is extremely successful going by the designer heels youare wearing. I would imagine someone like you would be seen more in a wine or cocktail bar. Rather than this place,” I point out. “And I’m guessing this ain’t the place your husband would usually take you to, either,” I add, nodding to the ring on her finger.

She flinches, and the smile falls from her face. The barman refills her drink and she nods her thanks before knocking her drink back in one again. She exhales a long breath and taps the glass for another.

“Yeah, well, you are right. This is definitely not a place my husband would bring me to,” she says with a biting tone.

The lust-filled haze I had for her clears a little, and I take a moment to study her, more than just taking in what’s on the surface. She looks tired and deflated, but what I notice the most, what I see when I really look at her is the same fucking thing I’m feeling. Pain. She’s here for the same reason I am, to try and block that emptiness, that constant feeling of hurt and silence from her mindless thoughts. Her eyes bore into mine, and I know she sees it too.

I hold out my glass. “To finding peace at a shitty bar with a beautiful woman,” I toast.

Her lips twitch as she picks up her glass. “To finding temporary peace at the bottom of the bottle in a shitty bar, with a hot biker that I am pretty sure is far too young for me,” she adds, clinking her glass with mine.

She knocks her drink back while I take a small sip, just watching her. “Before we bare our souls, why the fuck would you think I am too young for you?” I ask.

She scoffs. “Look at me, and then look at you. You are what, 23?” she asks.

I smirk. “25.”

She nods. “Jesus Christ, okay. You not going to guess my age?” she counters.

I shake my head. “Not a fucking chance. One, because I don’t give a shit, and two, I ain’t fucking stupid. You never comment or guess a woman’s age,” I point out.

“I’m 39,” she answers.

“Baby, that ain’t no age gap. That’s every damn boy’s wet fucking dream,” I state. Her pale pink lips part and her cheeks heat. “You would have been the hot babysitter that parents would hire, and every young boy would be wanking under their covers at night thinking about you while you sat downstairs. Hell, even the daddies were probably thinking about you as they fucked their wives,” I tell her truthfully.

She closes her mouth and swallows. “I walked in on my husband fucking my sister in our hot tub last week,” she blurts out.

“Your husband is a fucking moron, and your sister is a cunt,” I respond. Her lips curve into a small smile. “My friend died in my arms two weeks ago, and I can’t fucking move past it,” I confess. Her smile falls, and she reaches out, placing her hand on mine.

“I’m so sorry,” she states softly, her warm gaze full of sympathy. Her thumb strokes back and forth over the back of my hand. “What happened?” she asks. When I don’t instantly answer, she goes to withdraw her hand. “I’m sorry, that was insensitive. It’s none of my business,” she apologises.

I quickly grab her hand, stopping her from withdrawing it, enjoying the feeling of her soft, delicate hand in mine too much to lose her touch yet.

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