Page 19 of Blurred Red Lines
Entering the pretentiously decorated Irish pub, I silently chastised myself for my momentary lapse in judgment in going back to Caliente. Being there had been reckless and stupid. With what I knew to be occurring in only hours, I’d shown my face in a place I should never have risked visiting.
Not only was being there dangerous, engaging the bartender was suicidal.
One moment I sat in my office pouring over the profits from the last commodities investment we’d exported, the next, I found myself sliding onto a dirty barstool in the shittiest cantina in downtown Houston.
“Can I get you something, handsome?”
I glanced up, still lost in thought. Somehow, I’d made my way through the front door of the darkened pub to an even darker wooden bar. As I took in the bartender’s tight, black Lycra shorts and half-tee that boasted the phrase ‘Naughty Irish Girl,’ I was sure turning the wheel into oncoming traffic would’ve been a better option.
“Probably not, but you can give it a try,” I told her, absentmindedly flipping my phone from end to end between my thumb and forefinger.
Her toothy grin faded a little as a tinge of annoyance crept into her voice. “I’m pretty talented with my hands, sugar,” she quipped, offering a smirk. “Why don’t you try me?”
Any other time, I might have taken her up on her implied offer. She was attractive enough, but tonight my mind swam with swirls of red and streams of snappy banter.
“Añejotequila. Straight shot, in a stem glass, room temp…” I glanced without interest at her nametag. “…Tiffany.” I had low expectations, but for the sake of drying my soaked shirt, I gave her a shot.
Giving me a wink, she clomped off in heels way too high for her uncoordinated legs to handle and began rummaging through a wasteland of bottles. I took the opportunity to evaluate my surroundings. Observation was a valuable skill my father instilled in me early in life.
A man could never be surprised if he was aware of danger before it struck.
The small room was dimly lit, brightened by only low watt overhead bulbs encased in terra-cotta shades. I found it strange décor for an Irish pub, but with the almost caricature Ireland memorabilia tacked to the walls, I had a feeling the place was anything but authentic.
My gaze bounced from man to man, inconspicuously searching for telltale signs of a shoulder holster, the outline of a gun protruding from a waistline, a nervous hand twitch, or a repeated glance toward the door. Every man in my father’s inner circle, at one time or another, had brought me to a cantina since I was fifteen years old. They taught me to notice the unnoticeable, see the unseeable, and recognize the markings of a guilty man.
“Here ya go, sweets.” Tiffany slid a highball glass in front of me, sloshing half the liquid on my hand. I didn’t have to taste it. I could smell it on my skin.
Blanco.
Shit tequila, aged less than a month…maybe two.
I’d rather die of dehydration. Grabbing a drink napkin, I wiped my hand and pushed the offending glass toward her. “Just a water, thanks.”
A confused look crossed her face, followed by annoyance. “You still have to pay for it.”
“Of course.”
“Whatever, dude.” Insulted, she moved down the bar, working her pathetic charm on some other unsuspecting man.
I should’ve known better than to order a drink no one in this town could seem to manage.
Except for her.
Cereza.
It was a dangerous move to know her name and even more so to give her mine. I had every intention of denying her request or even making up one. It wouldn’t have been the first time I’d lied to a woman about my name. Since I never fucked the same woman twice, I never saw a need for such triviality as the exchange of names. My discretion was for their safety as much as mine.
Aside from the fact that she was the only bartender in Houston who could make a drink without fucking it up, I thought too much about her the past few weeks. I found myself gravitating toward women with long red hair and blue eyes. I’d fucked each of them, hoping to screw her out of my head.
It never happened. A man couldn’t crave quality steak…salivate for it…then satiate his hunger with a cheeseburger from a drive-thru.
American women usually failed to hold my attention, but her strength and dominance surged all the blood in my veins straight to my cock. She was flashy, but her eyes hid a world of pain behind them. The pale blue color made a man want to break down her walls and discover her secrets while burying himself deep inside her body.
The same thin black tank top she wore did nothing to hide the curves that dipped into a trim waist, highlighting an ass I could sink my fingers into from behind.
That candy-red hair. Those smoky rimmed eyes.
Just thinking about her made me hard as a rock.
