Page 8 of Boyfriend of the Hour
I dumped his glass out in the sink before getting a fresh one and moved to the other side of the bar in search of the few bottles of decent booze we carried.
Glenlivet or Macallan? When rich men were trying to impress young women, they tended to order the latter. At least, Shawn always did.
“I woulddefinitelyhit that.”
I turned around, confronted with a posse of dudes whoreallywanted to be that kind of man. It was like they all ordered the same “Financial Douche” costume from Party City, complete with the striped shirts, loosened ties, and overpriced suits. One, two, three, four investment bankers looking to score.
Sure, fine, I’d gone home with a few of those in my day. The investment banker. The car salesman. The party promoter. And so on.
They were all the same at their core. Men who thought the world was made specifically for them to use as they saw fit, who swaggered around New York looking for their next buck and their next prize.
Why not be the prize myself, even for just one night? Or ten years, in Shawn’s case.
I grimaced. No, I wasnotgoing to think about Shawn right now. Not after he’d broken my heart—or maybe just my pride—for the millionth and final time.
No, no, no.
Maybe this one wasn’t an asshole. Maybe he was just gross, the way he was ogling my boobs. They weren’t even that big.
Down the bar, my chocolate-eyed customer watched our interaction carefully. I winked at him as I pulled the Macallan offthe shelf, but he didn’t smile or anything. He didn’t look away either.
“Look at that,” said the Finance Bro Number One. “I haven’t seen an ass that nice since we were in Vegas.”
I tensed, then turned from the liquor bottles, Macallan in hand. “Can I help you?”
The speaker, who had short blond hair with at least a metric ton of gel, offered a white-capped smile. “Sure. Can I get a to-go box?”
“For what?”
We didn’t sell food beyond stale peanuts, and he didn’t have anything with him.
“I’d like to take you home with me, baby,” he said, then glanced at his buddies, who obediently chuckled at the lame come-on.
I rolled my eyes. “Good one. But I’m actually helping someone right?—”
“We’re having a little after-party at my spot around the corner,” Gel Head interrupted, leaning across the bar so he could drag a finger down my forearm. “Wanna come?”
“Why? Is your mom gonna be there?” I cut back, stepping out of reach. “Hands off, fun boy.”
I glanced over to where Tom was, but my boss had disappeared to the back office, leaving me out front alone for the first time all night. Of course.
“Oh, we got a hot one tonight. Come on, baby. How often does a girl like you get to party in a penthouse? Where do you live, a basement in Queens?”
I scowled. As it happened, my grandma’s spare room in the Bronx—but fuck him anyway. “On the corner of Tenth and none of your goddamn business. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
I focused on pouring Mr. Chocolate Eyes’s drink, trying to ignore the twist of something sour in my gut. Like that time I atenothing but oranges for two weeks in order to drop five pounds before an audition. I didn’t even get the part, and all that citrus gave me heartburn. Apparently, so did assholes.
Gel Head followed me down the bar, then touched my bare shoulder this time.
“Yo!” I slapped his hand away, tossing a plastic bowl of cut limes to the floor. “Looky, no touchy! This ain’t for sale, asshole.”
“Aw, I love a bit of spark. And you got plenty. Don’t she, boys?”
“She said to leave her alone.”
We all turned to find Mr. Chocolate Eyes standing right next to Gel Head, glaring at the man like he was gum on the bottom of his shoe. He was taller than I realized, probably at least three or four inches over six feet, easily towering over the rat-faced hacks next to him.
They shriveled like raisins. Every last one of them.
