Page 2 of Wicked Ends
I blinked at him. Was that a compliment? I had no idea. Maybe he was only making conversation. Sometimes I forgot people did that.
“It’s good, you should give it another try.” I attempted to imitate his casual confidence but only sounded stern.
His mouth quirked up at the corner. “I’ll do that.”
He reached out to take the plate. I couldn’t help but stare at his inked arms. He had a black T-shirt on and black jeans, and his forearms were corded with muscle. He was hot. Hotter than I knew what to do with. He sauntered to the end of the bar and placed the plate on the kitchen pass-through before returning to stand in front of me.
“So, what’s your poison?” he asked after a moment.
I realized I’d been staring. He really was beautiful. Dark-haired with those floppy casual waves that framed his face, a nineties pop idol. His slash of eyebrows crowned his big brown eyes. He had stubble, enough to outline his strong jaw, and tattoos climbed up his neck. He was tan, like someone who spent a lot of time outdoors, and he flashed me an easy smile with the confidence of someone who knew they looked good.
“Excuse me?”
“What can I get you?”
“Um, I’ll have a drink,” I managed to get out.
He watched me for a second longer and then chuckled.
“I’d think so, this is a bar, after all… unless you’re after something else.”
His gaze dragged down my body, and my cheeks burned even hotter. Did it seem like I was propositioning him? Even if I knew where to start, the idea that I’d hit on the hottest guy I’d ever spoken to was laughable.
“Something fruity?” I suggested. “Not beer.”
I hated beer. The smell of it nauseated me. The Proust Effect in full force, and beer was the scent of a hell of a lot of crappy memories.
“Sure thing, coming up.”
He turned away, and I took a second to enjoy the sight of his back, which was just as impressive as his front. His shoulders were broad as hell. He was athletically built, and I found myself wondering what sport it was that a big guy like this played. Another bartender came behind the bar. This girl was small and slender, delicate, which was at odds with the barbed wire choker around her throat and her black fishnets and Docs.
“Marcus, I’m going. You’ve got this handled, right?”
Marcus? His name is Marcus.It was strong and striking, like him.
Mr hot bartender sighed, long and hard. “I don’t work here, Ronnie, for the tenth time, but well done for pushing your fucking luck, like always.”
The girl stopped and smiled winningly at him.
“Yeah, well, Cole says you can cover me, since you’re actually here and not out fucking around with your friends.” Ronniewaved her cell phone at Marcus. “You want to call him and check?”
“Get the fuck out of here,” Marcus tossed at Ronnie.
She smiled victoriously and spun on her heel and walked away.
When he turned around again, I dropped my eyes, embarrassed to be caught listening in.
“Here, one fruity, non-beer drink,” he said and placed something pale pink in front of me.
“Thanks,” I murmured and took a sip. It was tart and juicy, and honestly delicious, but… there was something missing.
“Is this a mocktail?” I wondered.
“Sure is. I don’t know if you’re driving or not, or if you’re even over twenty-one,” he teased.
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. It was so preposterous.
“Twenty-one? Try adding another four years on, as of today,” I sighed.
