Page 3 of Absolutely Pucked
“What can I get you, honey?”
“Rum and Coke—like, bottom-shelf shit,” I added, and they laughed. “Also, any hints on who might be an easy but not creepy lay?”
They hummed as they reached for the well bottles, and I smiled when I watched them give me a slightly longer pour than normal. Their gaze flickered off to the side, where a man was sitting at the end of the bar. I couldn’t get a good look at his face with his head tipped down, but he was definitely my type.
He had thick arms and full waist—bit of a dad bod or whatever people were calling it these days. His jaw was covered with a thick beard that I usually hated, but I didn’t mind it on him. His hair could have used some work—it wasn’t as long as mine, though it had length,but it was definitely unkempt. Maybe not unwashed, but he didn’t put a lot of effort into his appearance.
I could see why the bartender thought he was an easy lay. But was he creepy? Signs pointed to a hard…mmm, maybe.
“I think I’ll need a drink first.”
They nodded. “He ordered a peach schnapps and Seven-Up,” they said, tipping their head low toward me. “And nothing but water since then. They’ve been here for about three hours and haven’t asked anyone to dance.”
Lord have mercy. My heart wrenched in my chest. They were either sad or luckless. That was kind of my sex kryptonite. Or…wait. Aphrodisiac?
Whatever, it got me going because I was most definitely a freak. Unresolved trauma will do that to a guy. Any therapist would have a field day with my people-pleasing and hero complex, but I didn’t have the money these days to pay someone my own fucking age to tell me what I already knew.
Shitty parents: check.
Losing my leg as a teenager: check.
Getting kicked out at sixteen for having a shitty attitude about it: check.
I was filled to the brim with unresolved trauma, and the short stint I did in therapy, the poor woman who was most definitely a grad student looked at me with a helpless look in her eyes and said, “I don’t know what I can do for you.”
So yeah. I was good.
“Refill?”
I blinked up at the bartender. “What’s your name?”
“Max.”
“Max.” I leaned my elbow on the bar. “Great name. Do you think that guy over there is a serial killer with an amputee fetish?”
They coughed and looked a bit startled. “Um. I can’t say I’ve ever met one, so I don’t know. It’s probably a safe bet that he’s not. He seems sad, not homicidal.”
“Do you think Jeffrey Dahmer seemed sad or homicidal?”
Max hesitated, then reached into their pocket and handed me a key. “Look, this place used to be one of those old-school pubs with rooms rented on top. Far right at the top of the stairs. It’s partly storage, but there’s a couch and a microwave. It’s not as anonymous as a hotel, but it’s private.”
“And if you find a dead body?—”
“I’ll be sure to give the security footage to the cops.”
It was a start. “And when my friends come looking for clues—it’ll be a very short pale dude with crutches and another pale dude with two prosthetic legs—tell them I love them.”
Max grinned. “You got it.”
“I owe you.”
“Just come back when you can and spend more money here so I don’t have to close this club before I hit the five-year mark.”
I offered them a mock salute before sliding off the chair and steadying myself. I had a pretty noticeable limp and probably should walk with my cane more often, but it was easier to blame it on being drunk when I was trying to hook up. And I really wanted to get laid and not tell this guy all about myself.
The room was a great offer, but getting my dick sucked in a dirty bathroom was the better choice. It was a perfect way to not have to take my pants all the way off. But I could probably make excuses when we got upstairs.
Ifwe got upstairs.
