Page 8 of Sins He Taught Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 3)

Victoria

I stick out like a sore thumb every time I come into this bar.

Saint Booze isn’t exactly my scene. If it weren’t for the fact that I’m meeting my dad here, I’d give this dive the absolute widest berth imaginable. It’s the kind of bar you go to only when you’re a desperate alcoholic with nothing to lose. Asbestos-ridden ceiling tiles falling in, grime on the stools that haven’t been cleaned since the Reagan administration, and gross old men leering like zombies at anyone with two X chromosomes. I feel like just looking at the place might give me hepatitis.

I brush a strand of hair behind my ear as I step into the building, immediately overwhelmed with the stench of cheap tobacco and stale beer. It’s low-key embarrassing how much that smell reminds me of my dad.

Just as I predicted—the second I enter, nine or ten pairs of drunken male eyes all latch onto me like they’ve never seen a woman before. I’m wearing a cami, a flowy blouse, and a purse slung across my chest, and yet they still stare directly at my tits as if there’s not a person attached to them.

Blech.

Swallowing down my discomfort, I cross the room and head as far away from the rest of the patrons as possible. The last thing I want is one of these creepazoids here thinking I’m trying to socialize.

I take a seat at the end of the bar and pull my bag around, unzipping the front and shuffling around for my things. I arrived at 1:15 P.M. on the dot, like Dad and I had agreed on when he called, but I don’t have the faintest idea of how long it’ll be until he gets here. Fine by me—if I can squeeze in some time to get my life in order while I wait, I’ll take it. I may be punctual, borderline OCD, but heavens know my dad sure is not.

When the bartender eventually meanders over to me, I order a Diet Coke. He looks me up and down with amusement, but mercifully, he doesn’t make a comment. He doesn’t have to say anything; I know I don’t belong. Everyone else here knows it, too. Nothing about my five-two stature, mousy bookworm features, and petite frame screams ‘daytime drinker.’

The bartender places the can of Diet Coke in front of me, along with a straw. Part of me wants to ignore it, insulted that he’d make the assumption I’d be prissy enough to use a straw for a can. But instead, I swallow my pride, grudgingly grab the straw from the counter, and slide it into my drink. I do actually prefer straws.

With the sound of some eighties rock band playing through the speakers overhead, I flip through my agenda and triple-check all of my plans.

I have a compulsive need to keep my life ridiculously organized. Luckily for me, this planner I found spaces things out in fifteen-minute increments. Nothing is so calming to my budding pseudo-OCD as neat little color-coded boxes. At the very least, when I look at my calendar, I can pretend everything in my life is going to plan.

Even when that’s wildly far from reality.

While I go over my schedule, I notice a man out of the corner of my eye. He stands up from his seat at a table on the opposite side of the room and heads right for me.

I pray silently to any gods who might be listening that I’m not his intended target. He staggers towards me and then away, closer and farther, with my hopes bouncing up and down wildly like a ECG chart.

Please not me. Please not me. Please not…

Oh, goddammit.

Rather than taking any of the other open seats at the bar, the drunk old guy saunters over to the one beside me and plops himself down hard.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Maybe if I pretend not to notice him, he’ll go away. To step things up a notch, I pull out one of my pre-law textbooks and hold it up right in front of my face.

I’ve always thought that it’s good to have a plan for the future, and even though I’m not enrolled in law school yet, I like to get ahead of the curve and flip through my books any time I have a moment to myself. I turn a page, eyeing the man in the stool next door over the top edge of the book, and take a sip from my soda. All the while, he keeps staring holes through me. Or at least, he tries to. His eyes are a little unfocused from what I’m sure is enough booze to kill an elephant.

“We don’t get many girls like you around here,” he says finally, his voice gruff and rumbling.

I drag my eyes up from my book and meet his cloudy brown gaze. “Oh no?” I ask with as little interest as I can possibly summon.

“Well, I mean that you ain’t a usual. Especially not with all those notebooks and highlighters and sticky notes and whatnot. What’re you, some kind of smart chick or something?”

I scrunch up my face. “I’m honestly not in the mood to talk right now.” I try to use the calmest, most soothing voice I can manage. A guy that hangs around this bar may not react kindly if I throw my drink in his face and tell him to fuck off, no matter how nice that fantasy sounds.

“C’mon, honey, don’t be like that. Give a man some lovin’ when he’s tryna be nice to ya.”

Every hair on the back of my neck stands up, and I fight off a deep shiver. If there’s one thing I hate more than disorganization, it’s stupid nicknames like honey and baby. Why do guys like him get off on talking down to women like me?

I know I should just blow it off. He’s just some asshole. Not worth my energy. But today, I have the time to do what I always want to do: tell this jerk to stick it where the sun don’t shine.

“No, you come on,” I say, snapping my book closed suddenly and whirling to face him. “I’m not interested in talking to you. That’s why I’m at the bar by myself with my face in a book. Read between the lines, dude.”

“Why even come if you ain’t gonna to talk to no one?” He looks at me with that confused, blinking-too-much face that guys like him love to make. Like there’s no possible logical explanation for why I’d be here if it isn’t to keep him company.

Ugh. Men.

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