Page 4 of Dysfunctional

“Every time you see me?” I repeat back to him.

He shrugs. “It’s a small town.”

I eye him carefully before I respond. “Doyouhave friends?”

He laughs again, but the thing about his laughter is, it never feels genuine. “No, man. I guess I don’t. That’s why I’m asking you. I’m still kinda new here.”

“How new?”

“Less than a year.”

“Well, I’m not from here, so if you’re looking for a tour guide or information expert, it’s not me.”

“Oh yeah?” he questions, cocking his head. “Where did you come from?”

I don’t want to answer. He seems too curious. With a sigh, I say, “Sure. I’ll go out with you. When and where?”

His lips stretch into a smile that would send chills down the back of anybody except me. It’s like he knew I wouldn’t want to answer.

ChapterThree

Ishow up to The Hideaway—the pub he chose to meet up at—and find it buzzing with a variety of clientele. Men in their fifties and sixties line the bar, women in their twenties screech with excitement when one of their friends brings them another round of shots, and guys in their late thirties or early forties drink beer, their eyes bouncing from the women to the TV in the corner.

After sidling up to the end of the bar, the bartender approaches and I order a beer.

“Beer?” a voice says from behind me. “Get something stronger. Tequila or whiskey.”

It’s him, a forced grin on his lips as he nods to the man behind the bar.

The bartender turns his eyes back to me. “I’ll stick with the beer.”

“Let me get a Gin and Tonic,” he says, shifting to the side to face me. “So, you made it. To be honest, I didn’t think you’d show.”

“I figured I’d see you again and you’d just keep bothering me.”

He snorts. “Sure. You can just admit to wanting to come.”

Once we pay for our drinks, we turn and simultaneously make our way to the corner booth that gives us a view of almost the entire bar.

I take a swig as I catalog the room.

“Looking for a victim?”

With a furrowed brow, I angle my head over my shoulder and survey him. “What are you talking about?”

He laughs, his body relaxed before he brings the glass to his lips. “A woman. Someone to take home tonight.”

My eyes find the two tables full of women. “Nah.”

“None of them are your type?” he questions.

“Not really.”

“There’s blondes, brunettes, redheads, tall, short, plump, and skinny girls. How is none of that your type?”

I take another gulp. How do you explain that nobody’s your type because most people are normal? “I don’t really do relationships. They haven’t worked out well for me in the past.”

“So, your type is temporary.”

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