Page 36 of Milo

Accepting the light purple drink, I thanked the bartender with a nod and a smile. The chair beside me seemed to magically rearrange itself until I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, the culprit was seating himself in the chair right next to it. Another message appeared on the screen, disrupting my train of thought and demanding my undivided attention.

We need to talk, Nay. Where you at?

“Old fashion, please.”

My God. I clenched down below, swallowing the saliva that pooled in my mouth, trying to recall ever hearing a voice as delicate, yet raspy as the one I’d just heard.

Another call came through. I silenced it as well. After, another text vibrated the phone. Growing frustrated, I opened the messages to read the last one. Milo made an eirenicon in an effort to defuse the situation at hand.

I apologize for you having to see that, see her. There’s nothing to that. It’s just something that happened, unplanned. You don’t have to pick up the phone. Just tell me where you are. I’ll come to you. Hear me out.

Though I wanted to end my night with Milo hours ago, it wasn’t on these terms. Instead of declining the offer, I closed the chat and flipped my phone over on the counter. Exhaustion from the night’s activities forced a long, exaggerated breath from me.

“Long day?” the insanely sexy voice questioned.

As if he was a debt collector that I owed a lump sum, I felt obligated to respond. Words flowed without preparation.

“Long night.”

“It’s only nine-forty, baby. The night is hardly over.”

I waited to feel my flesh crawl at the sound of a stranger calling me baby. The wait was in vain.

“For me, it’s over in the next ten or fifteen minutes. I’m already awake way past my bedtime.”

“That means I can’t ask the man to grab you something to eat so you can chill with me, right here, for a little while longer?”

“Unfortunately, I don’t have an appetite.”

“I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard a pregnant woman say she doesn’t have an appetite.”

“Oh, so, this is normal for you? Offering pregnant women at the bar food?” I chuckled, prying.

“No. I’ve never seen a pregnant woman at the bar,” he tittered, stifling a very mature, deep grunt that I wished he’d set free.

“Luckily, it’s a mocktail.”

“Mocktail?”

“That’s what he calls it.” I shrugged, nodding toward the bartender. “A girl can pretend, right?”

“I fully support.”

“Good.”

“Married? Engaged? Widowed? Situationship?”

He sipped from his glass as he stared in my direction, waiting for a response.

“Single.”

He kissed the skin of his teeth and tilted his head in the opposite direction.

“I wasn’t expecting that shit,” he admitted. “Some motherfucker fumbled, for real.”

“How you know they didn’t dodge a bullet?”

“Hit me right here wit’ it.” He chuckled, tapping the area where his heart rested.

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