Page 6 of Prove You Wrong

He claps me on the back and I roll my eyes. ‘It’s no biggie. Head off when you need to later.’

Rubbing my hand over my head, my recently buzzed hair tickles, feeling almost velvety. The sensation is meditative, combined with the lack of trade tonight, my mind has space to wander and I’m back to a few nights ago when I’d gone from thinking we were being robbed, to being hypnotised by the intriguing Ella. Thanks to her sassy smile, and honestly, sheer grit, I’d found myself willingly standing in the pouring rain holding a torch. Actually, I was grateful for the downpour, it made whatever plastic thing she was wearing cling to her figure.

And then she’d driven off as abruptly as she’d arrived.

The door clinks, snapping me back to reality. This isreally not like me. It’s embarrassing in fact. But every time I hear the sound, I’m hoping it’s Ella, coming back to say she’s lost a spanner or something.

No luck.

In walks an older man, wearing a vintage black leather jacket I’ve admired for the six years I’ve known him. He’s an old-school rocker, with a big family and a heart of gold.

‘No Pauline tonight?’ I greet Geoff, who’s in most nights with his wife.

He climbs up onto a bar stool with a laboured huff. ‘She’s babysitting for the three little lunatics.’

‘You’re not helping her? No Grandpa duty?’

‘I was. But she sent me here to recover.’

‘Pint?’

‘Whiskey, please. It’ll need to be a double.’ Geoff nods up to the spirits shelf and I get his usual single malt down and pour him a good measure. ‘That’s better,’ he says after a long sip.

‘Pleased I can help.’

I pivot to return the bottle to the top shelf where I keep The Good Stuff and spot him in the reflective glass which lines the back of the bar, taking another swig. It must have been a long day.

It’s funny how most of the customers don’t realise the mirror behind the optics at the back of the bar is just that. A mirror. Reflecting everything they’re doing when they think my back is turned. Geoff thinks he’s getting one over on me every time he reaches around to top off his pint. Retired, a regular, he doesn’t realise with the amount he buys in here I’d give him a free drink every week if he wanted.

The door goes and my eyes flick to the glass to see who’s coming.

Is it her?

With a click of heels on the hard floor, a woman walks in, swiping at her chestnut hair, revealing flushed cheeks as if she’s been rushing.

She’s biting down on her lip in a way that makes my trousers tighten. Her eyes scan and then she breaks into a smile as she clocks the newbie sat at the other end of the bar.

That mouth, that smile, it rings a bell and my dick twitches as if it’s trying to nudge me.

‘Another one, Nate?’ Geoff’s voice breaks through my reverie and, keeping my crotch to the bar back, I busy myself fulfilling his order. Later, I’ll remind him to leave his bike and walk home — it’ll be safe around the back with mine — but right now I’m straining to catch more clues.

Her familiar voice hits my ears and I almost spill Geoff’s whiskey as I place it in front of him.

‘Hey, this place isn’t what I expected.’

Itisher.

Ella.

My night time intruder who’s been invading my consciousness around the clock ever since. I try to suppress my grin or Geoff will think I’ve gone mad.

‘Me either.’ Her friend, the newb, replies. She’s a petite redhead who scooted up on a stool a little while ago, gave me shit for not having a cocktail menu, and then sunk a tequila slammer. I left her with a tap water and a silent prayer she paces herself.

‘You okay with the … bikers?’

I’m sure it’s Ella’s voice. She has that sassy, confident tone that captured my interest when she was bending, face first, into her scrap heap of a car a couple of nights ago. Cloth in hand, I wipe over a spot on the bar to polish it. Eyes down, but ears most definitely to attention.

‘I’ll have to be. Morons.’ Her friend barbs back.

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