He just stares at me like I’m a total moron, not speaking.
The heat slides down my throat and over the rest of my face. Dumbass. Of course I want a beer. I’m in a damn bar. He must think I’m a total idiot. I clear my throat. “Something local, please. Not hoppy though. Anything you recommend is fine.”
He doesn’t say a word but saunters away and grabs a thick mug, tucking it under one of the taps. It’s hard to not stare at his ass in those faded, fit jeans. The fabric cups him perfectly; his thighs are strong, too; I can tell that much. My belly throbs in response to his blatant potency—he’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen in real life. His arms are covered in tattoos, and I can see another tattoo peeking over the top of his T-shirt at the base of his neck.
So not my type.
And how well has your type worked out for you? I question myself in a stinging inner voice. Because the last guy who was my so-called type, clean-cut with a good job and a polite demeanor that pleased my parents, turned out to be the worst mistake I ever made. The reason I left behind everything and everyone I know to start over in some random town I picked off a map.
After what I went through with my ex, I should know better than to judge a book by its cover again.
At the thought of him, my pulse picks up and my lungs squeeze tight. He isn’t here, I remind myself. He has no idea where I am. I’m fine now.
The mug of beer slides across the bar toward me. I grab it before it spills on my lap, cupping the cool glass in my palms. Hot Bartender is quite the charmer, isn’t he? He didn’t even wait to see if I caught the drink before giving me his back in order to flirt with a woman wearing the smallest tank top I’ve ever seen in my life. I think it was made for a toddler.
“Smith,” she coos, leaning over the bar to give him a flash of her perfect cleavage. “I thought you were gonna call me.”
He murmurs something in response that I can’t hear, and she licks her lower lip, sexing him up with her eyes. Clearly she isn’t really that upset that he never called her back.
I fight back the urge to roll my eyes at them and sip my drink. Whatever. I don’t care about him, anyway. Let them flirt. I’m content to just sit here and enjoy my drink. I have to give him credit—he picked something good for me. It’s rich but not too heavy, with slightly sweet undertones. I’ll have to ask him what it is. That is, if I can tear his attention away from the chick.
I close my eyes and let the taste roll around in my mouth. This is my new life, having new experiences, trying new beer. Baby steps. No more having someone tell me what is best for me. I can tell myself.
A small smile slides over my lips. I take another big gulp, then barely keep from spitting it out all over the bar when something hard slams into my back. I spin around to see what’s happening—two men are shoving at each other with a group of people half circled around, yelling at them.
“Fuck you!” the dark-haired man yells to the shaved-headed guy. “You fucking cheated!”
“I didn’t cheat, asswipe,” the other man says in a warning tone, his eyes slit narrow. “You’re just too fucking drunk to be any good. You suck at pool.”
“And you suck my dick,” the first guy says, then gasps when the shaved-headed guy slugs him right in the jaw.
I blink and jerk back in shock. What the hell? When I turn to see what Smith, the bartender, will do to handle the brawl, I see him staring at the two men, looking bored. He gives a weary sigh then strolls around the bar and waves at the men.
“Knock it off, assholes,” he grunts. “Take that shit outside.”
The guys ignore him at first, shoving at each other.
I see Smith’s jaw tick, and then he steps up and grabs them at the scruff of their necks. “I said, take it the fuck outside.” His words are low, barely heard over the thudding music, but effective. I even find myself responding to the bold command in his voice, the confident and firm grip of his hands, my spine straightening. What the hell?
The two men stop and while they’re both panting and glaring at him, they do as he asks and pull away from his grasp, shooting nasty glares in each other’s directions. The crowd groans and gripes about the fight breaking up, but they disperse, going back to their regular activities of drinking and playing pool and hitting on each other.
Wow. I’ve never actually seen a bar fight before. I realize I’m clenching my beer mug and loosen my fingers’ death grip on the glass. My heart is fluttering wildly, in fear and…if I’m honest, a little bit of excitement. Just a tiny bit.