"No EA to keep you company? Or, I guess, Edwin as you call him."
"Again, fuck you," I whisper. I lock my gaze with his. The second I realize my hand is rubbing his hard bicep, I jerk it away. "But, you know, if you'd rather me leave…" I go to stand, and he quickly places a hand on my shoulder.
"Hey now, you better sit that cute butt of yours back down." His hand lingers on my shoulder until I'm fully seated again.
His fingers drift down my arm before returning to his glass. Chill bumps sweep over my skin, and I find myself wishing he'd put his hand back on me. Touch me just a little longer.
My gaze falls from his eyes to his full lips, and all I can think about is kissing him. Fuck, I hate this. My hand quickly wraps around my glass, my eyes never leaving those lips of his as I suck back the last of my drink. "Fine. I'll stay… for a minute at least." Then I giggle. Dear God. Who am I?
"A minute? And how does a guy go about spending more than just a minute with you? Does he have to be an author? Because I'll tell you what, I can't write to save my life, but I'll put together the nicest picture book you’ve ever seen. Penguin cops or some shit like that."
Shaking my head, I nearly choke on my drink. "I’m sorry. Penguin cops?"
"I'm just saying that shit should be worth at least a couple hours."
"Wow," I say through laughs. "You're special, Jax."
"I'm glad you can see that so soon. Usually it takes a lot more convincing on my part. I prefer the term unique though."
"Okay." I arch both brows. "We'll go with unique."
The bartender places the next round of drinks in front of us, and I push mine aside.
Jax eyes me as if he's trying to figure me out, sizing me up. "I just can't read you, Miranda…" He tilts his head, his eyes narrowing.
"Cross."
"Miranda Cross." A deep smile fills his face. "And I'm a fucking cop. Do you know how bad that makes me look?"
"Look, don't feel bad. I've spent my entire life perfecting the art of being unreadable."
"Did you perfect that before or after the RBF?" he asks, a laugh ready to bust loose from his lips.
"Excuse me? I don't have resting bitch face."
"Now, now, it's a good quality to have. I bet more people on airplanes try to talk to me than you. And then there's the whole mall kiosk issue everyone else has to deal with. I bet they never ask you if you'd like to try pine-scented, age-defying lotion. That's a win if I ever saw it." A laugh finally does break through, and he shakes his head before taking down more of his whiskey.
I'm trying my damnedest to keep a straight face. "Okay, first of all, I don't fly. Second, no, they don't talk to me, but maybe it's because I don't need age-defying lotion yet, asshole."
"You don't fly? What, do you fucking teleport? And maybe that is what it is… because of course you don't. Ooor… maybe it's the fact that they think you want to kill them and eat their babies." He's smiling, those damn dimples popping.
I look away from him and stare at the bottles of liquor on the wall, my heart banging against my ribs as I trail my fingertip over the curve of my glass, wishing it was him I was touching, relishing… "I hate flying." I glance back at him.
"You know, it isn't plane victims we're zipping up into body bags every day." There's a soft smile on his face. "A lot more stuff to worry about in this world than flying, my dear."
"Yeah, I know. Just one of those things…" My eyes drift back down to his lips and pause for way too long. But I just want to kiss him. I shouldn't, but I do.
"Hey, we all have them. Don't even talk to me about fucking dolls. Those porcelain motherfuckers with the beady little eyes…" He shakes his head.
"Oh, I hate those things too. My mother had tons of those. Most were clowns." I shudder thinking about that collection.
"No fucking way." He laughs, his eyes wide. "My sister and I used to have a babysitter who had clown shit fucking everywhere. I'm talking wall-to-wall. Our parents weren't home very much, so I had to live with that shit for a while. I didn't sleep very well those days." He smiles, his eyes taking me in as they move from my lips to my eyes then back again.
I grab his arm before I realize I have. "Yeah, I had nightmares about them. And then Stephen King's It… ruined me. I'm convinced that was the moment I officially became fucked up."
"Holy shit, you have no idea. I've always been a big-time reader. Read that shit when we were visiting family in Texas back in sixth grade." Lifting his brows, he gives me an understanding nod. "That shit changes a fucking kid. I'm talking scar-city type shit."
"'We all float down here…’" I shake my head. "Gutters. I avoid them at all costs."
"God, that's awesome." He laughs and raises his glass to me. "Well, here’s to a mutual hatred of dolls and clowns."
Nodding, I clink my glass against his and laugh before setting the untouched drink back on the counter.