Chapter Three
In which there is one woman in all of Blackpool who is definitely worth a second look.
Alec…
The relentless diet of generic pop-rock on the jukebox had faded into a pleasant blur by my fifth scotch. This was fortunate, because if I had to hear fucking ‘Come On, Eileen’ or ‘Livin’ On A Prayer’ one more time I was going to shoot that jukebox with every bullet in my gun, and my Heckler a good fight, a black eye, and some bloody knuckles to blow away all the cobwebs and help me think clearly again.
“Another round.” I tapped two fingers on the bar.
“Am I going to need to take your keys, Chief?” He eyed me dubiously but poured me another.
“I can hold my drink.” This was true. I’d consumed enough alcohol in the last month or two to murder a dozen livers, and here I was, still standing.
My phone buzzed angrily every thirty seconds until I put it on silent, but a new name lit up the screen as I glanced down.
Fucking Alastair Taylor.
Sliding off the stool with some sense of balance and dignity left, I meandered toward the men’s room. My jaw tightened as I hit the button on my phone for the messages.
Hey, Silk Tie McAsshole. You’re going to have to pick up eventually. I’d prefer sooner than later. I know you’d rather get a Brazilian wax than talk to me, but we’ve been friends for twenty years.
Call me.
“Silk Tie McAsshole? That one’s new,” I mumbled.
A woman was sitting next to my empty stool at the bar.
“Hi!” She gave a little shimmy of her shoulders. “I saved your spot.” Her hair was sprayed to impressive heights and dyed pink to match her shiny tank top.
The bartender I considered my new best friend had a fresh drink ready for me.
“I’m Bella. What’s your name?”
I swallowed half the glass. “Not interested.”
“Oh, come on. You look like you could use some company.” Her overfilled lips were bright pink, too.
“I don’t need company. Move on. ”
Bella the Pink gave an angry huff, climbing down from the barstool in search of more receptive male attention.
The truth was, I could use a night of no-strings-attached female company, just not with her. All my usuals in London would have been happy to drop by for a night of uncomplicated fucking, but I was in Blackpool. At this shitty pub. Unless I was ready to take one of those dart-throwing longshoremen home with me, I was not getting laid tonight.
This was the MacTavish’s fault, those fucks. If not for them, Alastair would have already dragged my drunken ass out of here for greener pastures.
Groaning, I pulled out my phone again. It was time to call my driver and have him pick me up. They’ve likely been circling the entirety of Lancashire and Blackpool for the last six hours.
Then, just like at the building site, the cluster of cheerful drunks parted and there she was, that woman from the crowd. She was looking at me, one brow raised and her mouth pursed again, sitting by herself at a table in the back corner. Light hazel eyes looked me up and down, not in a sexual way. More… appraising.
Maybe there was one woman in this corner of the country worth chasing after all.
I managed to keep my walk over to her table fairly steady, though the amusement in her shrewd eyes made me question that.
“Can I join you?”
She tilted her head, leaving me standing at her table like an asshole.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “I could smell you halfway across the pub. Like Jim Beam came in your mouth.”
“I’m still fairly sober.”
“Oh?”
“Of course. I can see some faces, large shapes like this table. The color of your eyes.”
She leaned back, putting her arms over the top of the tufted vinyl booth. “Really,” she drawled, closing her eyes. “What color are they?”
Running my tongue over my lips, I looked at the shape of her mouth, her long, elegant arms. “They’re hazel.” My voice was huskier than I’d intended.
She moved her knees to the side, giving me room. “Sit down. Don’t blow this. You’re off to a good start. What’s your name?”
“Alec Davies.” I picked up my full glass and put it down again. I was going to need what was left of my wits with this one.
“Alec…” She said my name like she was trying it out, tasting it. It was so fucking erotic that my idiot cock was already hopefully thickening.
“And you are?”
“Margaret. Margaret Baird,” she said.
“Ah, you like me.” I was grinning smugly.
“And why would you think that?” Her head tilted curiously, that perfect black bob of hers sweeping her cheek.
“We’re already to last names. That skipped over at least two hours of bullshit about where we’re from and what we do.”
Her fingers tapped on the table as she eyed me again before seeming to come to a conclusion. “All right, Alec. Drink your drink. Let’s see if I still like you after another round.”