Good Times
Lex
5 years ago
I don’t know why I’m still here after my shift. —what an ironic name for this bad-time bar. The neons scattered around the walls buzz faintly. It’s a sound I can hear regardless of music—I can hear it for hours after I leave. Those dingy old lights bathe the entire place in a sickly glow. No matter how much we clean at night’s end, the place looks dirty and used. There is a brief silence as the song changes, and the high-pitched screech of the old speakers makes me cringe. I take a deep breath, questioning my sanity over agreeing to a drink with the guy following closely behind me: Adrian. His presence feels like a weighted shadow on my back. He’s enormous, both in height and sheer mass. I almost tripped when I noticed he needed to turn slightly to pass between the tall bar tables I moved through with space. I keep my eyes forward—something about him makes me hesitant to look over my shoulder as if I’ll see some monster stalking behind me.
The stench of vomit makes my stomach spin. It doesn’t matter whose it is—mine, someone else’s, even my cat’s—it all turns my gut inside out. He makes me uneasy; however, the visceral need to escape the pile of puke left by the girls who weren’t even old enough to drink wins out. Reaching the bar, I reclaim the seat I abandoned to start a fight with his friend, who has a proclivity for girls far too young for him. Adrian looks older than me, as did his friend. Those girls must’ve used a fake ID to get in here. They looked barely out of high school. If I cared enough, I’d tell Rob, the bar owner, to talk to his bouncers, but it would be pointless. The only ID they care about is cup size and IQ points.
I can’t wait to be done here.
When I moved back to the area, I applied for jobs everywhere. But, being a small town with limited employment options, I’d settled on the first offer I received. This. Fucking. Place. It’s been the Hail Mary I needed since returning. I can admit to myself that Costa Rica wasn’t my best-laid plan. I went to spend time with a friend, but I didn’t speak Spanish, couldn’t find a job, and felt alone and bored. By the time I came home, my bank account was empty, and I needed therapy. Since then, this place has kept me afloat. As revolting as it is, it’s usually slammed, and the money has been good. It’s the only bar within thirty miles.
I touch the tip of my nose at Jay, the bartender working the close shift—a silent code from working together letting him know I want another round. I sense the heat from Adrian’s body sliding into the seat next to me. This man’s immense size instantly makes the room seem smaller. Out of the corner of my eye, I take in that he’s all muscle - thick forearms with winding veins and a sharp jaw that flexes as he lowers himself onto the stool.
“That is a neat trick,” He says; the low timbre of his voice is almost distracting. “Does it work for everyone or just pretty girls?”
I cringe - pretty.
Pretty is so fucking paper-thin. The word men use when they want to be charming or get their dicks wet but can’t be bothered to put effort into it. Pretty fades.
Jay passes me my drink, and his eyes move between me and Adrian. He must have clocked my cringe because he asks, “Lex, you good?”
I clear my throat and reassure him, saying, “Yeah, fine.”
I pick up my drink, taking a slow sip. Adrian stares intently at my face—I haven’t turned to face him directly, but I’m sure he hasn’t blinked. He’s locked in on me; the intensity makes him impossible to ignore.
“Lex,” Adrian repeats my name, sounding sinister on his tongue. It shouldn’t sound like that. It shouldn’t feel like that.
A shiver runs down my spine before I can stop it.
“Hey man, do you want a drink or not?” Jay asks, his tone unfriendly. I offer him a somewhat apologetic glance, my regret about this entire situation intensifying.
“Just water’s fine, thanks,” Adrian says, his voice low and even.
Jay must not have caught what he said because his eyebrows push together.
I set my drink on the bar and offer, in a tone audible to human ears, “Just water, Jay.”
I slide some cash across the bar toward him and swivel my stool toward Adrian. His right hand and forearm are against the bar, while his left hand is on the arm of my chair. My turning to face him means he’s pulled closer as his left arm moves with the stool.
Holy fuck.
The air between us turns electric. He’s too close. Too warm. The bar is loud, but I hear his breathing over it, steady and measured. We lock eyes, and he’s inches away from me. His intense, smokey scent hits me as his dark eyes roam over my face. My heart rate skyrockets and my breath catches a little, flushing my cheeks. I quickly scan the space behind him, taking in the other patrons before looking back at him and realizing how much he truly stands out here. He’s different from the rest—not just in his size but in how he carries himself. He doesn’t slump or blend in. There’s a quiet discipline in his movements, his intense eyes, massive hands, and thighs that strain against his jeans. I don’t think I’ve ever seen legs this big. In contrast, the local men I see regularly look weathered and tired. Many of them work in the farm fields that scatter the area, and years of summer sun exposure have aged them. But him? He looks rugged and intensely beautiful. My mouth suddenly feels dry, like I’ve been starved of water for years. I slowly lick my lips, looking at my drink on the bar, but unable to reach for it. He is so fucking close. His eyes flick to my lips, and the expression on his face makes my cheeks heat again.
It’s strictly his proximity, nothing more.
He must read my reaction because his full lips twitch upward as if the response amuses him. He slowly leans back into his seat, his arm brushing mine, and it’s as if I’ve brushed against an open flame. My entire body feels like molten lust, and I’m not sure I’ve ever been this attracted to someo—
“First name basis with the bartender,” He says, smirking. “Do you work here, or is he your boyfriend?”
It’s so smug and assuming.
It annoys the fuck out of me.
“Can’t it be both?” I ask. My tone oozes irritation.
I reach for my drink, willing my hand not to tremble. This guy is intimidating and cocky. And a douchebag.
He shrugs casually before continuing.
“I can’t picture allowing my woman to work in a place like this,” His smirk widens as if he’s waiting for me to prove him wrong.
You mean the place you and your buddy troll for teenagers?
The place you drop shitty pickup lines?
My mind is writing the script for me to lay into him when another guy comes up behind him and throws an arm over his shoulder. I watch Adrian’s energy shift. His smug confidence disappears, replaced by a tension in his shoulders, the muscles in his jaw tightening and causing his cheek to tick. His grip on his glass of water tightens, and his eyes flick to the bar, then to my drink—like he’s searching for an escape or debating whether to throw a punch.
That’s a fascinating reaction.
“Adrian Liberty—you guys killed it today!” The drunk guy shouts, spitting in Adrian’s ear.
Adrian leans away, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand.
“Thanks,” He says dryly, his tone heavy with sarcasm.
The guy launches into hockey chat—perfect. He must talk for 3 minutes without pausing, using terms I don’t get for a sport I can’t stand, slurring his words the entire time. Adrian pivots toward the guy and sticks out his hand. The mess of a man grabs his hand with a broad smile.
“Thanks, man, but as you can see, I am in the middle of a conversation. Could we continue this a little later?”
The man offers apologies for the interruption and additional compliments, but at the same time, it clicks. I should have known. It’s not just his build. It’s the arrogance—how he moves, smooth but weighted like he’s trained it for years. I scan him again, and this time, I see the details I missed: calloused knuckles, a faint scar splitting his lip, a silvery-white line tracing his brow.
I stifle a groan and the urge to roll my eyes — a hockey player.
Of course.
I look around and see the jerseys; they’re everywhere. White and blue with some animals on the front. I can’t believe I didn’t notice them before. Also, people are staring at him as if he is someone. Adrian Liberty. I’ve never heard the name, but he has a lot of people’s attention. The air feels thick, the stench of cigarettes suddenly overwhelming, and I need to get the fuck out of here. I push back my stool; it scrapes and sticks to the filthy floor. I am up on my feet with my jacket on and tip belt in my hand when Adrian’s attention turns back to me, and surprise crosses into his expression. His eyes search mine as if gently asking me to sit back down.
“Sorry—I don’t know that guy,” He starts, but I cut him off.
“Hockey player,” I say, my laugh cold and humorless. “Your friend should’ve been a dead giveaway.”
His expression shifts—a flicker of surprise, something close to amusement… then irritation.
“Nice to meet you, Adrian,” I say as I walk away.
I make for the employee exit at the back. He doesn’t try to stop me right away, pausing as if I caught him off guard. With my back to him, all I need to do is work to walk a straight line. I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth. I feel the energy shift, my chest tightens, and the overwhelming urge to run overcomes me. I reach out for the door and see how much I shake. As my fingers brush the door handle, I feel a slight sense of victory and relief and then hear him.
“Lex,”
His voice is lower, and there is an unmistakable growl in it.
Don’t slow down.
Don’t turn around.
When I hear the door slam closed behind me, I run. An all-out sprint for my little car, tucked into the back corner of the lot. My legs burn with the effort. I’ve been on my feet for nearly 10 hours. I’m exhausted. I also feel completely ridiculous. He didn’t say or do anything wrong, but my intuition set off alarm bells, and if I could fly to the moon to get farther away from him, I would.
I fumble for my keys, the tremors in my hands amplifying with each passing second. It feels like someone is behind me. When I finally get the doors unlocked and dive in, I slam down the lock and allow myself to scan the lot. It’s empty, save for a couple making out against the side of the building. I try to calm down and take centering breaths, but I won’t feel better until I am locked inside my apartment. I push my key into the ignition, and the engine roars to life. It makes me chuckle every time because it really does roar. The catalytic converter fell off a few weeks ago, and it sounds like a monster truck without it.
I smell the bar on my clothes and in my hair. I lift my arm to my nose to check how terrible the odor is, recoiling when all I can detect is that smoky scent that engulfed me when Adrian sat inches from my face.