1. Chapter 1 #2
“Depends.” Frankie sized the stranger up, trying to gauge how old they might be.
They were small and thin, which was obvious even underneath the faded black leather jacket they wore.
Their nose was crooked, like it had been broken a time or two, and they had a small face tattoo of a sword close to one ear.
When she caught sight of them head-on, Frankie did a double-take, her mouth falling open a little.
Unbelievably gorgeous mismatched eyes stared up at her.
They were set behind an older pair of frameless glasses.
Clearing her throat, it took a moment before Frankie found her voice. “You, umm, you have ID?”
“For real?” The stranger looked taken aback, a frown in place as they reached into their back pocket to retrieve their wallet for Frankie. “I’m twenty-four next week.”
“Anyone who looks under thirty, I’m afraid.
Thanks.” Frankie accepted the card, sneaking another peek at the stranger before examining the Toronto driver’s license of an …
Evan Landry, who had a birthday the following Tuesday.
Frankie smiled at the “DIC” label under eye color, noting once again Evan’s one brown and one blue eye.
Fascinating . She returned the ID and clasped her hands together. “Now, what’s your poison?”
“Poison?” Evan echoed, reaching up to scratch the back of their straw-blonde buzz cut.
“Yes, what’s your go-to brand, Evan, or is this your first time trying whiskey?
” Something about Evan had Frankie leaning in closer, not wanting to miss their response due to the clamor of ice and dishes clanging and patrons laughing.
Evan intrigued her, and the shy way they cut their gaze from Frankie’s to seek out the drinks menu on the wall behind her tugged low in Frankie’s belly.
Despite wearing glasses, Evan squinted at the menu board.
Seconds passed, possibly a minute, and a slow blush crept along Evan’s exposed throat and cheeks the longer Frankie watched them.
If Frankie had to guess, Evan either couldn’t handle the pressure of an audience, or they simply had never drunk whiskey before.
Why come into a pub, alone, without at least doing a little research first?
Had the ID been fake?
Frankie scrutinized Evan closer, noting the minor buildup of perspiration above the cupid’s bow of their upper lip. A small scar, almost indistinguishable under the dimmed lights, sat an inch or so from the center of their lip.
“Want to know what my favorite is?” Satisfaction bloomed inside Frankie as Evan’s stunning gaze fell to the generous cleavage straining against the buttons of her blouse.
She’d known there was a reason she’d put on this outfit that morning.
And despite the surrounding chatter, there was no mistaking Evan’s sharp intake of breath.
She wasn’t sure yet what Evan identified as, but they were far from straight.
The belief brought out a smug smile. This is what she’d needed in her life—a little harmless flirting to take her attention off … other things.
“Sure, shoot.”
Frankie stilled, Evan’s final word catching her off guard. It wasn’t one she was used to hearing, not anymore. Not since …
Stop .
Nothing about that life was hers anymore, memories be damned.
She forced out a chuckle, one that was low and breathy and had Evan’s gaze lowering to her parted lips.
“I love the fruit and spice sensation on my tongue from the sherry inside the Bushmills Irish Whiskey. It goes down smooth and is perfect for wintertime or, in your case,” Frankie winked, “almost birthdays.” She’d named off an affordable yet respectable brand, as she had a feeling it would be more in Evan’s price range.
“Sure, yeah, that one sounds good.” Evan gave her a small grin, just wide enough that one canine peeked out past their sensual upper lip.
Frankie wanted to moan. Had anything as simple as a twitch of someone’s lips captivated her so thoroughly before?
“Be right back,” she said, and pulled out of what felt like their private bubble amidst the bustle of her usual Saturday night.
The moment the trance broke, Frankie bumped into Andy who was walking past with a tray of drinks.
“Oh!” Frankie grabbed his arm in one hand and steadied the tray with the other.
Andy laughed. “Speedy moves, boss.”
“Sorry for the almost tackle,” Frankie replied, disengaging from her employee to get a start on Evan’s drink.
There was a hum of awareness tingling over her as she reached for the bottle of Irish whiskey on the top shelf.
Evan was watching her. Evan was, well, looks wise, certainly no McCoy, but try telling that to Frankie’s starving libido.
It had been months since she’d topped someone, watched them come apart on her fingers, and something about Evan called to her in a way no one else had in a long time.
“I’m Frankie,” she offered, setting the drink in front of Evan.
Reconsidering, she added, “She/her pronouns.” It was another thing she’d been meaning to do up for her staff after McCoy had suggested it.
Considering she pulled in at least 50 percent queer clientele, and a good part of the other fifty being allies, it made sense to establish name tags with individual pronouns so that everyone could be as comfortable as possible.
“Evan, they/them pronouns. And thanks.”
Frankie wasn’t certain if Evan was thanking her for the drink or the added respect, but when they grinned wider this time, she no longer cared.
The canine she’d seen earlier was noticeably longer than the other, and one of Evan’s bottom teeth was crooked.
Frankie wanted to test that sharp edge on her tongue.
You’re thirty-eight years old, for god’s sake. Fucking act like it, she reprimanded herself.
They chatted for a little longer before work pulled Frankie away.
She helped her servers plate trays of appetizers and drinks and took a few orders when she relieved Lian for a break.
Excitement over meeting Evan had put distractions of McCoy to rest, or at least until Frankie finally caught sight of her about ten feet away.
She was on her knees before her girlfriend in the middle of the pub.
Shock permeated Frankie, and she snapped her gaping mouth shut as she watched the scene unfold before her.
Witnessed Sawyer cupping McCoy’s cheek like she was the most precious woman in the world.
No matter that she couldn’t hear the conversation, Frankie knew it wasn’t a simple declaration of love happening between them.
No, McCoy never did anything simply. That was her way of submitting to Sawyer, right out in the open for anyone and everyone to see.
Tightness enveloped Frankie’s chest, like fine pinpricks pressing into a pincushion. She reached up to rub the ache, swallowed down the burn in her throat, and strode away.