Chapter 5 #2
A bartender with a man bun drops two menus on the bar top, letting us know he’ll come back for our order in a couple of minutes. He looks slammed, so I focus on the menu, making sure I’m ready when he returns.
Blanks doesn’t even bother to look.
“Already know what you’re getting?” I ask.
He laughs. “Nope.”
“Umm, okay.” As soon as I pick out an entreé, I ask Blanks the question that’s been on the tip of my tongue since yesterday, “So why a mustache? It seems like a statement.” He stares at me. “Or a cry for help.” Or attention.
“Alright, what can I get you two?” Thwarted by the bartender.
Blanks doesn’t wait to let me order first. He just says, “The special and an old fashioned.” Liar, he did know what he was getting. “And for myself, also the special and an IPA, any kind is fine.” The fuck?
The bartender knocks his knuckles against the wood top before walking away with a nod.
“Rude, that wasn’t what I wanted. At all.” He gives me a wayward glance.
“You don’t even know what it is,” he quips back.
“You don’t even know what it is!” He smiles at that.
“Don’t need to. Anyways, Angel, the mustache is because I can. I pull it off. Not many can. So it’s a fuck you to the non-mustached, of sorts.”
“Well, being a non-mustached human myself, I take offense.”
He shrugs. “Jealousy doesn’t become you, dear.” Dear? He’s worse than Dina.
“You confuse me,” I have to say a little bit louder as the crowd surges and the volume inside the bar does, too.
“How?” He raises his voice back.
“I can’t tell if you like me…or hate me.”
“Well, why can’t it be both?” he says with a smile twisting off one side of his face.
He might be unsure about his feelings towards me, but I’m pretty sure I’m firmly on the hatred side of feelings towards him. Rolling my eyes, I avert my attention in time for my drink to be delivered.
Unfortunately, our enthralling banter halts — joking — and we sit there in silence.
I watch the crowd, and people, and the bartender.
And he watches a football game on TV. Though it’s technically not silent at all, it’s loud.
Between the people talking and shouting and the constant rotation of banjo-heavy country music, you can barely hear yourself think.
When our food comes, it’s shepherd’s pie, and I don’t let on for a second that this is exactly what I wanted. We both eat without talking, and then he excuses himself to use the little boy’s room.
A woman laughing loudly with a group of men draws my attention, and I watch the slim, dark-haired siren twirl around, dancing to a melody no one else can hear. When she stands beside me, in the spot Blanks just vacated so she can order a drink, I look at her again.
That’s right, she’s the woman from the stairs this morning.
I’m about to say as much when she interrupts me.
“God, you’re just sooo pretty. You know that?” she says, looking at me, leaning against the barstool with a slight, telltale inebriated sway.
“Umm, thank you?” I respond. She laughs, tipping her head back, exposing a long neck of flawless olive skin. As her chest rises and falls, the red pom pom fixed to her chest bounces. She would be the type of girl to pull off an ugly Christmas sweater like it’s couture.
Turning away from me, she motions for the bartender, who swaggers over slowly.
“What can I do for you?” he asks her.
She motions back to the three men she was just standing with and proceeds to order, “Four — no!” Looking at me, then pointing a finger, she says, “Make that five! Shots of Patron! Por favor!” The bartender glances at me, and I try my best to shake my head subtly, no.
If he pours her a shot, I think I’ll be tempted to take it myself so she doesn’t find herself passed out or hanging her head over a toilet at the end of the night.
I watch Man-bun make the shots, pouring water into one that he sets aside. Smart man.
“Oh, fuck,” Blanks says in horror as he returns from the restroom, immediately withdrawing his wallet and placing a hundred-dollar bill on the bar top. He stares at the woman, dancing alone, yet beside me, and asks, “Did she say anything to you?”
“I mean, she told me I was pretty,” I whisper back. “Then ordered me a shot.”
“Yeah, well, we’re leaving,” he says, ordering me with his eyes to get rid of the napkin still sitting in my lap. I lift the napkin, setting it on top of my practically empty plate, and as I slide off my stool, a soft hand reaches out for my left hand.
“Wow! Look at this thing!” The woman hiccups as she holds my hand to stare into the large diamond. The moment isn’t necessarily uncomfortable, but there’s a certain pity I feel for her. Wasted, the Friday before Christmas, practically alone at a bar.
“Can I take you home? Do you need a ride?” I offer. Blanks is shaking his head at me, though.
The woman laughs again, letting my hand fall.
“No, that’s okay, Ella. You go home to Prince Charming, and I’ll stay right here.
” Ella? Blanks is still shaking his head.
I wonder if this is one of his exes. Well, not an ex, but a previous partner.
That’s the best word I can think of to describe any woman getting into bed with him.
With a hand around my waist, Blanks pulls me into his side, tugging for us to go. I feel terrible abandoning her. What if someone tries to take advantage? But just as I’m having that thought, an older woman with long gray hair and a perfect blowout walks over.
“Baby dollll,” she says sympathetically, wiping a stray tear off the dancing woman’s cheek.
The gorgeous woman chokes on a sob, wiping another tear away before she starts laughing maniacally.
I want to turn back, but Blanks is jostling me towards the exit hurriedly.
“What was that about?” I ask as we step out into the cold parking lot, my breath turning to fog as I speak.
“It’s nothing. Can we go home now, please?” he asks, not leaving any room for follow-up questions, giving me his back. He opens my car door, sealing me inside, then joins me a second later. Without saying anything, he starts the car, peeling out of the gravel parking lot.
“She could do better than you anyways,” I say, staring straight ahead into the headlight beams lighting up the pine trees on either side of the road.
He laughs, really laughs. “That’s what you think that was?”
I shrug.
He laughs softer again. “Yup, you’re right. She could do better than me.” He leaves it at that, and I smile the rest of the drive home.
I expect him to be gone when I walk inside the still-dark room. But he isn’t. He’s rolled over now, facing the doorway in my direction, and I falter. Should I leave him to go sleep on the couch? That feels like the wisest choice. But my heart is telling me to be in this bed when he wakes up.
Taking care to undress quietly, I strip, starting with my shoes. Then Blanks’s sweater and my tee shirt come off, still stuck together like a second skin. I pop the button on my jeans to shimmy them down, and like I can sense the weight of his gaze, I bring my eyes up to meet his now open ones.
He stares at me, and I stare back. But I don’t stop. If anything, my movements become unintentionally sensual. I unclip the back snaps of my bra, letting my breasts fall from their cups, suddenly feeling unimaginably heavy.
I can feel my heartbeat in my fingertips as I slide a hand under the strap of my underwear to glide them down my thighs and past my feet. The cool air hitting the slick warmth between my legs surprises me. Because all I can think about is his thick hand holding me down.
With a heavy swallow, I turn to pick up the baggy t-shirt I’d worn earlier, depositing it back over my body. Feeling myself twitch as my perked nipples graze against the fabric. Feeling the humidity between my thighs.
Everything feels like it’s burning.
He’s still facing me, and I hesitate to get in bed.
“I can go sleep on the sofa…” I whisper, but he’s shaking his head. There aren’t any words that form; there’s no sound spoken, but the sentiment is clear. Stay with me, Emma. Just a little bit longer.