Chapter 4
SARINA
I’m not sure what transpired in the less than five minutes I was in the restroom freshening up that lead to the scene in front of me, but my curiosity is piqued.
“I’m not going to tell you again. Get up,” Mr. Armani —as I’ve decided to call him since we agreed on no names— warns. My purse he was holding as collateral is bunched in his palm as he points to a random guy occupying the barstool I was sitting on.
“Why should I?” the man who has made himself at home in my spot says, slurring his words.
“I told you already.” He shifts his hand, still squeezing my poor purse toward me. “She was sitting there.”
The man looks down at the ground, mumbling to himself before he shifts his attention to where I stand.
“Oh, hey, pretty lady.” He makes a gesture to his lap. “You can sit right here if you like.”
Mr. Armani rises to his feet. As I move closer, the look in his eyes is transporting me back to Luxe.
He’s going to do it again. He’s going to swoop in and try to save me.
It’s admirable —sexy, even— the way he wants to protect me, a woman he knows nothing about.
But I’ve gone this long without having someone care enough to do so, and I certainly don’t need to get myself used to this sort of treatment now.
Especially when our fun together will end once we say goodbye and part ways.
I motion for Mr. Armani to give me my purse. I can tell he’s fuming. If anything, his taut jawline looks even tighter now, but without a fuss he stops himself from whatever he was about to do and hands it to me.
“Thank you, I got it from here,” I whisper.
“I don’t doubt that you do, but I’ll be right here waiting. In case you need me.”
I mouth a ‘Thank you’, bringing my attention to the man sitting on the barstool.
“I was sitting there,” I reiterate.
Again, he gestures to his lap, suggesting I sit on it.
“No thank you.”
“Aww, c’mon now, miss. How do you know unless you try it first?”
As if his whiskey drenched breath isn’t repulsive enough, he makes the grave mistake of lifting his hand to slap my ass.
My heart skips in my chest. Not from shock or even anger that he put his disgusting hands on me, but from the growl that just erupted from Mr. Armani as he leaps from where he’s been standing reluctantly idle.
Before he can step in, I lunge forward, blocking him from an opportunity to punch the guy.
I have a better idea.
“I know you said you have it handled, but I can’t sit back and watch someone put their unwanted hands on you and do nothing about it,” he says, chest noticeably heaving.
“Trust me on this. I know what to do.” I expect him to argue with me on it since I’m well aware of how stubborn I’m being, but he doesn’t.
“Fine, but if he lifts another finger, I swear to fucking god, I’ll—”
“Oh, I know. You don’t have to tell me.” I look him up and down, not bothering to hide the hunger in my stare. “Did you close out our tab yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Perfect.”
I ask Dominica for a knuckle shot. It’s a specialty here at The Wilted Flower. Similar to those viral hurricane shots, but with a little extra punch.
Moments later, she returns with a gleam in her eye, asking me, “Who’s doing the honors, you or me?”
I raise my hand as Dominica looks at the man in disgust, then back at me. “Let ’em have it.”
“Oh, I will.”
Mr. Armani catches my gaze, mouthing Are you okay?
My lips part, mouthing a Yes back.
I feel him staring at me as I approach the barstool thief himself, giving him the smaller of the two glasses Dominica prepared before I hop up onto the bar top.
I give the man a flirtatious wink.
“What are we toasting to?” he asks.
Still on the bar top, I shift to my knees, looking past him to Mr. Armani, who is standing there acting as if he’s my bodyguard. Lifting my glass of water to his shot glass, I cheers. “To a fun and sexy night ahead.”
“Ooh, I like that,” the man slurs, and once again, he goes to place his hand on me, but I scoot back just enough to get out of his reach, but it doesn’t quite work and he still makes some contact, brushing his palm against me.
If it weren’t for what I am about to do, I’d make a scene right now, but I’ll refrain for the time being.
“Drink up,” I say, as our glasses clink together.
He downs the alcohol, and the moment he sets the glass on the bar top, he glances at my full cup. “Hey, now,” he whines, jokingly.
I flatten my free hand over my mouth. “Oops, silly me.” I grip the glass tight as I thrust it upward, splattering the ice-cold water all over his face before I complete the knuckle shot, with a swift and hard punch to the face.
A crowd forms around us, cheering. Everyone here knows what a knuckle shot is. They’re reserved for assholes who deserve it.
“I’d take that as a warning to go home and sober up, Pastor Rob.”
I recognized the drunk man within seconds of seeing him. He’s one of the pastors at the church my parents attended when they lived in the city years ago. Mortified that I recognized him, he stumbles away without saying another word.
Just as I’m about to get down from the bar, Dominica snaps for my attention.
“Not so fast, you got another shot coming your way.” She nudges her head at my date, who is rolling up his sleeves, revealing a sea of veins on his naturally tanned and muscular forearms, that I want to fucking lick one by one.
“Umm, what kind of shot did he order?”
“The kind that requires you to lie down,” Dominica says, glancing at my outfit. “You chose the wrong night to wear a dress. I’ll grab you a bar towel.”
He didn’t order what I think he did. Did he?
This night seems to be getting more interesting.