The Best Mess

Chapter 1

It’s in the twilight of happy hour I do my best work; when the shared cocktails after the drudge of a nine to five turn into an accidental midweek night out.

Anyone who’s ever worked at a bar can tell you it’s a palpable shift.

While the people remain the same, the music changes and suddenly patrons are more interested in stronger drinks, to forget the monotony of their day, and less interested in small talk over greasy finger foods.

I’ve never worked at a bar, but I have experienced my fair share of these transitions and, like tonight, they usually involve dragging some rando from the bartop to the bathroom for a quick fuck.

I wiggle my brows at Kara as we pass and she rolls her eyes. Though I’m sure I’ll hear about my impromptu extracurriculars later, she knows better than to try and stop me after I’m more than three margaritas deep.

Ryan’s his name—I think. The tequila is making things fuzzy. Not that it matters; the only details I need are his hands on my hips and his stubbled chin brushing against my collar bone as we wait for the bathroom to vacate.

He smells like cigarettes and sweat, and his kiss tastes like dirty malted hops.

I’m pressed against the poster-plastered wall, the bass from the overhead speakers thrumming up my spine.

Ryan, or whoever, traces his tongue up my neck and I can’t help the giggle it pulls, a shiver of anticipation settling (and then promptly dissipating) as he whispers.

“Whoever the fuck is in that bathroom better hurry up, or I’m going to take you in this hallway.”

He runs his hands up my skirt and across the tops of my thighs and the laugh catches in my throat as I bite back an annoyed groan.

I don’t expect red-rose romance during these encounters but a little enthusiasm, for what usually ends up being half-assed—dick-centered—foreplay, would be nice.

Mark this on the long list of reasons to scope out a woman next time.

Ryan resumes his exploration of my neck and I roll my head back against the wall, trying to enjoy it. He’s not what I would consider an expert in arousal, but I am pleased with my ability to pin a conquest as quickly as I did.

I knew he was the one as soon as he walked by with his slouchy beanie and dark IPA.

The sucker hanging out of the side of his mouth wasn’t exactly a turn on, but to Kara’s dismay it wasn’t a turn off either.

Wanting a quick and dirty distraction means, tonight, my standards are stunted just above willing and able.

Which is why, after a few flirty glances across the room, I locked him in with my signature move: leaning over the bar to push my ass out and glancing over my shoulder.

Per usual, it took about four and a half minutes for him to wander over, thus proving the magic of a tight skirt over my soft and supple curves has a potent pull.

The bathroom door swings open and two flush-faced girls in matching halters stumble out, laughing and spilling drunken compliments like marbles. Thank god. Any longer and I might have considered ditching beanie baby and his wandering tongue.

Ryan straightens, laces his fingers in mine and tugs me forward into the dimly lit room.

As soon as the door latches, he spins around and shoves me up against the counter lifting under my thighs.

After the initial surprise over this string bean managing to lift me, my first thought is that this sink better be sturdy.

However, any misgivings are promptly interrupted by his hands running up under my shirt and his face back in my neck.

God damn, he might be hornier than I am.

Grateful he didn’t try to shove me down to my knees, I wrap my legs around him and pull him closer, searching for the button on his jeans. He curls his fingers into the soft roll of skin just above my hips, his hands trembling like he needs a nicotine fix.

“You’re so fucking hot,” he pants.

Shrinking away from his obvious compliment, I sit up and grab his chin. His pupils flash with arousal but I hold firm. “You got a condom?”

Reckless as it may be having quick sex with a stranger in a dingy bar bathroom, I do have some standards.

Ryan nods and slips the little square from his pocket as he shoves his pants down to his ankles.

While he manages his business, I hop off the counter and slip my panties off, shoving them into the outside pocket of my bag so I don’t accidentally forget them.

The last time that happened it was my favorite pair and Kara still refuses to return to the bar—just in case they somehow remember it was me hooking up with that blonde chick from open mic night in their back room.

Despite its rustic charm, Blue Heron is one of my favorite haunts.

Being preemptively banned by my own roommate for what is turning out to be a bland bang is not on my list of priorities.

In about thirty seconds, Ryan is hoisting me back up on the sink and I’m bracing my foot against the paper towel dispenser.

Our mouths collide as he slips in, his kiss stealing the initial gasp as he enters.

He’s not exactly well-endowed, but a man’s first thrust is my favorite part.

He moves out and then back again, harder than I expect, and my ass slides down into the sink.

“Fuck.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do, baby.”

Grimacing, I adjust myself back up on the ledge. Dirty talk—when done well—is one thing, but pet names I can’t stand. Figuring it’s not worth chiding him, I adjust and pull him back in, shoving my tongue into his mouth to stop him from muttering any more insipid nicknames.

It only takes a few more thrusts before Ryan is moaning into my hair and slipping out, leaving me dissatisfied at best. So much for that.

“Shit, that was hot,” he says, pulling his pants back up, the sound of the zipper sealing my arousal as definitively gone. I hop to the floor and shimmy my skirt down.

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Anytime.” He smacks my ass. “You wanna trade numbers or something?”

I glance at him in the mirror. “That’s not what this is.”

His face falls just enough to show me his annoyance before he shrugs. “Whatever. Thanks for the fuck, I guess.”

While it’s clear his intention is to wound me, I find his offense laughable.

Experience proves people like Ryan tend to talk, loudly and repeatedly, about ‘clingy bitches,’ but I am never the one frustrated with ending things after a few stolen moments.

And, while he certainly managed to finish, I am set in my dismay of choosing him over literally any other person at the bar.

Besides, serial hook-ups are rare for me, and wasting one on him turns my stomach more than his tasting of sour beer.

There is no way in hell I would do him again.

“I need to pee,” I say, nodding towards the toilet.

Ryan shrugs and steps out, the music growing clear and loud before the door clicks and muffles it again.

After peeing and slipping my panties back up under my skirt, the backs of my thighs are the only things still throbbing from being shoved into the counter.

I stretch up on my tiptoes, trying to see if there are marks, but as far as I can tell, the swirling ink covering most of my legs conceals any noticeable damage.

With a huff of annoyance, I do my best to ruffle my hair out of the post-coital mess and shimmy my skirt down a little further before making my grand exit.

The music is louder now, and the combination of the tequila and a lackluster hook-up are pooling into a headache. The hallway is mostly deserted, save for a couple making out in the corner and one man leaning up against the wall across from the bathroom.

“Of course,” his gruff voice complains as I pass.

Despite the conclusions people usually draw from my tattoos and what Kara calls my chronic and malignant resting bitch face, I am not a confrontational person.

However, something about this asshole’s attitude after Ryan’s less than stellar performance hits the right button and I spin around to grab his arm before he’s all the way in the bathroom.

“You got a problem?”

He turns and I step back, choking on an honest to god gasp.

It takes me too long to recover, and I’m not hiding it well.

This man is hot. And not just Portland hot—objectively so.

He’s tall, with broad shoulders and neatly cropped wavy hair.

Even under the dim red lights I can tell his clothes are far too nice for Blue Heron to be one of his regular stomps; his slacks are tailored and the sleeves of his expensive looking button down are rolled around his corded forearms. The arousal I thought was lost after whatever his name rushes back and I swallow hard, mentally undressing this stranger.

My conclusion comes faster than my recovery: he is definitely not the kind to suck on a fucking lollipop.

His cut jaw flexes as he runs his steely gaze from my face down to my skate shoes and then back up to meet my stare.

“It’s just not surprising,” he finally says.

My anger spurts at his clear judgment but he continues before I can utter a single syllable.

“I saw your . . . companion and wondered why he would shut the door so carefully behind him. But here you are, scurrying out with your tail tucked between your legs, and it’s making sense. ”

My eyebrows shoot up at his tone and the tequila rears for another bite. Hot or not, no one gets to pull this kind of arrogant slut shaming. Not with me.

“What’s wrong? Haven’t ever seen a woman freshly fucked before?”

He doesn’t so much as flinch, his answer and light chuckle pulling another warm surge of arousal.

“Oh, I’ve seen plenty. And every single one of them looked more satisfied than you do. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

The bathroom door clicks shut, leaving me to stare at the layers of graffiti and process the beautiful man’s insult. Or, his cutting accuracy.

“Dick.”