Several hours later, I’d downed my third shot of vodka, which may have actually been my fourth shot, or my fifth. At this point, I was no longer counting. A man who’d been eyeing me from across the bar for the last half hour mustered up enough liquid courage to brush chicken-fingers crumbs off the front of his plaid, button-up shirt and make his move.
He stood.
He smiled.
I smiled back.
He raised his beer bottle.
I raised my empty shot glass, thought about summoning the barmaid for a refill.
The ice between us was officially broken.
I wondered if he’d wave next.
He didn’t.
Forty-five minutes earlier, before he’d noticed me noticing him, I watched him scan the room, turn toward the wall, wrestle his wedding band off his finger, and shove it into his front pocket when he thought no one was looking. It was a douche move, and it begged the question: Why walk into the bar with it on in the first place just to take it off minutes later? The answer, of course, was a simple one. Whether or not he took it off depended on him first assessing the goods, scouting the bar to see if there was anyone worth taking it off for. I didn’t know whether I felt flattered or disgusted. Actually, I felt a bit of both.
The man’s face was decent in a Keebler-elf sort of way, and his broad smile reeled me in—for a moment. When the moment passed, he shoved the tips of his fingers into his jeans pockets and headed in my direction. For a man who looked like he was pushing forty, the overall package wasn’t half bad. Sure his male-pattern baldness seemed to have taken a turn for the worse in recent years, even though he attempted to hide it by spiking up what sparse, brown hair he still had left. I imagined he assumed it wasn’t noticeable, but denial hadn’t been kind.
He reached the table and hovered over me, his eyes like a vulture, waiting for an invitation he’d never get. With all the alcohol I’d poured into my body, he probably assumed I’d be an easy lay. If so, he was mistaken.
“Hey there,” he began. “Want some company?”
I didn’t want company tonight, especially his, but I offered the seat beside me anyway. Whoever said chivalry was dead must not have ever hung around a bar after eleven o’clock on a weeknight.
He sat. “What’s your name?”
“Lacey.”
I thought about going full throttle and throwing in a last name too, but Lacey Thong was a bit too much to swallow, even for a dimwit like him.
“I’m Jordan,” he said. “What are we celebrating?”
“We’re not. Celebrating, I mean.”
“What are we mourning then?”
I attempted a fake smile, which I assumed looked a bit like a coyote wooing a fluffy rabbit, and said nothing.
“Whoever he is, he’s not worth it.” He placed a hand on my wrist. “It’ll be okay, you know. Been through a few breakups myself.”
I resisted the urge to ask if he was referring to mistresses or wives or both. “I never said we broke up.”
“You don’t have to. I can see it in your eyes. I’m good at reading people.”
I bit my upper lip, attempting to keep the growing urge to laugh contained.
The barmaid walked over. I flicked my shot glass in her direction so fast it almost slid off the table. The confused look on her face when I said “uno mas” made me question whether I’d slurred my words, but she took the glass and nodded anyway. Jordan ordered a shot of whiskey. Both beverages were brought over, and we clanked our respective glasses together.
“So you’re in a relationship then?” he said. “That’s okay.”
Of course it was.
“I’m not, and it isn’t,” I said.
Now he looked confused. I downed the vodka, blinking a few times at the shot glass after I set it down on the table. It looked more and more like two glasses the longer I stared at it, but I was sure the waitress had only given me the one.
Jordan licked his lips, took a moment to compose his wind-up, and then made the pitch. “So, uhh, sweetie. You wanna lift home?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“What your intentions are.”
He leaned over, whispered, “You saw me staring earlier. Hell, who wasn’t? Every man in this room would give his left nut to spend an hour with your fine ass. I believe you’re clear on my intentions.”
Wow. What a sweet talker. How could I say no to such a fantastic offer?
“I’m clear on your intentions,” I said. “But are you clear on mine?”
“I have a suite a couple blocks away. No need to rush you home, is there?” He paused then added, “I tell you what. I’ll pour you another vodka or two when we get there, and we can talk.”
“We’re talking now.”
“It’s big and it’s private.”
He glanced at his crotch as he said the words, making me wonder if “it’s big” referred to something other than his place or if it referred to his place and the growing erection inside his pants. Either way, big was relative. It meant different things to different people. And big wasn’t always accompanied by talent.
“What do you say then?” he asked. “Should we go?”
“I’m fine here for a while.”
He trailed a finger up my arm. “You won’t regret it.”
His patience apparently spent, he winked, stood, held out a hand. Under most circumstances, I would have considered the gesture a courteous one. Not this time. I rose and faced him, wrapping a hand around his belt buckle. I yanked him forward, pressing his body against mine.
He laughed. “Hey now, you ... ahh ... I mean, maybe we should save all this pent-up energy until we get to my place, sweetie.”
I smirked, jammed a hand inside his pocket, fished out the wedding ring he’d concealed earlier. “What about your wife? Will she be joining in on the festivities too?”
His face paled, then warmed to a sharp, vibrant raspberry. “She’s ... it’s ... not what you think.”
“It isn’t? You’re not married then?”
“No, I am. It’s just ... complicated.”
“It always is with assholes like you, isn’t it?”
He stroked my hair with his hand. I bristled.
“Come on now,” he said. “Don’t ruin our night together.”
“I don’t sleep with married men.”
“You don’t understand. Things haven’t been the same between us lately. I’m not a bad guy. I just ... feel distant. We’re not close like we used to be. I don’t know if I’m still committed.”
It was a disgusting jumble of words from a man with no conscience, his eyes dead, without shine, like he’d strayed so far from the path he no longer knew how to find it.
“Married is married,” I said. “Period. When you married your wife you vowed to be there for her for better or worse. Not for when it feels good. Rationalizing something you’re unwilling to fight for shows me who you really are without even knowing you.”
Aware the midnight rendezvous was now a fleeting opportunity, his tone changed from vivacious and flirty to stern. “Give me back the ring.”
“Why, so you can shove it into your pocket and go for round two with someone else after I leave?”
“This isn’t funny, Lacey.”
“Good, Jordan, or whatever your name really is. It shouldn’t be.”
He swung for the ring and missed. I closed my hand around it and whipped it behind my head, tossing as far as it would go. Between the nineties rock music blaring in my ear, the crowd, and my increasingly blurred vision, it was hard to tell where it landed.
“You stupid bitch!” he seethed.
Instead of going after his ring, he directed his fury at me in the form of a balled-up fist. It connected with the edge of my jaw. A second later, as I fell to the ground, I caught a glimpse of Finch’s fist as it struck Jordan’s face, and he too went straight down.