I glance at her, but I’m not in the mood to be nice tonight, so I don’t respond.
Her daddy must not have loved her, ‘cause she gets more interested.
“Strong, silent type, huh?” she teases, bravely bumping her arm against mine. She shifts and pushes her boobs closer, in case it somehow slipped my attention that she’s attractive. “My name’s Belinda, what’s yours?”
Her voice is loud in my ear as she tries to talk over the fucking music.
I ignore her again.
“I know you can hear me,” she says, playfully.
Jesus, she is persistent. I hold up my hand to show her my ring, since ignoring the fuck out of her isn’t making my point. “I’m married.”
“Lucky lady,” she says, though her tone is still flirty.
Wouldn’t be so fucking lucky if I cared about another woman flirting with me at the bar, now, would she? I don’t say that. I pull out my phone and check the time.
Come on, Donovan, hurry the fuck up.
“I’m really drunk,” Belinda tells me so fucking loudly. She leans close. I know it’s just an excuse to get closer to me, but at least she’s not screaming in my fucking ear anymore. “Maybe drunk enough to make a bad decision. How about you don’t even tell me your name?”
“Wasn’t planning to,” I inform her.
“You’re really hot,” she tells me.
“I know,” I deadpan.
She grins. “I like you.”
“You need to work on your self-esteem, sweetheart,” I tell her, tipping back my glass and finishing it off. I tap the bar top to the get the bartender’s attention.
“Sweetheart?” she asks, delighted.
I roll my eyes. Of course that’s the only fucking part of that sentence she heard. The bartender approaches, and I tell him, “One more.”
“Long day?” Belinda persists.
“Yep,” I answer.
“What is it you do?”
The bartender makes quick work of getting me my drink. By the time he slides it across the counter at me, Belinda accepts that I’m not going to answer her question.
Of course, if she hangs out in this club, that’s probably not outside the norm. A lot of shady fucking people hang out here. The smart ones keep their mouth shut about what kind of business they’re in.
“Can’t tell me?” she asks, suddenly serious. “That’s okay, I get it,” she assures me, like I might be really worried. “But, like, if you do want to tell me, you can. I’m cool. I know the drill around here. Do you know Roscoe? We went out a couple times. We didn’t fuck,” she adds, for some reason, like this might turn me off.
“Do you ever stop talking?” I ask her.
Smiling slyly, she says, “When my mouth is
otherwise occupied, I do.”
“Are you a hooker?”
Her eyes widen. “No! Why would you think I’m a hooker?”
“You have about four inches of fabric on and you’re throwing yourself at me even though I’m clearly not interested. Maybe you’re a damaged individual, or maybe you’re just a hungry hooker.”