Sono, I can’t sleep at night, nor do I look myself in the mirror.
But I’m doing what I can—the only thing I know how to do to survive.
The bartender comes back with my vodka and Sprite and slides it over, shooting me a disgruntled look.
“What’s your name?” I ask, sipping on my drink and instantly smiling. For someone who doesn’t seem to believe me, he made the drink awfully strong.
Which I’m glad for, considering this is the only drink I plan on buying. I can’t risk getting drunk. Not when I’m working tonight and need to have all my wits.
Though I didn’t come here only to work, but to celebrate as well. The pregnancy test came back negative. After that scare, I immediately got an IUD. It cost me money that I didn’t want to spend, but it’s a hell of a lot cheaper than a child. No babies or periods for the foreseeable future, and that’s something to definitely fucking celebrate.
The nurse at the clinic confirmed that my period is most likely late due to stress and also pointed out a few other health concerns. Apparently, I’m underweight, and hardly being able to eat certainly doesn’t help.
While Jamie’s credit limit would allow me to buy a brand-new car if I wanted, I can’t bring myself to buy more than the bare minimum. Once I leave a place, I never use their card again in case they figure out who I am and get the police to track me down. Don’t know if that’s possible or not, but my paranoia won’t allow it otherwise.
“I have a busy bar to run,” is his answer. I glance both ways down said bar, spotting not a single soul. It’s one o’clock in the afternoon on a Thursday. This bar is shit, and apparently, the bartender’s attitude isn’t any better than the outdated décor.
“You really don’t like me. Why?”
“You give me a feral dog vibe.”
My mouth parts, before a bout of shocked laughter bursts from my throat.
“A feral dog?” I repeat incredulously. It's so true that I can't even be offended. I rest my chin on my hand, a grin on my face. “Do tell.”
He rests both arms on the bar and leans down. “You’re destructive and uncontrollable.”
“You must be a psychologist,” I return dryly.
“I just know trouble when I see it.”
I tighten my lips and then shrug, taking another sip instead of giving him a verbal answer. Still not wrong.
He eyes me, waiting for a response. When I only take another sip, looking him straight in the eye as I do, he nods as if confirming something to himself.
“You’re scared. That makes you dangerous,” he finishes. My expression drops, and with that validation, he clicks his tongue, slowly sliding his arms from the bar and walking away.
To tend to the ghosts, I suppose, since there’s still nobody fucking here.
Or at least I thought so.
“Didn’t you know? A drink comes with free therapy these days.”
The deep, accented voice from behind me is startling, though it’s not the familiar Australian accent I’m used to hearing. I jump, twist in the barstool, and take one look, then immediately turn back around.
“Nope. I could get pregnant just looking at you. Go away.”
He grunts. “Isn’t that a rite of passage to manhood? Knock a girl up and leave?”
I snort. “That’s what they seem to think.”
The man takes a seat next to me, enveloping me in the smell of the ocean and a hint of sandalwood. He’s wearing board shorts and a black tank top—and what man wears a tank top and gets away with it? Maybe because he possesses the most delicious arms I've ever seen.
He's exactly the type of guy that I stay away from. I prefer to go for the men who are dressed in suits and ties and wear mortgages on their wrists. The type that is so overworked and stressed they pass out after fifteen seconds of… well, whatevertheyconsider sex.
This man next to me? I'd have to work hard to tire him out, and by the time I accomplish that, thenI'dbe too fucking tired to do anything else.
He's dangerous.