’s exasperated. I don’t know why this is different from when he’s upset at the office. Maybe it’s being in a bar. Hard to take a guy who’s buying you a drink or five seriously, although I have no idea why. It isn’t the sex, because I took him very seriously in the office earlier today. I should talk to Sasha about that, without mentioning the sex part.
“I’m not cute, I’m hot. And that has nothing to do with money,” he says.
“I think it does.” Cheapo! If I’d known he was going to be this stingy, I would’ve gone to a bar by myself. It isn’t like I asked him to pay off my student loan! He shouldn’t act like I’m demanding so much. He’s a billionaire. He can afford to buy more. I’m barely even tipsy.
He looks pained. “Do you realize you say everything out loud when you’re drunk?”
“That’s a very creative reason to cut me off before I’ve had my fill. But no, I do not,” I say primly.
“Yes, you do. And you are. So why don’t we make this your last dr—”
“You can’t make me. We aren’t working right now, so you can’t boss me around. You’re not the boss of me right now! You’re just, you know…”
“What?”
“A guy paying for my drinks.” And a guy I had angry sex with, but we aren’t going to talk about that.
I gesture at Satoshi. He makes eye contact, but then glances at Emmett, who subtly draws a finger over his throat. Satoshi nods and turns his attention to another customer.
Bastard. Actually, bastards. I’m dealing with two bastards. But the bigger bastard is the bartender. He’s choosing money—i.e., Emmett—over his customer’s needs. He probably doesn’t want to risk losing the firm’s business.
But maybe that means Emmett is the real bastard. He’s using his money and power to make people behave badly. The bastard behind the bastard.
“Three, actually,” Emmett says.
“Three what?”
“Three bastards.”
Emmett takes my arm and helps me up. I don’t recall wanting to stand up, but why not? It’s easier than getting to my feet on my own, although maybe he should’ve worried more about his own balance. He seems to be wavering a little. And he only had one whiskey!
But maybe—maybe!—he had something else behind my back. It is possible. The man is diabolically sneaky.
He’s holding me close enough that I can smell his scent and feel his body heat. Does he want to sleep with me? My inner nympho says I should try to get another mind-blowing orgasm out of him. And it’s hard to get her to shut up.
But Emmett isn’t interested. He hasn’t done a single thing to make a move. He hasn’t tried to put his lips on me. Or hold my hand. Or caress my arm or brush his leg against mine under the counter.
He probably lost interest after our one-night stand. Actually, we can’t even call it that. It was too short. Our fifteen-minute stand. And it was too, too…
Too intense. At least for me. One-night stands are supposed to be enjoyable and easily forgettable. Like a fast-food burger.
I hate it that I’m the only one obsessively thinking about that particular sexual episode. Emmett doesn’t need a hobby, I do. Like, uh… I can’t think of a good hobby. Reading, maybe. I can always reread The Mathematics of Financial Derivatives.
“You really need to stop talking.” Emmett sounds pained.
“I wasn’t talking. And you really need to pay,” I say, hugging my purse to show him I’m not forking over a penny.
He sighs and signals the bartender, handing him a few crisp bills. Probably extra C-notes, old ones that he can’t use to wipe away his tears when he’s at home without any work to do. When I finally turn in my two-week notice, I’m going to get him an MP3 of the saddest violin solo piece I can find, so he can use it as background music for his times of work-free grief.
I told him I’d have a talk with HR about the lack of work-life balance, but he already has that covered. His work is his life…so there’s balance.
“Wait,” I say. “Three bastards?”
Emmett nods. “Looks that way.”
“Who’s the third bastard?”
“Your ex-boyfriend.”