I don’t know if this is where I find that kind of man, but I know the posh upscale bars certainly won’t be. So I make my way towards where the bartender is pouring shots, backlit by red neon light, and swallow down my nervousness.
He looks up, and I see that he’s young. Older than me, but only by a few years probably. His black hair is shaggy and messy, tattoos line his arms and throat, and his denim shirtsleeves are rolled up. “What’ll it be, pretty lady?” he asks with a charming smirk, leaning forward. “Haven’t seen you before.”
“Do you recognize everyone who comes in here?” The words come to my tongue without thinking, as I slide onto one of the wooden stools, the seat cool through the silky fabric of my dress. I’m not used to banter, but the bartender seems nice enough. I can see him checking me out, but it’s not leering.
“Most of them. A bar like this attracts regulars. But this doesn’t look like your usual kind of place.”
That’s because I don’t have one,I almost admit, but I bite the words back. Heseemsnice enough, but some deep-seated instinct tells me it’s not wise to let on just how little experience I have, how naïve I really am. “Maybe I’m slumming it,” I say instead with a teasing grin. “Now, how about that drink?”
“You telling me what you want, or should I pick?” His eyes skate over me again, still not leering, but taking in my cleavage, my figure, my lips. I press them together, trying to decide how I feel about it. I’ve never been flirted with or checked out before, and IthinkI like it, but it also makes me feel nervous. As long as I have control in the situation, it feels good to be desired. But I’m also very aware of how quickly it’s possible to lose that control if I’m not careful.
“You pick,” I say quickly, letting a tiny bit of flirtation slip into my tone as best as I can, but not too much. He’s cute, but I don’t know if he’s who I want. I’m realizing quickly that I don’t really have any idea exactly what I want, just that I want it to be my choice—and right now, that means not locking things down with the first man I talk to tonight.
“Alright.” He grins easily, a look of pleasure on his face, as if he likes that I’ve given him creative freedom with my drink. “Sweet, sour, bitter, or spicy?”
“Um—sour.” I’ve always liked tangy things—pickled foods and citrus fruits, so it seems like a safe bet. I’ve never had as much of a sweet tooth.
“Coming right up.” He flashes me another grin, just as I feel a presence at my shoulder.
“I can buy the lady that drink.” The voice comes along with the smell of spicy cologne, a thick body wedging itself onto the stool next to mine, and I slide away a little.
“I can get my own drink,” I say quickly. “It’s fine.”
“You’re too pretty to be buying your own liquor.” The owner of the insistent voice is a man at least two decades older than me, with sun-brown skin and the kind of hard body that comes from outdoor work and a thick mustache on his upper lip. “It’s not a hardship.”
“It isn’t for me, either.” I let an edge creep into my tone. “I said no, thank you.”
“Don’t bother the lady, Raoul,” the bartender says, looking up from where he’s pouring amber liquid into a shot glass. “She said no.”
“Just because you’ve got your eye on her, Manuel—” Raoul grunts, but he backs away, leaving the stool at my side in search of someone more interested.
“Thank you,” I say gratefully as I take the drink the bartender offers me. “Manuel—”
“That’s me,” he says with an affable grin. “But I can’t be rescuing you all night, so make sure you keep an eye out for men like him. They don’t like to hear no.” He nods at the drink. “How is it?”
I take a hesitant sip. I’ve never had alcohol before, outside of communion wine and the occasional half-glass of wine at holidays, mulled or otherwise. I’ve definitely never had liquor, and it hits my throat with a burn, a slightly sour taste mixed with flavors of pineapple and ginger and citrus. I take another sip and decide that I like it.
“It’s good,” I tell him. “What’s in it?”
“Reposado tequila, muddled pineapple, lemon and lime juice, and a twist of ginger.” Manuel grins. “A little sweet and a little sour and a little spicy, which I think suits you just fine.” He gives me a casual wink. “Let me know if you want another.”
And then he’s moving down the bar, leaving me to my drink and the uncertain future of the night as he goes to help more customers.
He’s right about the attention. I move through the room, swiping my card at the jukebox, choosing a song at random since I don’t know any of them. I can feel the eyes on me still, the hungry gaze of predators sizing up their next meal, and when I turn away from the jukebox, one of them is standing there.
This one is younger than the man who tried to buy my drink, maybe late twenties, but his eyes gleam with a heat that makes me uncomfortable as he looks down at me. “Well, don’t you look gorgeous,” he murmurs. “First time here?”
“No,” I manage, swallowing down my nervousness. This guy might be my type—buzzed hair, black denim jacket, obvious muscles beneath a tight t-shirt—he reminds me of José, but I don’t like his attitude. He’s looking at me like I’m already his, with an arrogance that’s off-putting.
“You sure?” He smirks. “Me and my buddies spend a lot of time here. We’d have noticed if a piece like you frequented this place. It’s nice, yeah?”
“Nice enough.” I start to move past him, still clutching my drink, but he moves in my way, and I see three more guys approaching, all wearing similar jackets. “Sorry, I’m not interested—”
“You don’t even know me.” He looks down at me with eyes that I see now are green, gleaming on his face. “We haven’t even been introduced. I’m Marc. And you—”
“Am going back to the bar to talk to Manuel. We’re friends.” I say that with a confidence I don’t really have, trusting that if push comes to shove, Manuel is a decent enough guy to back me up.
“Nah, girl. Manuel doesn’t have friends that look like you. I’d know. So why don’t you come over here to our table, and we all get to know each other better. Asfriends?” His lips twitch up in a hungry grin, and I feel my stomach twist.