FINDING HER
1
Giselle
The double doors slam open,the wind from the cool evening outside exaggerating the entrance of a group of men. A loud bravado of what must be a handful of them spills into the bar. It’s impossible not to look up. They’re the perfect illusion of sex appeal and confidence, but an illusion nonetheless. As a collective, they’re stare-worthy. But when you focus more closely, it’s all a lie. Delusions of grandeur. Mediocrity at its finest. Dressed well and boozed up.
It’s after 10 p.m.. Two are half in the bag. One is laughing at his own story about the time he was hit on by his buddy’s mom, and the other is already scouting the room for girls. Once they settle themselves at the end of the bar, I watch as they elbow each other and nudge their chin toward me. I hope it’s just their eagerness to order, but I’ve been tending bar long enough to know that these guys are ready to flirt and try to achieve the ultimate hurdle of taking the hot bartender home for a ride.
No thanks. Not interested.
I’m likely to pour some drafts of our IPA and then a round of Patrón to really balance out their night. But maybe one of them will surprise me with something interesting—a Negroni or maybe even just a club soda.
But before I can ask for their order, the doors slam open again. Only this time, the man that enters demands my attention. Fully and uninterrupted. And if it were even possible for me to look away right now, I’d probably glance around and find that I’m not the only one paying attention.
There are plenty of good-looking men in this city. Some of the prettiest I’d wager, but this stranger’s appeal is more than the sexy dark hair that contrasts with his white thermal. The tight shirt showcasing his tall, thick frame. It’s not even the handsome face and cut jawline that has me catching my breath either. Nope. It’s the badass, don’t-fuck-with-me swagger that has now parted the damn room as if he were Moses and the drunks dry-humping on the dance floor were the Red Sea.
Instantly, he has me wanting to conquer his big dick energy, and then straddle him like a well-trained bull-rider. Beyond eight seconds. Multiple times, and well beyond sunrise.
“Bulleit Bourbon neat.”
I stare as he lowers himself onto the stool, dragging his elbows onto the bar.
Dropping the glass in front of him, I spin the bottle in my hands a full two turns before pulling it high for an exact two fingers pour.
He hasn’t looked at me. He simply stares at the glass in front of him. Lost in his thoughts and unaware of my very blatant and aggressive eye-fucking. Oh, how I love toying with this kind of guy. Most people would leave him be and back away from thefuck offvibes he’s volleying around, but not me. I’m just bored enough tonight to make my mission about seeing him smile. I’d bet good money that he’s even hotter when he does. Sometimes they’re not, but this stranger looks like he may have a pretty smile. One that’s worth the effort it takes to earn it.
“I wouldn’t have pegged you for the kind of man who would be so predictable.” The grumpy asshole grunts at me, and I’ll be honest, I only thought old Italian men who played bocce ball with my pops made those soundsatpeople. Albeit, none of those guys sounded like a voiceover actor really making the sound “hmm” his bitch. This man did, though. And he did it without even trying. There are no dry seats in this house. Achievement unlocked, because that grunt or growl was like a beautiful lark singing a song to my downtown valley. And this kitty was purring right back.
Let’s play.
“You could have picked something with the same brawn, but far less typical. Better aromas and flavor. I always expect more out of the sexy silent ones, honey.”
He finally looks up at me. Fucking hell, he’s intimidating. There aren’t many people that have had this kind of effect on me. I want his attention; I’m craving it. I wait for him to respond. But, instead of words, you know, as most people use, he locks eyes with me, raises his brow, and juts his chin in my direction as his signal for me to continue.
Okay, education time, handsome.
“I would have been more impressed with something like a Cognac. It’ll still make your panties pucker, but you’re getting a full-body flavor that’s going to hit your nose before your palette. Still burns the same and does the job, but it comes from grapes, while Scotch is made from malted barley. Now that isn’t a bad thing by any stretch, but it’s just an entirely different process. With Cognac, you taste it. All of it. You’ll taste the earth it came from, the barrel it aged in, and it can only be made in the region from which it’s named in France. Which also means it can’t be replicated elsewhere. It’s limited and specific. If you want the whole package, then you go with Cognac. If you want to fall in line with the hipsters or rub elbows with the Wall Street guys, then order a basic-bitch Scotch.”
He stares at me. I wait for his next move. His Bourbon is midair, in a slope halfway between the bar top and his mouth. I tend to have that effect on people. Render them speechless. Sometimes it’s from my brilliant thoughts. Other times, I’ve just blown their mind between my knowledge and Bronx-born accent. The tits too. My tits are fantastic, so if you put them all together, it’s a brain-buster for most guys.
I purse my lips, then smile at the big guy. “What’s the matter? Pussy got your tongue?”
That gets him out of it. He throws back the glass. Only this time, a slight change. He uses words.
“Pour me a Cognac.” And as I turn to grab the bottle from behind me, I hear him mumble, “Pixie.”
I do my best to fight back my growing smile. Pulling my lower lip into my mouth, I revel in the warm excitement that coats my limbs from hearing a mere five words from my stranger. And to boot, he’s taking my drink suggestion. I wouldn't have guessed him to be the kind of guy who’s so quick to change something as personal as a drink order. I preen a little as I turn and pour.
Once it’s sitting in front of him, I make myself busy with juicing a full lime for the margarita order I’m filling. He doesn't answer me right away. The silence has me peeking over. He folds a corner of his napkin that sits beneath the glass, keeping his hands busy as he relishes whatever thoughts he may be working over.
“Whaddya think?” I ask, nodding to his drink as he takes his second sip.
He tilts his glass again, taking another sip, but right before the rim of the glass hits his bottom lip, I see it. A small twitch that kicks up the corner of his mouth. It’s not the jackpot, but it’s a start.
“You mean to tell me that the only way I’m getting your number tonight is if I can either tell you a quan-drama formula,” the blue collared shirt slurs, having taken way too long to process this after hitting on me. His voice kicking up at the end makes it a question, and I almost laugh.
“The quadratic formula,” I interrupt to correct him as I move on to making a dirty martini. I know I’m being an asshole, but this finger-gun slinger is too much fun to simply turn down with a quick “no thanks” or “I’m not interested.”