Weird.
“Is that for me?” I step closer and point at the glass.
She lifts her gaze and straightens her body. The woman is only a few inches shorter than my six feet. She stares at me. The bar’s dim light doesn’t allow me to distinguish the color of her eyes, but they are soft, just like her.
“Vodka?” Her soft voice travels through my ears and caresses my entire body. She looks at me and shakes her head. “No, you’re more like a whiskey-scotch kind of guy. Beer when you’re watching the game.”
“What game?” I smile at her and drink the shot, slamming the glass when I’m done. “Hockey?”
She shrugs and hands me a glass of Macallan 12.
Her hand lifts, and she points toward the other side of the bar. There’s a stage and a group of people setting up. “If I were you, I’d be leaving soon. Open mic sucks on Sundays. If you’re here for the live music, I recommend you come by on Wednesdays.”
Whoever owns this bar doesn’t understand the concept of space. There’s no way a band can fit in that corner. I down the whiskey as if it were a shot and check the entire joint. There isn’t much to it.
If we could place a couple of billiard tables, upgrade the bar, and maybe use the upstairs area, the place would attract a different crowd. My eyes land on the entrance where the bouncer continues his task of scaring any incoming customers.
“Can you give me a whiskey sour?” The bartender frowns at me. “What? You don’t like my choice of drink?”
“That’d be your third drink,” she points out as she starts preparing it, “in less than five minutes. Are you okay?”
No,but she doesn’t need to know. My defense mechanism kicks in, and I snap at her, “Keep them coming.” I set a hundred-dollar bill on top of the counter, take the drink, and head to a table far from her judgmental attitude.
She doesn’t say a word but gives me a sad smile. Her eyes have a softness to them that reminds me of Matt’s. As if she wants to reach out and hold me until the pain goes away. No one has ever seen it—the hurt. Why is it that in the past few months two people looked at it as if it’s a second passenger following right behind me?
Does she recognize it because there’s something dark right beneath her gorgeous face?
ChapterEight
Tristan
My veins carryfive whiskey sours and the other concoctions I ordered while listening to the most abhorrent music I’ve heard in my entire life.
And with me, I carry a crystal.
The gorgeous bartender gifted me a purple tulle bag, and inside of it was a purple rock and a note that read:
You’re not alone.
It’s obvious she doesn’t know me or anything about me. I push people away because, unlike many, I want to be alone.
I deserve to die lonely.
And who does she think she is to send me some shitty rock and tell me… who is with me? Not her, though, I wouldn’t kick her out of my bed if she wanted to join me.
My head spins, just like the entire world around me. I hold onto the steel wall of the elevator, watching the numbers change as I head toward the penthouse. When I step into the foyer, I spot Matt.
He sits at the piano, eyes closed and hands moving gracefully along the keys. I watch him as I listen to the melody. I’m aware he’s a musician, but I didn’t know he was this talented. If I could, I’d sit in the living room and enjoy every note. Though, as I take a few steps toward him, his eyes open wide, and the music comes to a complete stop.
Our gazes lock onto each other, and my heart skips a few beats as my dick stirs. I want him so fucking much.
That must be the alcohol thinking for me—acting on my behalf. It’s letting the dark part of my soul take over my body.
And maybe tonight I’ll let it. I shove that weird crystal inside my pocket. Maybe she’s right and tonight I don’t have to be alone.
I can have Matthew Decker.
Fucking hot, available, and desirable Matthew Decker.