He bunches his eyebrows and processes my words. He turns his head toward the blonde, suddenly aware of my meaning, and smiles. “You mean her?”
I nod once.
He chuckles and grabs a bottle of beer from the ice. “She’s not here for me.”
“Really?”
He pops the lid off the bottle. “Yes, really. Why would you even think that?”
I shrug and stare into my drink. “I don’t know… I guess because… you know…”
You’re hot. She’s gorgeous. You’re a bartender. She’s sitting at the bar.
“No. I don’t.” The look on his face tells me he isn’t playing dumb. He sets the bottle on a server’s tray.
The look on my face says come on, seriously. “Come on, Jaxon. She’s not the first girl to wait at the end of that bar.”
He leans forward, propping his chin on his fists and studying me. “You think all those women have been waiting there for me?”
“Well, you’re the bartender. So… yeah.” Duh.
He laughs and grabs my empty glass. “That settles it. You’re cut off.”
“Hey!” That is not cool.
He places my glass in a dish rack, then turns back around. “She’s here for Cal,” he says, and I feel an involuntary sense of disappointment, although I can’t tell if it’s because she’s here for Cal or because she isn’t here for Jaxon.
Of course she’s here for Cal. Just like the brunette was here for Cal. They’re probably all here for Cal. Because Cal is a bootymonster. I knew it.
“Not a player,” my ass.
“Pfft. Good luck with that one,” I say a little too loudly as I look over at her.
The woman watches me with wide eyes. Of course, she’s amused. I’m acting like a jealous girlfriend. Only I’m not jealous—or anyone’s girlfriend.
What the hell is wrong with me? Maybe this whole flirting/dating thing isn’t for me after all.
“Makenna,” Jaxon shushes me.
“What?” It’s the truth. That woman needs all the luck she can get.
I’m suddenly not in the mood to socialize, so I slide my stool back and stand up. “I’m sorry. I should go. I have a full day tomorrow. Raincheck?”
The disappointment on Jaxon’s face makes me feel like a complete jerk. But I really don’t see this ending well, no matter how many delicious martinis he makes.
“Sure,” he says with a forced smile.
“Thanks.” I blow him a kiss, then I shamefully walk out the door to spend the rest of my night drowning in a sea of vodka.
I once told Reid that if he ever left me, I would develop an unhealthy addictionto wine and television game shows. Lately it seems I have thoroughly fulfilled the first part of that promise. I’ve never been much of a drinker, just the occasional wine night with my girls, but since his death it’s the one thing I have found that takes me out of my own head. The very thing that has always deterred me from drinking is the one thing I now find most alluring about it: numbness. I like being numb. I never drink enough to get full-on drunk, though. I don’t like to feel, but I also don’t like losing control. Thanks to months of practice, I have perfected walking that fine line between feeling nothing, and not being able to do anything about it.
Some people find solace in working out while others lose themselves in a good book or favorite movie. Not me. I get lost in work, school, and the exquisite way the alcohol paralyzes my emotions. This is my happy place.