I went over to the bar, pulling out a stool and taking a seat by the far end corner, where the light had some trouble reaching. The place was pretty empty, which didn’t surprise me considering it was just now turning five o’clock in the evening.
“Cheers, mate, drinking anything today?” The bartender was a bubbly brunette with a stunning red rose tattoo on her forearm.
“I’ll take a vodka tonic, thanks.”
She must have judged by my all-black attire that the day wasn’t exactly going well, because the drink she handed me was 90 percent vodka and 10 percent tonic.
I drank half of it in one gulp.
On my lap was the thick envelope. I grabbed it, half expecting the thing to light on fire, and placed it on the bar, making sure there weren’t any wet spots. As much as I didn’t want to read the damn thing, I knew I wanted to keep it safe.
It wasn’t long before the pub started to fill up. At first, the music was playing a good mix of oldies and recent hits, low enough that I could hear myself think. I’d been doing a lot of that, and after three vodka tonics, my thoughts were all over the place.
“You’re gonna need a refill,” said a voice from my left. I turned my head, meeting eyes with a young guy, blond hair cut short and light blue eyes reflecting the light off the multicolored disco ball that swung overhead. “What ya drinking?”
He was a good-looking guy. I could entertain this for a moment.
“I’ve got it.” I turned to the bartender and ordered two shots: redheaded sluts.
She brought back the shot glasses swirling with Jägermeister and cranberry juice. The blue-eyed cutie looked at me, a devilish smirk playing on his face. I placed the letter back on my lap, keeping it away from the increasingly dirty bar top.
“Okay, you like control. I like that.”
I smiled at him and grabbed my shot glass. He followed suit, lifting his and clinking the glass with mine before we both tilted our heads back and dropped it down the hatch, the liquor burning its way down my throat.
He shook his shoulders and rolled his head. “That was intense. What was in that shite? Bull bollocks and cinnamon?”
Ah, Londoners. How I missed these bold, brash, beautiful fuckin’ people. I hadn’t been back in a long, long time. Almost enough time for me to have forgotten the difference between a stonker and a todger.
Not that they’re much different at all.
“Whatever, daddy, you can order a shot of pure rubbish and I’ll still go home with you.”
I winced a little at the casual toss of “daddy” my way. It was fine, I got it, and I embraced it. For the most part. My hair had been going gray since I got into my early twenties, and the smile lines that crinkled at the corners of my eyes and on my forehead didn’t exactly scream that I was sipping from the fountain of youth either. I was built broad, with strong shoulders and a sturdy frame, and carried myself with confidence. I could see how I fit the description of a daddy, and I didn’t mind it.
What I didn’t enjoy was what came after. The inevitable realization that we had nothing in common besides sex. That was getting very old, very fast. I was tired. Exhausted of relationships that were set to expire from the second they began. No more, I told myself. Stop being such a blundering oaf, focus on yourself and your job, and just be happy, be content.
That’s what I’ve been telling myself.
Now, though, now my hardening cock, spurred by the Jäger and the attractive pair of blue eyes staring me down, was telling me an entirely different story.
“Come, let’s dance.” The music was pumping loud, a song I didn’t recognize. People were shouting about a twerking contest or some other crazy dance move I didn’t know how to do.
“Oh, no. No, that’s okay. I don’t dance.”
“What! Come on, you can dance. Just get behind me and rub up on me. I want to feel that big thing of yours rubbing up against me.” He leaned in, a hand on my thigh.
Why couldn’t he just sit at the pub and chat before I took him back to my flat for the fuck of his life? All these kids wanted to dance and move and swing their arms around, all while they simulated standing sex on a tuna-packed dance floor.
It didn’t sound like fun. Currently, the dance floor was only being used by a group of three guys who looked like they snuck in with fake IDs, which really only made things worse. At least in a tuna-can situation, you were relatively hidden from the masses. In this case, this guy, who I still had no idea what his name was, wanted me to go and move my uncoordinated body as people stood around with drinks in their hands, judging the bloody hell out of us.