Taken (Dark Desires 1)

“Maybe I just wanted a drink,” I said with a shrug. I held the bottle between my hands to keep them from shaking. I’d imagined this moment for weeks. I had told myself that I could handle the pressure of meeting him, that I could convince him of the lie, that I could kill him when the time came.

He gave me a knowing look and slowly shook his head. “Nobody comes in here just to drink, Sandy.”

“Why do people come in here then?”

His eyes bounced from my lips to my tits like a pinball. “People come in here to get away, to forget, to get laid, but never just to have a drink.” He held the bottle to his lips and narrowed his eyes at me. “So, which is it for you?”

“Which is what?” I asked, my teeth digging into my bottom lip. His eyes focused on my mouth.

“Are you here to get away, to forget, or to get laid?”

I stared into his eyes and summoned every ounce of courage I had left in my body. He had braced his palms on the bar and stood giving me the eye. The muscles in his thick arms flexed as he drummed his fingers on the bar. I briefly imagined his arms going around me, pulling me to him, holding me tight. Without blinking, I said, “Maybe I’m here for all three.”

A broad smile crossed his lips. He held out his bottle for me to toast.

“Well, Sandy,” he said, tapping his bottle to mine. “You have come to the right place.”

RICK

Sandy quickly drank five beers while we chatted at the bar. She seemed nervous at first; taking pensive little sips like she was trying to make each bottle last. But with each bottle, she drank a little faster. And her lips got a little looser.

I grilled her easy, like a pro, and she answered every question without hesitation. If she was a cop or a mole sent in by the cops, I’d know it soon enough. Then I’d either toss her out on her sweet ass or let Eddie deal with her. Eddie hated rats; even ones as hot as this chick was.

She said her name was Sandra Duval, but she went by Sandy.

She was from here, born and raised.

She said she was engaged for a while, but it ended badly.

She lived by herself in a small apartment across town.

She had never traveled any place fun.

She had made a living cutting hair since high school but was tired of it now.

She liked the taste of beer.

Maybe she’d give bartending a try.

“Do you know anything about tending bar?” I asked.

“No,” she said, snorting. She nodded at Carl, who was standing at the other end of the bar watching a fight on TV. “But how hard can it be?”

“Not hard in a place like this that only serves shots and beers,” I said. I plucked the empty beer bottle from her hand and brought her another. I studied her eyes as I asked, “You interested in working here?”

The bottle popped from her lips. She wiped her mouth on her knuckle and gave me a dreamy look. “Here? Really? Do you need another bartender?”

“I don’t necessarily need another bartender,” I sa

id, holding out my hands. “But old Carl would love the help. And if you worked here you would get to see me all the time.”

She shot me a wary glance as if she didn’t know that was a good thing or a bad thing.

I smiled. I’ve been told by more than one woman that I have a smile that would melt the panties off the Mona Lisa. It seemed to be working on her.

She blinked at me as she played with a lock of hair at her neck and asked, “Are you offering me a job?”

“Maybe. Are you looking for a job?”