I like her looking at me. I’ve missed it these past weeks.
Standing before her, I lift one brow. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Hello, Mr. Sullivan.” She smiles. “It’s good to see you again. You look . . . well.”
My voice comes out rough and raspy.
“You look beautiful.”
For a moment, we stand there, and it’s like one of those fanciful moments in a movie or a book when the rest of the world fades away into the meaningless background—and it’s just the two of us, drinking each other in.
Until Henrietta appears at our elbows—a pint of cold beer already in her hand—looking between us, grinning wolfishly.
“Me and Kevin will be in the back, Abby, if you need us.” She pats Abby’s arm. “Though I’m sure Tommy’s capable of giving you everything you need.”
I glance at the two of them as they walk away. Henrietta fits in more with the general atmosphere, wearing a short denim skirt and low-cut white top with her blond hair teased high. While the bloke—Kevin—looks like he just walked out of a Nirvana music video in a sloppy flannel and jeans.
“Can I take your coat?” I ask Abby, because I’m a gentleman—and because I want to see more of her.
She hands it over to me, exposing the ivory skin of her arms that would look so bloody good around my shoulders, my waist, clasped tight and frantic across my back.
“You want a drink?”
She seems like she could use one. She’s fidgety—flustered. It’s very cute.
“A gin and Dubonnet with lemon, please,” she tells Hubert the bartender.
And he looks at me like she’s spoken alien and he wants me to translate.
“Give her a gin and soda.”
The moment Hubert sets the glass on the bar, Abby swipes it up—and downs it fast—exhaling a long breath afterwards.
“Another, please.”
I watch as Hubert sets a second glass in front of her and she drinks half of it in one gulp, squeezing her eyes and clearing her throat after she swallows.
“Is everything all right?” I ask. “I mean, are you in some sort of trouble?”
“No trouble.” She shakes her head. “Henrietta finally convinced me to come out with her for a drink after our shift.”
“And you ended up at this place?”
“Yes.” She nods vigorously.
Too vigorously to be telling the truth.
“Well—no—that’s not precisely accurate. I was hoping I’d see you here. There’s a . . . matter I’d like to discuss.”
Before I can unpack that, Harry taps the microphone on the karaoke stage, sending a screech of feedback straight into the eardrums of every patron in the place.
“This one is for my mates at S&S Securities,” he announces, like the pop star he imagines himself to be.
The song begins—a soft string of acoustic guitar notes. Harry’s wavy dark hair sways in time, and then he sings the opening lines of “I Want It That Way” by the Backstreet Boys.
I sigh—embarrassed for him—and a little for myself.
“He’s not really with us,” I tell Abby.
From the corner of the bar Henrietta lets out an ear-splitting scream and rushes the stage like . . . well . . . like a girl at a Backstreet Boys concert.
“Same,” Abby says.
And we’re both laughing.
I dip my head closer to hers. “Now about this ‘matter’?”
She looks up into my eyes. “Yes. It’s been brought to my attention—”
A drunken lout bumps into Abby from behind, sending her crashing into me. I shove him back and wrap my arm around her, eyeing the door. Because between the music and the crowd I can barely hear her voice. And I’m keen on her voice—as well as hearing clearly what’s brought her here looking for me.
With my hand on her lower back, I guide her to the door and out into the brisk night air. I lay her coat over her shoulders and move us a few steps down from the door—to a quieter, shadowed space on the pavement. Then I lean back against the outer brick wall of the bar.
Abby stands in front of me, chin raised, her delicate hands clenched at her sides.
“Were you serious?” she asks.
“I’m rarely serious, love—you’ll have to be more specific.”
She swallows, the hollow of her throat rippling.
“About wanting me. About it being simple. About us . . .”
“Fucking?”
Yes, I’m purposely being crass. Playing with her. Toying with her.
Goading her.
Because I enjoy it. I enjoy the tiny gasp that escapes from her lips. I enjoy the stain of color that flushes on her smooth cheek. And more than anything—I enjoy the flash of fire that sparks in those big, brilliant eyes.
“Yes. About us fucking.”
And, Christ, I enjoy that too—hearing the crude word in Abby’s elegant, refined tone. It makes me feel like I’m marking her, dirtying her up. It makes me want to show her just how fun filthy can be.
“As serious as a hard-on,” I answer her.
“That’s not an expression.”