Need Me (Mess with Me 3)

Mya and her boyfriend started out as office frenemies until the day she caught him at the company Happy Hour with his pants down. Literally.

When she came home and told me she’d seen what he was packing, I knew then what was coming. But she couldn’t just have a little fun on the side. Nooooo, she had to go and fall in love with the guy.

Mya grumbles as she gets off the couch and heads for the kitchen. At least she’s not still under her blanket watching Netflix. It’s not easy to know how to comfort someone when you have very little experience with what they’re going through. I don’t do relationships and have long held the belief that men are best seen (naked) and not heard.

Which doesn’t explain the odd twist in the bottom of my gut. It’s not that I’m jealous of Mya. Especially since she’s currently eating cereal straight from the box with feral intensity. But I can’t pretend there isn’t a small part of me that wishes I felt as deeply about anything as she does about Milo.

“I have to run some errands.”

Mya doesn’t respond to my proclamation, which is just as well since it’s complete bullshit. I just need to get out of this apartment. I walk back to my room where I quickly change clothes into a pair of tight black jeans and a black camisole. Just dressy enough for where I’m going but still comfortable.

There’s this fancy hotel bar downtown where I like to hang out when I need to be alone. The bartenders at the Fitz-Harrington all know me and there aren’t as many handsy guys to deter. The rich businessmen who hang out there are usually too worried about making a scene to do much when I shut them down. I should be able to drink alone in peace while I figure out how to purge these unwanted and unexpected longings for … something.

My phone dings with a calendar reminder.

One Week: Doctor’s appointment 10 a.m.

I swipe it away without even looking at it. As if I could forget. Ugh.

Mya barely looks up from her perch on the couch as I leave. The door closes behind me cutting off the sound of the sappy movie she's rewatching for the third time. Luckily I don’t see anyone I know as I skip down the stairs and push open the front door of the building. I don’t feel like talking.

I just want to walk and feel alive.

The night air is humid but it still feels good on my skin. July is not exactly picturesque weather in Washington DC since all the concrete makes the city feel like an oven on broil. But stepping out feels like freedom. People watching is one of my favorite pastimes.

After a short metro ride, I take the escalator up to street level. I can only hope my favorite bartender is working tonight. Frankie is this older, ex-Navy SEAL grump who always acts like his tuxedo is strangling him. I’m not sure how he got the job considering he’s not very friendly and glares at all the customers but having him there quickly elevated the Fitz to one of my favorite places.

The bar is through the lobby and I smile politely at the hostess before pointing at the bar. She moves aside so I can enter. It’s still relatively early so there are only a few people in the restaurant section and just one guy at the bar. He doesn’t look up when I sit down

.

“How’s it going, Frankie?”

The bartender lifts his chin in greeting before preparing my usual order of a club soda with lime. I don’t even have to say anything and I know he’ll keep the drinks coming and the conversation to a minimum.

Like I said, one of my favorite places.

Sitting allows me to relax and think about all the changes coming in my life. I’ve been working mainly in the neonatal unit of the hospital for the past year now. Recently, I started thinking about making a change. After a lot of reflection, I decided to switch to working in the emergency room. Nursing is hard work, physically and emotionally. I was foolish to think that seeing so much devastation every day wouldn’t eventually take its toll.

Not that emergency will be any easier but at least I’ll be working with adults. There’s something about watching babies suffer that has torn a chunk out of my spirit. For the first time ever, I thought about taking a break and living off the absolutely ridiculous trust fund my father made available to me when I turned eighteen.

But that felt too much like proving him right. So the money sits unused and I continue to make my own way.

Alone. Just the way I like it.

Bars get a bad rap. Most people think of dark, smelly, loud places with bad food and watered down liquor. But they’re my favorite places to think. You can walk into a bar and sit alone and no one judges or asks any questions. Until you inevitably get one of those guys who can’t take a hint.

“Hey baby. Is this seat taken?”

A man slides onto the stool next to me without waiting for my answer. He’s got long, floppy brown hair and the glassy eyes of someone who is not quite drunk but getting there. He’s wearing a suit like most of the men who hang out in this hotel but he still looks like he’s only fifteen years old.

“Seriously, Frankie. Don’t you guys card in here?”

He glances over at the guy before rolling his eyes. Which means he’s definitely already checked the guy’s ID. Otherwise, my college-aged neighbor would be outside on the sidewalk.

“Come on, don’t be like that baby. I’m just trying to get to know you.”

“I have a boyfriend.”