Southern Heartbreaker (Charleston Heat 4)

Why what how.

I want to know everything about this look. This weight.

This woman, who is still as true to herself today as she was at nineteen.

Struggling, but authentic.

Eva slows her steps. The night and all its sights and sounds comes back full force. I look up at sound of a bass line’s heavy thud. The sticky sweet smell of chocolate.

We’re standing outside a multi-story brick building right on the market. It’s a touristy part of town, the bar and its blinking lights wedged between a t-shirt shop and place that sells forty flavors of fudge.

I recognize the bar, its name lit up in green halogen lights.

“Jacob’s?” I say. “Eva, you’ve gotta be kidding me.”

The mischief is back in her smile and her eyes. “Don’t tell me that suit’s made you too proud to go to Jacob’s. It’s a Charleston institution.”

“No it’s not,” I say. “It’s a place where underage college kids go to do Jäger bombs. You do know they have that on tap, right? Jägermeister? On principle, I do not go to places that encourage imbibing that sludge of death. It’s just…wrong.”

“Wrong in all the right ways, you mean.” Eva reaches for my hand and tugs me toward the door. “C’mon. First round of Jäger bombs is on me. And yes, you are letting me pay this time.”

“We’ll see about that,” I growl, sending my dick a silent plea to behave after the sudden shock of feeling her fingers thread through mine. Her hand feels warm.

Right.

I swear, some moments it really does feel like we’re picking up right where we left off more than a decade ago.

The bouncer barely glances at our IDs before waving us in—“yeah, y’all are definitely over twenty-one”—and then Eva is tugging me up one flight of stairs, then another. It smells like stale beer inside, undercut with a hint of fried bar food.

Lovely.

The thump of the bass gets louder the higher we climb. At last we come out onto an open air patio that leads onto a bar-slash-dance floor. There are people everywhere, bobbing their heads in time to the song the DJ is playing.

I recognize it. Even though the soles of my new Gucci oxfords are sticking to the floor—good Lord, what is that?—I feel my entire face breaking out in a smile.

The song is “What’s Your Fantasy” by Ludacris.

Only the song Eva and I memorized spring semester junior year as a way of procrastinating while attempting to study for our exams. She’d do the girl parts. I’d do the guy. Occasionally we’d switch just to show each other up, acting out the lyrics with enthusiastic abandon.

We were a popular attraction at parties back then.

Immediately Eva glances over her shoulder. Mouths the very filthy lyrics as they boom through the speakers. Those espresso brown eyes flashing with the challenge.

I lift a brow. “You really wanna go there?”

“Oh yeah,” she says, starting to move her shoulders to the beat. “Show me what you got, Mr. Suit and Tie.”

I fly through the next verse, not missing a damn thing. She laughs, and fuck me, I wanna pull her to me and lick my tongue into her mouth.

That filthy fucking mouth that’s still singing those filthy fucking lyrics.

I refrain from licking her. That’s something horny nineteen year olds do. Thirty-two-year-old dads still in the day’s work clothes need to have a little more decorum than that. Right?

The song ends. Eva bellies right up to the bar, dropping my hand to dig her wallet out of her bag. I plant that hand, still ringing with the memory of her touch, firmly on the bar. But I can’t resist standing close to her, my front to her back, as she waves down the bartender.

Close enough to give any scumbag in the vicinity definite back the hell off vibes.

I lean in. Murmur in her ear, “Please tell me you were kidding about the Jäger.”

Eva orders two Coronas and, turning, hands one to me. The beer is ice cold, bits of lime clinging to the mouth. Usually I don’t like fruit with my alcohol. But tonight, I want to see Eva lick this lime off her bottle.

“Of course I was. I’m fun, but I’m not a masochist—I don’t want to spend my Saturday puking. Cheers.” She touches her bottle to mine.

“What should we toast to?”

Her eyes are smiling. “Old friends?”

“But we were never friends.”

“Correction: we were always friends. We were just always more than that, too.”

“I’ll cheers to that.” Clanking bottles again, I tip back the beer. It’s delicious. Refreshing, a little tart on account of the lime. “It’s really good to see you, Eva. I needed this.”

She swallows her sip, and goddamn, her tongue darts between her lips, catching some of that lime from the corner of her mouth.

Is sex on the first date too much, too soon? Asking for a friend.