The Clash of Yesterday (Chronicles of the Stone Veil 0.5)

The Prima Design offices are only a few blocks from Byrne Enterprises, and we all decided to meet up at a popular bar that was actually on the same block. So, I made the walk with four of my new colleagues in tow to the bar called Oak and Barrel, since I really didn’t know where it was. I’d only been in Seattle for a few weeks, and I can’t figure out if it was rotten luck Eliana was working here, or maybe good luck if I can continue to make her life a living hell.

As we walk past the Byrne building, I smile with a swagger that I landed the account. When we open the door to Oak and Barrel, it’s a bit dim and it takes my eyes a moment to adjust. I immediately search for an empty table that can accommodate the five of us, then head for a high top at the back of the room.

We barely get on our stools before a waitress appears and takes our drink orders. Happy hour started about half an hour ago, and the place is filling up fast.

The guys and I make small talk. I don’t know them well because I’ve been working my ass off since I moved here. They’re all young, pompous, and, to my dismay, firmly entrenched in the concept of a boys-only club. I had noticed there weren’t many female ad execs at Prima, and while I’m a dude through and through, I am a huge proponent of gender equality.

I’ve been fortunate to witness women doing things that even men couldn’t do all that well throughout my life, and it makes me a bit disappointed in Prima.

It’s why no women are sitting at the table with us, and, after the first two rounds of drinks, why the men are all eagerly looking around at the single women and making crude comments.

Not that I can’t be crude… but not toward women I don’t know. I can talk dirty in the bedroom better than anyone, but respect comes first.

One of the guys nudges me since I’m not actively playing along with their game. “Let’s each put fifty dollars in, find the hottest chick to fuck tonight, then the guy who picks her up gets the money.”

The other guys echo their eagerness for the game.

“Come on, Ronan,” he says. His name is Brian, and he’s twenty-five going on eighteen. “Look around and pick out the hottest one.”

It’s stupid because I go all-in when I decide I want to pick up a woman. I don’t play childish games and talk about women from afar. I’ve figured out quickly that none of my colleagues probably have the guts to approach an attractive woman—much less pick her up. They’re children playing at a man’s game.

In fact, maybe I should give them a lesson on how they should be less talk and more action.

“All right,” I say, tipping back my bourbon and club soda to drain it.

I hadn’t been paying much attention to the crowd—instead, I’d been engaging with the guys at my table—I slowly peruse the area, which has become quite crowded. Every table is occupied, each stool at the bar has a person on it, and much of the standing room is taken. The chatter and background music make it a little too loud for my tastes, but it’s my eyes that are working right now as I slowly peruse the women in here.

Plenty of beauties, many single by the looks of things since they are scoping the men out. Apparently, this is a good place for a hookup.

My gaze moves to the bar, but it’s pretty crowded and hard to see who’s sitting there. But then some people shift and my body locks tight as I realize Eliana is seated on a stool. She’s angled to the side, long legs crossed, one of the heels of her fancy shoes propped on the bottom rung of the stool. The slit in her skirt shows a lot of leg and she’s ditched her suit jacket to her chair’s back.

Her blonde hair has been pulled out of the tight bun from earlier, and it spills down her back. Her shirt’s top three buttons are undone, and I catch a peek of white lace under it.

Right there.

Hands down. She’s the hottest.

I hate her, but she’s the hottest by far.

And because I can’t stand her, she sure isn’t going on my list of potentials to fuck tonight.

Leaving her behind, I keep glancing around as the other guys make suggestions.

Except my eyes keep going back to her.

She’s talking to a guy who is standing at the bar, facing her. He’s sipping a beer while she drinks red wine. They’re watching a local news station on one of the TV screens behind the bar, and whatever is rolling on the ticker below the newscaster is the subject of their conversation. He nods at the screen, says something, and she lifts her head to watch.