Screwdrivered (Cocktail 3)

“Pretty sure the jukebox won’t work when there’s drool in between the buttons,” someone said in my ear, and I whirled around. Jessica stood there, silently laughing.

“Ass,” I said, pushing past her and leaning against the other end of the bar. From this spot, I could still admire the cashews.

“He’s just a guy,” she urged. “Talk to him, don’t talk to him—he’s still just a guy.”

I ran my hand through my hair in frustration. Tonight for once I wasn’t wearing sneakers and covered in dust. I was clad in an oversized men’s black button-down with a piece of rope belting it in the middle; it was a short dress on me. And in place of my combat boots, I’d worn sandals tonight. Laced up to my knees, they showed off my short but powerful legs. And my black button-down was artfully unbuttoned. Was I showing off some cleave? Yes’m. Could you see the edge of my black lacy bra? Yes’m. Was I looking fairly fetching tonight? Fuck yes’m.

Perhaps this was the night, the night I’d make him notice me as more than just a sneezer. I peered down the bar; he was still there. With his nuts. I could do this.

I handed her my purse, which she took with a murmured “Get it, girl.”

I sauntered down toward him, putting an extra swish and sway into my hips. Something about leading with the hips makes a girl feel a little more sexy, a little more grrr. One of the songs I selected came on the jukebox, Al Green’s Can’t Get Next to You. I walked in time with the music, catching the eye of a bartender and tossing him a flirtatious and cheeky grin. He smiled back instantly, eyes appreciative of my perky perks. And was it me, or had the lighting changed? Darker, smokier, smudgier . . .

“Grease fire is out!” was the call from the kitchen, but no matter. The smoke and the smudge gave an exotic feel to this neighborhood bar, this watering hole, this . . . opium den.

The princess looked out across the sea of suitors, knowing that all eyes were on her. Her skin prickled, knowledge that he was in the room something that her body knew on a primordial level. Banners of silk hung low from the ceiling, fans paddled lazy air, swirling the heavy scent of myrrh and sandalwood thickly on the night breeze. And another scent, light at first but intensifying as she made her way through the men. The men, all there to woo and win her heart, but there was only one she wanted. And not just in her heart, she wanted him in her heat. Her secret female heat, the heat that only he would ever be privy to.

And then, he was there. The crowds parted, and he was revealed to her. Tall, crushingly handsome, he walked with a hunger in his eyes and power between his thighs. Dark, dangerous, and instantly assessing, he found her. And found her wanting. And panting. He found her wanting and panting and—

Blonde. Boobs. Big boobs. Tall. Blonde. Big blonde with boobs. While I was contemplating his nuts, he’d been contemplating the size-four sweater on the size-six girl who had plastered herself to his side. Bursting with enthusiasm was the kindest way to describe her.

I tried to make a course correction, not easy when you’re midsaunter, and went right into the path of—

“This is getting just plain stupid, Clark,” I said, when I ran right into his elbow patch. He lowered his to-go box and glared at me—as well as he could, with two black eyes. Purple and gray bloomed on either side of his nose, hidden by a butterfly bandage and some tape. He was dressed a little less formally tonight, a T-shirt underneath his tweed jacket. Huh. Clark Casual.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, does it hurt a lot?” I asked, reaching up to—Wait, what the hell was I reaching up to do? Luckily, he dodged my hand.

“Please don’t touch, Vivian. One trip to the clinic is enough for one day, don’t you think?” He looked around. “What are you doing here?”

“Having dinner with some friends. You?”

“Just picking up some dinner myself,” he said, shuffling his dinner in his hands so he could push his glasses up on his nose. Which must have been habit, since he wasn’t wearing them. Due to his injury? He winced when he touched it, and almost dropped his pizza box. “I gotta go,” he muttered, and started for the door.

“Look, Clark. Stay. Let me buy you a drink. It’s the least I can do for breaking your nose.”

“In point of fact, it’s not actually broken. Just incredibly bruised,” he said.

I sighed. “Does it hurt?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Then drinks are on me. Come on,” I insisted, gently taking him by the elbow and steering him toward the table. Over his shoulder I glimpsed the cowboy and the boobs about to head out the front door. She was giggling. He was cocksure. He was also looking over his shoulder at me. And when he made eye contact, he grinned. Ass. And what a fine one it was . . .

Another missed opportunity. And I so rarely wore dresses. Ah, well.

“Everyone, this is Clark. Clark, this is everyone. Except you already know Jessica,” I announced, pulling an extra chair over to the table and plunking him down while taking my purse back from her. She raised an eyebrow as if to ask if I’d made any headway with the cowboy, and I shook my head.

“Clark! What happened to you?” Jessica exclaimed, whisking his pizza box out of his hands and depositing it on a neighboring table while she fussed over him. The people at the table said thank-you and started to open it up. I nabbed it right back and set it behind me.

“It’s fine, just a little accident. No big deal,” he said, catching my glance and now my questioning eyebrow. He shrugged, shaking hands all around and meeting everyone.