That’s the only way this night and this bar differ from all the others. Tonight, I’m not here to get laid or get drunk, although if both happen I won’t complain. Actually, I’m not really sure why I am here, but I know it has something to do with Marissa. I’ve given her the impression that I’ll look out for her, that I’ll protect her. I can’t very well manage that when I’m hours away. It also has a little something to do with whatever bug found its way up her ass. I’m curious about that. And I wouldn’t mind exploring that little temper of hers. Other than that, I have no interest in what her deal is. I’ve got nothing to apologize for. At least not that she knows of.
My gaze is drawn to her right away. It’s not that she’s necessarily easy to spot in the crowd. This place is so full of blondes I might get high from the fumes. But Marissa’s hair is a natural blond, pretty easy to pick out of the yellowed bottle-blondes all around her. Plus, there’s just something about her that draws my eye, no matter how crowded the room.
Besides that, she’s sitting by herself. She’s probably never been to a bar like this one. Dual is probably the closest thing, which isn’t really very similar at all, since it’s more of a club.
She looks like an elegant fish out of water, even though she tried to dress the part. Her denim short-shorts are a little too new-looking and her T-shirt is probably designer. My guess is that it cost more than some of these people make in a month. And her smile is stiff, like she’s uncomfortable. I gotta give her some credit for trying, though. She came because she’s trying to do right by her cousin, because she’s trying to prove herself. Even if it means doing so in the enemy camp.
The girl’s got some balls.
When her eyes light on me, I see them freeze into icy blue points in the perfect oval of her face. She looks away, out toward the dance floor and the crowd moving clumsily there.
I don’t approach her. Instead, I go to the bar and order a beer. When the bartender slides me the green-tinted glass bottle, I immediately regret my choice. My dick twitches in response.
You meant to torture her and Cash, but the only person eating a shit sandwich is you! I think to myself as I try to put that night out of my mind.
I force my thoughts to something else before my body gets out of hand. New Orleans is one of those things that’s better off dead. If only I were as fortunate as Marissa and didn’t remember it at all . . .
A nice, soft breast rubs up against my arm. I look to my left to see a busty blonde lean in next to me. The chair on the other side is empty, so she’s got plenty of room. She just doesn’t want to take it. She’d rather have my attention instead.
She orders a margarita, then turns her heavily made-up eyes to me. “Don’t think I’ve seen you ’round here before.”
“That’s because you haven’t,” I respond.
“Didn’t think so. I’d remember a man like you.”
I smile at her overt tactics. “Yes, you certainly would.” I bring the cool beer bottle to my lips and take a sip. Instantly, I think of Marissa. The beer and the thought leave me thirsty, but not for anything in front of me.
I frown as I swallow my mouthful of brew. Normally, ass is ass. As long as it looks clean and willing and smells nice, I’ll tap it. That’s what condoms are for.
But not tonight. For the first time in . . . well, years, my appetite is very specific. There’s one thing I want, one person. And it’s not the blonde at my side. It’s the one sitting coolly by herself on the other side of the room.
Following my thoughts, my eyes flicker to where Marissa is seated and collide with hers. Before she glances guiltily away, I see fury. Jealous fury.
Normally, I don’t put up with that kind of thing, but in this case, I find it intriguing. It seems out of character for her, like a hidden flaw that’s coming to light. Makes me want to explore it. Just like her anger from earlier.
Whatever the cause, anger is something I can relate to, identify with. But it makes me feel drawn to her, connected to her in a way that I don’t want to feel. I’m a loner. I don’t need roots or ties or involvements. Marissa’s the exact opposite. She’s the type that needs all that.
I’m the leaving kind. And she needs the staying kind.
Maybe we both need reminding of that.
With that in mind, I grab the hand of the blonde who’s busting out of her top and take her with me to the dance floor.
TWENTY-TWO
Marissa
My heart splinters right inside my chest as Nash leads the girl through the crowd. I should stop watching him. But I can’t. I can’t stop watching him any more than I could stay away from him when I could’ve avoided all this.
I knew what kind of guy he was, what kind of guy he is. One look at him will tell any girl with half a brain what kind of guy he is. He’s the kind that will break your heart. Without a thought or a backward glance, right before he walks out of your life.
It’s not like he didn’t warn you.
That only makes me feel worse. It makes me feel stupid on top of everything else.
As I watch him dance with the slutty blonde—which he does amazingly well, I might add—I can’t help but feel a devastating sense of letdown. It sounds crazy, no doubt, but I think some part of the new me hoped that I’d find love in an unexpected place, in an unexpected way. Nash is both.
Having him fall for me, being the one who could heal him and make him love again, would’ve been a wonderful way to start my new life. But maybe it’s not meant to be. Maybe I’m supposed to cut all ties and find my way on my own. Completely on my own. I’ve never been on my own like that before. Maybe it’s time I am.
In my head, that sounds all Antigone-esque, but in my heart it just feels lonely. And empty.
Suddenly the room and all its happy celebration feels suffocating. I slide from my bar stool to flee the weight that’s pressing in on my chest, but a firm grip on my shoulder stops me. I turn to see Ginger. She shakes her head, as if telling me not to leave, gives me a wink, and then turns to speak into the crowd.
“Who’d like to see the birthday girl open her presents?” Even with the loud music, Ginger’s voice can be heard easily. No doubt that’s a pretty handy talent for a bartender to have. As if on cue, someone lowers the music and the sea of faces turn toward Ginger.
I sit back down. I’m stuck. There’s no way to exit now without appearing rude and inconsiderate. Plastering a smile on my face, I look around to find Olivia, purposely avoiding looking at Nash and that . . . that . . . woman.