2
1047 Words
The four of us are sitting at a round table in the middle of the room. We’re surrounded by beautiful people on every side. The couple at the table behind me bickers over Tahoe or Tulum for their next vacation spot. A pair of young female models prowls past, taking selfies as they walk. Patrons jostle for position at the bar, trying to get the attention of the handsome bartender who I recognize as an extra from the television series Succession.
And sitting in the lone booth beside the bar, the dark-haired stranger is still staring at me.
It’s strange how such a good-looking man can give off such an unpleasant vibe. He’s a black hole over there, extinguishing all the light around him. He looks like he’d refuse to smile even if someone put a loaded gun to his head and ordered him to.
He’s probably thinking the same thing about me.
Chelsea sighs. “Shay, seriously! Stop scowling. It’s scaring all the hot guys away.”
“Not all of them,” notes Angel, glancing in the direction of Mr. Dark and Stormy.
Chelsea turns around in her chair and squints. “Who, that guy in the booth?”
“Yeah. He’s been eye f*****g Shay since we got here.”
I scold, “Chelsea, for God’s sake, don’t look at him.”
“Why the hell not? He’s fine.” She sends him a broad smile.
The glare he sends her in return is so freezing, it could crack stone.
With a low whistle, she turns back to us. “Wow. Ten for the face, zero for the personality.”
“Maybe his dog died,” Angel says.
Chelsea looks at me and suggests playfully, “Maybe you should go over there and cheer him up.”
“Very funny.”
“It wasn’t a joke.”
“Give me one good reason why I’d want to talk to that man.”
“Because it’s my birthday, and I want you to.” She smiles and takes another sip of her drink.
My heart sinks. She always smiles like that when she’s about to dig in her heels. The last thing I want right now is to be on the wrong side of her stubborn streak.
“He doesn’t want to talk to me.”
“I bet his d**k does.”
“If his d**k has the same personality as its owner, I’m not interested.”
“Give me a break, girl. Nobody’s asking you to marry him. Just go over there and chat him up!”
“So I can be publicly humiliated when he throws his drink in my face and tells me to f**k off? No thanks.”
“I’ll bet you a hundred bucks he doesn’t throw his drink in your face.”
“No.”
“Please?”
“No.”
“Pretty please?”
“No.”
“C’mon. If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for me.”
“That’s blackmail.”
She widens her eyes innocently. “Remind me again whose birthday it is?”
When I make a sour face but don’t reply, she goes in for the kill.
Leaning forward, she grins. “If you go talk to that guy, I promise I’ll stop calling Chet the twatwaffle. In fact, I won’t say a mean thing about him ever again.”
I pause to examine her expression. She appears earnest, but Chelsea’s a slippery one. She’ll conveniently forget this conversation by morning if it suits her.
“Okay, you’re on. But you have to record yourself saying that and send it to the group text.”
“Why?”
“Permanent evidence. If you renege on the deal, you have to buy me, Jen, and Angel new iPhones.”
Jen and Angel scream with laughter, but Chelsea’s eyes bulge in horror. “What?”
My smile is ruthless. “Deal or no deal, birthday girl?”
“That’s like three grand!”
Knowing she’ll agree eventually, and sooner if I act like I don’t care, I shrug and take a sip of my whiskey.
Disgruntled, she huffs. “Okay, fine. You’re on. But you have to stay over there and talk to him for at least ten minutes.”
I glance in his direction. He stares back at me, his gaze intense and unwavering. Thunderclouds churn over his head.
The thought of approaching all that negative energy and trying to start a conversation is daunting, but if it will get Chelsea to stop her smear campaign against my ex, it’s worth it. I’ve been enduring it for three months now, and I’m tired.
“I’ll try, but I can’t guarantee anything. He looks like he bites.”
Angel snickers. “If you’re lucky, he does.”
“Okay, you win. Here goes nothing.”
I sigh heavily, then chug the rest of my whiskey. Rising from the chair, I smooth my skirt with damp palms, then cross the room with my chin lifted and my shoulders squared, pretending a confidence I don’t feel.
Dark and Stormy watches me approach with the all the warmth of a contract killer.
By the time I stop at his tableside, I’ve decided to go with the truth rather than some cutesy opening line. In my present state of mind, I doubt I could come up with one, anyway.
“Hello. I don’t want to be here.”
He looks me up and down, his gaze traveling slowly over my figure. After a beat, he says in an unfriendly tone, “Yet here you are.”
We stare at each other in an oddly tense silence, as if both of us are waiting for the other to say something next and think whatever it is, it will be awful.
Finally, I say, “It’s my girlfriend’s birthday.”
A crease forms between his dark brows. “I don’t understand the connection between that and you standing there.”
“She promised me she’d stop trash-talking my ex if I came over and talked to you.”
He thinks about that for a moment. “That’s blackmail.”
“When it comes to Chelsea getting what she wants, all means of coercion are on the table.”
- Writer
