3
1047 Words
I take my sweet time using the toilet and washing my hands, checking my lipstick in the mirror over the sinks. It’s a scarlet red called Sweet Poison. I’m not sure why I wore it, as I almost never wear makeup anymore, but I suppose it’s not every day your missing fiancé becomes legally dead, so what the hell.
Oh, David. What happened to you?
A sudden wave of despair crashes over me.
Leaning on the edge of the sink to steady myself, I close my eyes and blow out a slow, shaky breath.
I haven’t felt grief this strong in a while. Usually, it’s a restless simmer I’ve learned to ignore. A dull ache behind my breastbone. A wail of anguish inside my skull that I can turn down until it’s almost silent.
Almost, but not quite.
People say time heals all wounds, but those people are assholes.
Wounds like mine don’t heal. I’ve just learned to control the bleeding.
Smoothing a hand over my hair, I take several deep breaths until I feel more in control. I give myself a quick pep talk, plaster a smile on my face, then yank open the door and head out.
And immediately crash into a huge, immovable object.
I jerk back, stumble, lose my balance. Before I can fall, a big hand reaches out and grips my upper arm to steady me.
“Careful.”
The voice is a pleasing, husky rumble. I look up and find myself staring at my own reflection in a pair of sunglasses.
It’s the pirate. The drug dealer. Big-d**k-energy dude with the epic scruff.
A crackle of something like electricity runs down my spine.
His shoulders are massive. He’s massive. Sitting down, he looked big, but upright, he’s ridiculously tall. A Viking.
I could never be described as petite, but this guy makes me feel positively dainty.
He smells like the tasting notes on an expensive Cabernet: leather, cigar smoke, a hint of forest floor.
I’m sure my heart is beating so hard because I nearly just fell on my ass.
“I’m so sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going.” Why am I apologizing? He’s the one who was standing right outside the damn bathroom door.
He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t let go of my arm, either, or c***k a smile. We stand in silence, neither of us moving, until it becomes obvious that he has no intention of getting out of my way.
I lift my brows and give him a look. “Excuse me, please.”
He tilts his head. Even without being able to see his eyes, I can tell how closely he’s examining me.
Just as it’s about to get weird, he drops his hand from my arm. Without another word, he pushes through the men’s room door and disappears inside.
Unnerved, I stand frowning at the closed door for a moment before heading back to Sloane. I find her with a glass of white wine in hand and another waiting for me.
“Your pirate just hit the restroom,” I say, sliding into my chair. “If you’re fast, you can catch him on the way out for a quickie in a dark corner of the hallway before he takes you back to the Black Pearl for more ravagement.”
She takes a big swig of her wine. “You mean ravishment. And he’s not interested.”
“How do you know?”
She purses her lips. “He flat-out told me.”
I’m shocked. This is unprecedented. “No!”
“Yes. I sidled up to him with my best Jessica Rabbit sashay, stuck the girls in his face, and asked him if he’d like to buy me a drink. His response? ‘Not interested.’ And he didn’t even look at me!”
Shaking my head, I take a sip of my wine. “Well, it’s settled. He’s gay.”
“My gaydar says he’s straight as an arrow, babe, but thanks for that vote of support.”
“Married, then.”
“Pfft. Not a chance. He’s totally undomesticated.”
I think of the way he smelled when I crashed into him outside the restroom, the musk of pure s****l pheromones coming off him in waves, and decide she’s probably right.
A lion roaming the Serengeti doesn’t have a wife. He’s too busy hunting for something to sink his fangs into.
The waiter arrives to take our order. When he leaves, Sloane and I spend a few minutes chitchatting about nothing of importance, until she asks me how things are going with Chris.
“Oh. Him. Um…”
She gives me a disapproving stare. “You didn’t.”
“Before you start pointing fingers, he broke up with me.”
“I’m not sure if you realize this, but a man expects to eventually have s*x with the woman he’s dating.”
“Don’t be sarcastic. I can’t help it if my vadge closed up shop.”
“If you don’t get a d**k up in that hot pocket soon, it’s gonna grow over. You’ll never be able to have s*x again.”
That’s fine with me. My libido vanished along with my fiancé. But I need to distract her before this conversation turns into a therapy session.
“It never would’ve worked out anyway. He thinks cats are as smart as humans.”
She looks appalled. “Good riddance.”
Knowing that would change her tune, I smile. “I’m thinking of setting him up with Marybeth.”
“Your colleague? The one who dresses like she’s Amish?”
“She’s not Amish. She’s a schoolteacher.”
“Does she teach butter churning and buggy maintenance?”
“No, science. But she is into quilting. She also has five cats.”
Shuddering, Sloane raises her glass in a toast. “It’s a match made in heaven.”
I clink my glass against hers. “May they have a long and hairball-filled future together.”
We drink. I guzzle my entire glass of wine, knowing Sloane is watching me as I do.
When I set the empty glass back on the table and motion to the waiter for another round, she sighs. She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand.
- Writer
