Falling for you

Chapter Five

ISABELLA

‘The Devil’s Sons’ is a smoker’s bar, and a far cry from fire and brimstone. An unassuming and laconic safehouse for lonely hearts, looking for answers at the bottom of a glass, and away from inebriated and entitled students that invade every corner of the city after dark.

The acrid stench of tobacco and bourbon permeates the air with lingering nostalgia. Sweet molasses blend into sour Amber Leaf and Lucky Strike, taking me back home with a deep inhalation. I’m accustomed to my parents’ stress-relieving habits. Only their poison of choice is gin and Marlboro Lights. The memory brings a smile to my face, and steels my resolve to make them proud and enjoy the present.

Walls of exposed brick and accent lighting contrast against a mahogany stand-alone, long L-shaped bar, as hints of mid-century modern draw the eye along the leather and metal accents. Stools line the slab looking onto a raised stage, where three stripper poles and a decked-out DJ booth preside over the well-allocated dance floor. A row of rustic, oak saloon tables and chairs divides the ample space, and leads you to a quiet corner with a pool table and old-fashioned darts.

If I didn't know any better, I would have thought I had just walked into a dive bar in West Virginia.

My combat boots squeak as I near the bar, practically gluing me to the stickiness of the floor. The quizzical barman gets a kick out of my struggle, as he watches my dress ride up with the bigger and fewer strides I'm forced to take to cover the distance. When I finally make it, he puts down the buffered glass with a captivating chuckle.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Is every male here a model for GQ magazine?

In his early thirties, even the bartender is a huge distraction—his short, dusty blonde locks, and clean-shaven, angular face are a celestial Amber Alert.

Heaven is missing an angel.

He’s covered in a bouquet of floral ink from the neck down to the prominent v-lines, peering through the waistband of his jeans. Luckily, I’m glued to the floor. Otherwise, I’d be tempted to catch a better glimpse of his well-defined physique with a cheeky jump. He is only wearing a leather vest, forgoing the use of shirts of any kind. And for some reason, unbeknownst to me… He’s checking me out, wetting his lips.

“What can I get for you, Sweetness?” Throwing the dishcloth over his shoulder, and placing his ear closer to hear me over the ruckus of at least forty bikers.

Before I can answer, I smell the subtle wisp of Judge’s L’Homme by Yves Saint Laurent that encases me, without needing to turn around to find him. My body, naturally attuned to his scent. His fragrance couldn’t be more befitting, for he’s all man, oozing raw s*x appeal with each nearing step. He sucks the stagnant air of cigarettes and alcohol out of the room, and all I can smell is him. His tracking gaze honing in on me prickles my skin, and he becomes the oxygen that this stiff and rigid, cold-hearted lump of flesh needs. Obviously, I know I’m not dead, but I’m not exactly living either.

And Enzo can attest to that. I’m close to being Bruce Willis in ‘The Sixth Sense’ still going to work long after death. All I do is work, work, work.

Yet Judge’s mere presence, parting the crowd of patrons like a scattered school of fish, pulls on my heartstrings, making it come alive. Flutter, even, and my lips can’t help but smile.

“Ummm...” I playfully tap my lip with my index finger, pretending not to know what I want.

“Can I please have a Pornstar martini?” My demure tone makes a smirk play on both our lips.

A guilty pleasure of mine is ordering risqué-named cocktails. Because it's the only time I allow myself to be wickedly inappropriate. Moreover, it has the added bonus of giving the bartender a worthy curveball that’s neither beer nor a whisky tumbler.

“Coming right up, Sweetness.” He tucks the rag into his jeans, drawing my eyes to that alluring ‘V’—I go weak at the knees for.

“Oh! Real granadilla please, not that tin stuff.” I ask with a grimace, holding back a gagging sound, and he responds with an animated nod.

“Don’t worry, I gotcha. I promise it will be lekker.” I smile back at his acute observation, despite not being able to speak a lick of Afrikaans. I only picked up a few words here and there, due to our long-winded migration patterns that resembled those of birds rather than sedentary human beings.

“What did you order?” Says the hottest judge I have ever laid eyes on, as he runs his fingers through the longer strands of jet black hair. The rich, deep rumble of his southern comfort-timbered tongue curls itself around my ear in an erogenous symphony, rolling through my body straight to my s*x.

Gosh, can someone get you pregnant just by talking?

“A Pornstar martini.” I croon with a hand on my hip and a cheeky grin, as he chokes on his scotch that was already waiting for him.

Now, that’s service.

“A what?” He eyes the barman with the patch on his vest called ‘Jaguar’, and I rejoice internally.

Not so stony after all, huh? I got Judge preeetty gooood.

“It's a passion fruit martini with a side of champagne. Very refreshing, but probably too girly for you. My friend Enzo made that mistake once, and he was slurring and walking into things after a couple too many.” I shrug, letting out a naughty snicker of a chuckle.

“Enzo can't handle his drink then.” He smirks, offering a stool for me to sit on.

“Maybe you should try it, before you knock it.” I teasingly shove him with my shoulder, which only reaches the hard wall of his chest. It’s so solid that I have to rub my already bruised shoulder, which he notices but doesn’t comment on.

In one fell swoop, he grabs me by the hips as if I weigh as much as a feather and sits me down on the stool, nudging his muscle-bound legs between my own that are left dangling in the air.

Wait, what just happened? Why am I entertaining his advances?

Maybe because he has my v****a beating like a drum at a carnival.

“Jaguar, make that two. I have a hankering for something exotic, plump, and just ripe.” The blush that creeps up on the apples of my cheeks is instantaneous.

Is that comment loaded with innuendo aimed at me? And are we going to pretend he didn't just feel me up?