The feelings inside me broiled as I sat and stared, unseeing, out the window. In my stillness, I got angrier and angrier, until the heat of it began to consume me and I literally saw red. I started the engine, gripped the steering wheel, and officially lost my mind. I threw the car in gear and peeled out of the parking lot, spinning my tires and jumping the curb as the tears began to overflow and stream down my cheeks. I couldn’t even think straight…I just felt the need to do something reckless, something crazy to get rid of this horrible pressure in my chest.
Sky diving? That was a thought…but a glance at the storm clouds overhead let me know that wouldn’t work. Riding a motorcycle? I didn’t know how. Reckless would quickly put me in the hospital. I could go out and run. Pounding the pavement always made me feel better…but it wasn’t wild enough.
Wild. Hmmm. To get in the right frame of mind, I realized needed to get drunk. Immediately. My car seemed to read my mind and drove itself to a swanky little bar in a trendy part of town. I paused in the parking lot to dry my tears, reapply my makeup, take my hair down, and remove my suit jacket. The silk tank I wore underneath looked just right for a bar in the absence of the jacket. I tucked a $50 bill into my bra so that I wouldn’t need to carry my purse, then reached down and removed my stockings, much preferring the feel of my bare legs under my short skirt. I slipped my feet back into my designer heels and stepped out of the car, locking my door and palming my keys. Taking a deep breath and blinking back more tears, I walked into the bar.
It was still early, and the place was mostly empty except for a few groups of college kids sitting at scattered tables. I sat at the end of the bar and caught the bartender’s eye. The very cute bartender. I was not so angry that I’d miss his tanned, well-built body and handsome face.
“What’ll it be?” he asked, walking casually over to me.
I thought for a second but came up blank. I don’t drink often and I couldn’t think of a single thing to order. “Can you just make me something strong and sweet?”
He grinned and winked at me, his deep brown eyes sparkling. “Strong and sweet is my specialty.”
That almost made me smile.
I watched him deftly mix the contents of several bottles into a large glass filled with ice, then he garnished the drink with fruit wedges. The concoction had a slightly pink tint to it and looked really good. He held it in front of me, taunting. “I need to see some ID,” he said with another grin.
I laughed at that. “Thank you. After the day I just had, it feels nice to be carded.” I reached for my drink, but he slid it out of the way.
“I’m not kidding. ID please,” he repeated.
My smile faded. “OK, seriously, my ID is in the car.”
He shrugged. “I’ll hold your drink while you run and get it.”
My anger, simmering just beneath the surface, flared up again. “Are you fucking kidding me? I’m 38 years old. Can’t you see the fucking crow’s feet next to my eyes?”
He smirked at that. “I think you look fantastic. I’m not entirely sure you’re over 21, and I’ll need to see some proof before I serve you this drink.”
I stood up violently, nearly toppling my barstool in the process, and stalked out to my car, flinging the door open and rummaging through my purse to snatch out my ID. Stomping back inside, I flung my driver’s license onto the bar. He slowly picked it up and looked at it appraisingly, raising his head from my picture to my face in a show of comparison. “Sandra Daugherty,” he mused. “Can I call you Sandy?”
“Not if you expect me to answer. Please note my birth date and give me my damn drink.”
Chuckling, he passed the glass across the bar. I grabbed it eagerly and took a gulp. It was exactly what I had asked for. The alcohol burned my throat as the fruit tickled my taste buds. The bartender watched, amused, as I sampled his creation.
“That’s good,” I said, begrudgingly admitting his talent even though I was still miffed at him.
“I’ll be glad to make you another one when you polish that one off. You look like you can use it.”
“I can definitely use it,” I said. I lifted the glass and drank more deeply in an effort to drown my anger. The alcohol seemed to mingle with the fire in my gut…but you know what alcohol does to fire. Instead of feeling better, I was beginning to feel inflamed.
The bartender slid a second drink into my hand as I was polishing off the first. I inserted a straw into that one and sucked it down quickly from the bottom up. My brain was starting to feel fuzzy, but I was lucid enough to notice that the bartender had a really nice ass and I liked the way he moved. I was beginning to have some new ideas about my dangerous act for the night, perhaps to include picking up a strange man in a bar and going home with him. That’s something I had never done before but would be willing to try.
I gestured to the bartender again. “Can I please have another…what was it again?”
He grinned at me once more, a cocky, self-assured smile. “I call it ‘Fucked by a 7 inch prick.’ As far as what’s in it, I’m sworn to secrecy. Although I have been known to reveal my secrets during the throes of passion. Obviously I can’t control what comes out of my mouth while I’m having an orgasm.”
I choked on the last bit of my drink, and he passed me a third one as he watched me struggle with an amused look on his face. Once I composed myself, I took a swig of my fresh drink and said, “What time do you get off?”
He winked at me again and said, “Sweetheart, I won’t get off until you do.”
Oh, my fucking stars. “Don’t mess with me today. I’ve had a really, really bad day, and I need to work off some steam. If you’re serious about this I will fuck you senseless as soon as you can leave the bar.” He held my gaze as I looked into his eyes, evaluating me and appearing to consider my proposition.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m really not in to older women.”
Older women! The anger flared up again. He was the one who started the flirtation, and then he has the nerve to call me “older”?! I had no idea how old he was, but definitely not that much younger that he should be considering me an “older woman.” Fuming, but determined to keep my cool, I stood up, pulled the $50 out of my bra, and tossed it on the bar.
Looking him in the eye, I calmly said, “You’re an ass,” and walked into the restroom to compose myself.
I stood in front of the sink, my head still spinning, hands shaking, and gripped the edges of the countertop. I was seeing red again, my gut burning with anger, threatening to burst something with its intensity. A silent scream crept up through my chest and clawed my throat with its fierce need to be heard, but only a gasp escaped my lips and I forced myself to blink back more impending tears. Just then the restroom door pushed open.
And in walked the bartender.
My scream found its voice. “What the hell are you doing in here? In the LADIES’ room? GET OUT!”
He smiled at me in response, an infuriating smile that made me want to slap him. “I thought you might want your change.”
“No, I don’t want the fucking change! Keep it and leave me alone!”
He set the change down on the counter, and moved away. But instead of leaving the restroom, he clicked the dead bolt in the door, locking it, and turned back to look at me.
“What are you doing?” I growled in a low voice. Ignoring the money on the counter, I moved towards the door, which he was blocking with his muscular frame.
“Calm down, Sandy,” he purred, leaning against the door and crossing his arms. Two things that made my blood boil even more. First, I hate being called Sandy. And second, my soon to be ex-husband used to tell me to calm down all the time…a condescending phrase that drove me to the brink of insanity every time he used it.
I reached over his shoulder for the dead bolt, but he grabbed my wrists and held them tightly.
“Let go of me,” I hissed through clenched teeth.