Page 31 of Downfall

“Nah. I don’t buy it. I would have remembered meeting someone as beautiful as you.”

The blush from earlier returns, and I briefly wonder what would have happened if I had taken Allie up on her offer to set me up with him. Not that it matters now.

“Well, any friend of Chef’s is a friend of mine.” He squeezes a lime into the shaker before scooping ice into it. “Just don’t tell her you saw me. I’d much rather spend all my time at the restaurant, but bartending tips are hard to beat on a Friday night. Gotta pay those bills, you know?”

I nod. God, do I know about doing things you'd rather not for money. I guess it sounds pretty bad when I say it like that.

“What’s your poison?” he asks as he pops a metal cup over the concoction and starts shaking.

“Whiskey neat.”

“You have a preference for whiskey?” He pours the drink in a martini glass, adding a lemon peel on the top as garnish.

“Any kind, as long as it has booze in it.”

“We have top shelf and —”

“Honestly, I don’t care. I just need a drink.” My cheeks redden as he picks up the drink he just finished making. “I’m so sorry. That was rude.

He waves me off. “No apology necessary. I got you. Let me deliver this drink, and then I’ll make yours.”

Taking his absence as a momentary reprieve to gather myself, I rub my hands over my face.

“You didn’t answer my question.” My hands leave my face, dropping back down to where my purse is still perched on my lap. Julian’s back and pouring brown liquid into a glass.

“Question?”

He slides the glass over to me. “Work or love life?”

I look down into my glass and back up at him before throwing it back. The warm, spicy liquid slides easily down my throat, and I welcome the burn. I don’t usually drink whiskey. I’m not a big drinker in general, but tonight demands this.

Julian nods and wordlessly pours another shot into my glass.

I sip this one as he attends to another person further down the bar.

“Another one, please,” I call out jingling the glass.

He pours it. “That bad?”

“Imagine the worst day of your life, and then imagine having to live with it in the same house so that every time you walk into the kitchen or sit down to watch TV, you’re reminded of it.”

“Sounds like hell,” he says.

Two more shots later and I’m starting to feel a little better…and bolder.

“I’m Skylar, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Skylar.” He extends his hand, and I shake it, noting the intricate lines of black ink running up to his elbow. They’re pretty, but it’s all wrong. There’s no number thirteen, no punk-rock logos.

“You don’t have to lie,” I slur, the alcohol making the room tilt a little.

“I’m a bartender. It’s in my job description. But I wasn’t lying.”

He flashes his perfectly white teeth as he throws a bar mop over his shoulder. A faint flush works its way up my cheek, but before I can respond, he leans down, his elbows on the bar, mouth close to my ear, “Hey, Skylar?”

“Y-yeah?”

“Does the worst day of your life have anything to do with… that?” He nods his head, and I follow his line of sight. Right to the man sitting in the corner. Ripped jeans. Leather jacket. Legs kicked out like he owns the place. His fist is wrapped around a full bottle of beer, and damn my perfect eyesight because even from here I can see the condensation dripping down his hand as he slowly slides it up to grip the neck. I can handle all of those things, though. What I can’t handle is when my eyes move up to meet his gaze. It’s searing and deadly, flicking between me and the man behind the bar. I slowly, not so subtly, turn back around.