Page 32 of Harbor Me

The only reason I’m here is because Whitmore's Sea Ray comes out of the water first thing tomorrow, and my entire crew is in this bar getting hammered. I need to see firsthand how bad the morning's going to be so I can be prepared. That's why I came. It's got nothing to do with anything anybody said in my office this week about bar counters.

I absolutely haven’t been thinking about her on that counter every hour since she brought it up. It’s ridiculous anyway. Nobody’s going to just let her get up there. They’d be worried about getting sued if she falls off. And it’s unhygienic. People put their drinks there.

Knowing it doesn’t keep me from picturing it.

Her towering over everyone, arms swaying above her head, pulling the hem of her dress up, laughing, every man in the room getting a long look at her thighs, and me deciding which one of them needs to be put through a wall first.

The plan was to find Marcus, say my piece, and leave. Putting the responsibility on him to make sure nobody gets stupid tonight. But I’d only taken two steps inside when I saw her. Sitting around a table with the rest of my crew, wearing a green dress that’s pulling up far too much from the way she has her legs crossed on that stool, displaying the creamy flesh of her thighs to well above her knees.

Men were staring. I couldn’t just go. So instead of going over and doing what I came here for, I kept out of sight and took the long way past the pool table to the back corner where the light doesn’t really reach. Sat down. Stayed. And watched.

The beer in front of me went warm an hour ago. It doesn’t matter, I’m not here to drink. I also can’t leave.

Can't stand up without drawing attention for the wrong reasons. Haven't been able to for a while. Every couple of minutes her laugh floats across the whole loud room to me like there's nothing in between, and the dress rides up her thigh a bit higher whenever she leans in to hear Carol.

Leaving me sitting in the dark alone at Tommy’s birthday party, hard enough to ache, cock trapped thick down one leg of my jeans at an angle that punishes me every time she moves. There’s no way to fix it without standing up and showing the whole bar what an hour of watching her does to me. So I sit with it.

She’s only been here two weeks, but it looks like she’s been part of the crew her whole life. Walt keeps glancing over at her to make sure she’s paying attention. Carol's got an arm across the back of her chair like they’ve been best friends for years. My yard, my crew, my extended family, my damn traitor dog, she's won over every single one of them.

Missy from the hair salon spots me in my corner and comes sashaying over, shoulders back, cleavage used to her full advantage. Several men eye me jealously. She’s considered quite the catch. A couple of years ago we spent some time together. Mostly naked, no hearts put on the line. It was a good time, but never meant to last and nobody bled when I told her we should probably call it quits. She deserved to meet someone who could offer her more than a warm body.

“Hey, handsome,” she purrs, leaning forward with a hand on my shoulder. “It’s been a while. You’ve been scarce.” My gaze doesn’t stray from where it’s been all night. “Yep. Busy.”

She leans a bit closer, my nose practically pushed into her breasts. “Want some company?” she asks huskily.

I shake my head. “I’m good, thanks.” Vanessa's made her way over to the bar and it’s sinful how the fabric of her dress drapes across her curves. Missy follows my gaze and steps back. “Ah. So it’s like that. She’s a lucky woman, you can tell her I said so.” Before I can set Missy straight, she’s gone.

Vanessa checks the mirror after she’s paid, and her eyes find mine in the glass.

Caught. I don't look away. No idea why not. She doesn't either, and there’s a long stretch where our eyes stay locked and neither of us pretend we aren't doing exactly what we're doing. Then she gathers the glasses, carries them back to the corner and doesn't come over. Doesn’t tell the others I’m here either.

That’s fine. I’m here to talk to Marcus, not her. I still make no move to actually do that though.

Rick Kelso gets to her before her next round does. Puts himself between her and the taps, orders her something with fruit in it and leans down into her space with a grin he must practice at home.

She's being polite. Cheeks pink from the drinks, too nice to step back, and I'm out of my chair without a reason ready, crossing the room while the part of me that runs the yard says something about Monday and payroll and lines a boss doesn't cross, getting there just as he slides the glass at her.

"She doesn’t want that."

Kelso looks up the length of me and finds somewhere else to be.

"That was rude," she says.

"He deserved it."

"He was being friendly."

"I know exactly what he was being."

The drink she didn't order sits sweating between us. "Am I fired for being here?"

"Ask me Monday."

Somebody chooses a slow song on the jukebox and half the party's pairing up. She's looking up at me with her chin set for round two, pink-cheeked, bright-eyed, just enough alcohol in her to make her stupidly brave, so I move the fruity drink out of her reach.

"One dance. Then you're going home."

"It's not office hours. You don't get to decide when I-"