Guys like me know that kind of stuff. Not because we are sexist pigs, which I can be, but because growing up in a rough neighborhood, you learn to size up a person quickly—how they’re dressed, the color of the whites in their eyes, their posture, weapons in their pockets. Paying attention meant the difference between getting robbed and shot or making it home to a little brother who had no one, after a late practice when the buses stop running and I had to walk home.
“Go on. What’s my drink of choice?” she asks.
Her hair is smooth and shiny and cut in a perfectly layered bob. Not Cheapy Cuts. Her nails are manicured and painted in a buff tone. Classy, not trashy. Her red dress is sexy and tailored, made from expensive-looking fabric instead of that stretchy stuff.
She’s got money. Or, at least, her cheating husband does.
“Your drink is…French Viognier. Rhone Valley. Aged at least two years in oak.” Back in Oregon, I work as a server at a wine bar during the off-season. The owner originally hired me to stock the bar and help out in the back room—needed someone who could carefully lift heavy crates. I’m a big guy at six two and weighing one-ninety-five. After a week, the owner noticed all the rich wives eyeing me during their girly brunches. He gave me a book about wine, told me to learn the basics—red, white, rose, champagne—the countries, regions, and wineries they carried. Honestly, compared to the shit I’ve been through, learning about fancy grape juice was a cake walk. Grape walk?
I wait for her reaction, and I’m not disappointed.
Her green eyes twinkle, and she roars with laughter, smacking a knee. “You are full of surprises.” She points a manicured finger at me and tilts her head to one side. “And not bad looking either, if you don’t mind me saying.”
I don’t. I’m so down on myself after today’s fuckup that her compliment feels like a life raft. Maybe I’m not a complete waste of clean air, even if it’s only for my looks. My mom’s family was Greek, so I tan pretty nicely, but it’s my light hazel eyes that get the ladies’ attention. In second place is my body.
That’s it. My body. I never saw myself as a piece of meat, but maybe I can be one of those romance cover models since football just became a dead end. The university will let me play out my contract and finish my degree in liberal arts, but my dream of going pro is over.
Haters are already draggin’ my ass all over Twitter: “My two-year-old catches better than this hyped-up piece of crap. Nothing fresh or new about him!” “I’ve seen drunk sailors who catch better. And let’s keep it real, people. Catching the clap is pretty fucking easy.”
Brutal.
“So,” she says, “I told you my sad story. What’s yours?”
I go into defense mode. Kind of instinctual at this point in my life. Being cautious has kept me alive.
“My girlfriend dumped me,” I lie. “Has dreams of someone better.” Girlfriend is code for football, in case anyone is wondering.
“Don’t tell me you’re one of these idiots who also went for a younger woman? You look too smart for that. And you strike me as one of those guys who likes things a certain way—disciplined in body, mind, and business.”
How old does she think I am? I’m a twenty-one-year-old mess. Soaked in beer. About ready to give up on life. Still, I’d never go younger. I like women, not girls fresh out of high school.
“My ex is actually older than me,” I say, wondering exactly how old football is. “And yes, I’m all about discipline.”
“How refreshing. What else are you into?” she asks.
“My career. Money. Not much room for anything else.”
“Wow. A finance guy.”
That came out wrong. I didn’t mean to make it sound like my career is money.
I let it slide. This is just a casual conversation in a bar. Not like I’m ever going to see her again.
“So what’s your name?” she asks, doing a sexy little hair flip.
“I’m Dean.” I hold out my hand.
“Marli.” She slowly slides her hand into mine, letting our palms rub together before she administers a pulsating squeeze.
No one shakes hands like that unless they want to send a message. She wants to fuck me.
“Marli.” I roll her name over my tongue and offer a devilish smile. “What a shame.”
“What?”
“Now I can’t take you back to my room.”
“Why?” She laughs.
“Obviously, my wife will object when you steal me away.”
Her smile drops, and her eyes focus on my ringless finger. “You’re married?”
“No, but I could be someday, and you’ll hunt me down, begging for more.”
“Will I now?” she replies, sounding intrigued. “And why would I do that?”
I lean in close and whisper, “Because after I fuck you with my giant dick, you won’t ever be able to forget me.”