stapled to the ceilings. Those are the kind of bars I grew up in … the kind of place you take a slut for a cheap drink.
The scene I’m welcomed by is better lit and smells remarkably nicer than the bars I’m used to. Instead of cigarettes and sorrow, the scent of oak and spice invites me farther inside. Small, candlelit tables for two line the walls, and an empty stage with a single microphone is set up at the end. The barstools are upholstered with real leather and aren’t torn and sticky. As soon as I take a seat, a server places a cocktail napkin in front of me and asks for my order.
“May I please have a vanilla old-fashioned?”
The bartender returns with my drink and the bill. I sip my cocktail and smile when I see the cost. I’m definitely not at the type of bar Cricket partied in. This liquor is even better than the stuff Inez keeps in her office. Thanks to her, I know what a good drink is.
“How do you keep showing up before I do?” Talent whispers in my ear from behind. He sweeps my hair away from my shoulder and places a small kiss to my exposed neck.
“Punctuality is a strong suit,” I say. This is only half true. The whole truth is that the thought of walking into a room I’ve never visited unprepared terrifies me.
Talent runs his hand down my arm, past my wrist, and over my palm to lace our fingers together. “Let’s grab a table in the back before this place fills up.”
“How’s it going, Mr. Ridge?” the bartender asks. He dries a wine glass with a white towel.
“Add her drink to my tab, Billy,” Talent replies, leading me away.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say. “I can pay for my own drink.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Talent replies, laughing. “You don’t have to be such a hardass with me.”
Similar to when we were at the coffee shop, our table sits away from the hustle and bustle of the rest of the bar. It’s nearly nine o’clock at night, and ours is only one of three occupied tables. Talent didn’t hide his affection for me in front of the bartender, but he must not want the other six or seven customers to overhear our conversation. Whatever it may be about.
“I don’t think we’re in danger of losing a table.” I take the seat he pulls out for me.
“The band doesn’t start for another hour. Give it twenty minutes and there won’t be an empty seat in the house.” Talent sits across from me. He’s overdressed in slacks and a button-up, having loosened his tie. His shoes shine in the yellow-orange light above, and the watch on his wrist costs more than I make in a month. He nods toward my drink. “How is it?”
“Fantastic,” I say, licking vanilla spice from my top lip.
Right on cue, our server saunters over and asks for our drink request.
“A bottle of Dalmore 25 and two glasses, please.” Talent doesn’t take his eyes off me as he orders.
That twelve-hundred-dollar bottle of whisky puts my sixty-dollar cocktail to shame. My date is here to party and it shows.
“Are you going to drink that entire bottle alone?” I ask, sipping from my glass. Dark liquor coats my tongue and burns the back of my throat before warming my stomach. I’ve only drunk half of my old-fashioned and can already feel a steady pulse in my lips. With a morning appointment tomorrow, there’s no way I’m having more than two drinks before I call it a night and head back to my apartment.
“I’m getting you drunk,” Talent admits. His lips curve into a mischievous smile. “It’ll either slow you down when you try to run away from me again or get you to stick around for a while.”
Inhibition takes a hike with sobriety, and I don’t hate the idea of Talent chasing me around. I toss back the rest of my drink and shake my head as it goes down and answer honestly. “Can’t. I have to work tomorrow.”
I didn’t notice that Talent and I gravitated toward each other from across the table until he withdraws, rubbing the back of his neck and looking away. He scoots his chair from the table to put more space between us and it’s a struggle not to grab him by the tie to bring him back. My cheeks blaze from embarrassment or from the hard liquor. Or from a