He leans in, his breath hitting my face. His lips part slightly as he watches me. Moving his thumb, he slowly drags it over my bottom lip. Instinctively, my mouth parts. “My house later?”
I nod, a shiver working through me, his heat scorching my skin. “Wait for me to get off?”
“Or I could get you off now,” he says, with enough power to stop me in my tracks.
“As awesome as that sounds—” I pause and entangle myself from him, moving toward the door. “I can’t here.”
He turns, his arms crossed over his chest. His face is somber as he studies me. I want to ask him about Devereux, and the ring.
“Wait a couple minutes and then come to the bar. I’ll make you a drink.”
“Sure. I need a minute though.” He nods lower, his hair disheveled, and breathing ragged.
“Right.” I giggle, my back meeting the door. I reach behind me to the handle, unable to bottle this emotion I’m trying to cram into the “do not open” box I want to put it in. I’m not sure it can stay hidden any longer.
Oh, heart, how easily you’re falling for him. I’m quickly making excuses and avoiding reality. Isn’t that how it works in the beginning, though? So caught up in the butterflies and anticipation you only remember being made of passion and half-lidded desires.
Breathing in a quick inhale, I fight through the questions I so desperately want to know and push through the door. I think about my heart the moment I leave him. Its unpredictable outcome so similar to the one I’m in. Maybe the only way to live is to do it recklessly. Maybe it’s not about keeping your head above water but learning to swim, despite the fear of going under.
Blood Line - A line of blood located along the backbone of the fish. It is removed by processors prior to the fish being frozen or further processed.
“Feeling better?” she asks, winking as she pours two fingers of the finest whiskey they have.
“No,” I grunt, taking a seat at the bar, the flush to my cheeks evident that my need is never quite met with her. She’s a blank canvas, and I’m painting a reality that doesn’t exist for me. I can’t keep her. Every second spent with her is another that leaves me feeling guilty of the outcome. Still, when I press my ear to her chest and hear the ocean and the water, it’s warm, and I want to jump in. All I can think about is how I can get more of her. I want to live and breathe in the moments in between, even when I know it’s temporary to feel this way.
I watch her behind the bar, possessiveness coursing through me, my fingers wrapped around the glass. Making a sweep over the room for the kid who she’d kissed earlier, I begin to protest when she pours another. At two hundred dollars a shot, I’m not exactly looking for that kind of tab tonight. I didn’t say anything when she reached for the twenty-three-year-old version of Pappy Van Winkle, but I remember the label. My dad once had a bottle gifted to him by an old man who spent a lot of time at the docks looking for work. Dad never opened the bottle, and still hadn’t that I knew of. He said it was bad luck to drink a gifted bottle of bourbon. He also believes in sea monsters, so I guess he could have taken one too many licks to the head.
Journey wraps her hand around my glass and pours another ounce. I shake my head again, but our connection pulses through me. “I can’t afford another shot of that.”
“It’s on me. Peace offering for leaving you hanging,” she tells me, her smile aching in my chest.
“Thanks.” I snort, unsure if I should be thanking her or fucking her.
A woman sits next to me, her attention immediately on mine. I fight through wanting to turn away from her or walk out of the bar altogether.
“I haven’t seen you around here before,” the busty blonde says to me.
“I’m not from here.” I thought the tone of my voice might deter her, but nope. It never does for women like her. And I know her type. The ones who hang out in bars and look for the out-of-town fishermen to occupy their time while their husbands are off doing the same.