Wrong Question, Right Answer (The Bourbon Street Boys #3) - Elle Casey Page 0,1
in me. A very, very little smidge of it. Time served and two years’ probation will do that to a girl.
“You here with someone?” Skip looks around the room.
“I will be.”
His eyes light up.
I realize my mistake as soon as I see his reaction; I’ve given him hope. I put my drink down on the bar and shake my head. “I’m waiting for somebody else.”
He loses a bit of his smile. “Oh yeah, sure. Someone else. He must be late.” My new friend makes a big show of checking his watch, thinking he’s being cute but inadvertently letting a little of the asshole side of his nature show.
A ghost of a smile comes to my lips. Now I’ll finally see the real man behind the mask. Skip was all sweet and polite when he thought he was going to get some, but his manners are fading fast. Just like every other guy in the world—my teammates excepted, of course—he puts on a show to get what he wants, and then the true person appears from behind the veil later to wreak havoc, after his prey is hooked good and solid. At least now I have something to entertain me until my friends arrive. No mercy for assholes.
“What’s the matter?” I ask. “Does it piss you off that I’m waiting for someone else?”
The muscles in his jaw tense before he answers. “No. It doesn’t piss me off.”
“Your body language says otherwise.” I smile even bigger, taking a sip from my drink. I’m more than half done with this generous cocktail, and already looking forward to the next. I lift my finger at the bartender to get his attention. He nods, knowing exactly what I’m saying. He’s already filling another glass with ice for me. Yeah, buddy. Bring on that vodka-tequila-rum-gin-and-triple-sec buzzzz . . .
Skip’s body is as stiff as a board. “It wouldn’t bother me if what you were saying were true.”
I look at him sideways. “Are you calling me a liar?”
He shakes his head. “Women like you are all the same.” He takes a big swig of his beer, like he’s Mister Cool now, when Mister Playing-With-Fire is who he really is.
I turn on my stool partway and lift my chin at him with a quick jerk of my head. “You know me after walking up to me in a bar and talking to me for all of ten seconds, is that it?”
He shakes his head, refusing to look at me now. “You came in here looking for attention tonight, but when somebody finally gives it to you, you act like a bitch. Like you’re too good.”
I lose a little bit of my good humor. I might have a slight issue with being called the b-word, and that could be because a man I thought I loved liked to use that as my nickname when he was in a certain mood.
I get partway off the stool, letting my left foot drop to the floor. “Tell me you didn’t just call me a bitch. Tell me you didn’t come into my bar while I’m trying to relax after work and call me a bitch just because I turned you down.”
He looks at me, surprised. “You own this bar?”
“No, Skip, I don’t own this bar, but I might as well.” Been coming here since I was fifteen. “Why don’t you just get the hell out of here before you really piss me off?” My other foot drops to the floor. Adrenaline trickles into my veins as my brain quickly assesses the situation and what might happen. I have to be prepared for anything. I spread my legs and get ready to rumble.
He laughs, but there’s no humor to it. “It’s a free country. I can drink a beer wherever I want . . .” He pauses before delivering his last word. “. . . Bitch.”
My first impulse is to punch him in the side of the head, but that’ll get me kicked out of here and then I’ll miss the celebration with the team. Danny, the bartender and owner, is a friend, but he draws the line up pretty short. So instead, I lift my leg, put my stilettoed boot heel against the guy’s hip, and shove as hard as I can while hanging onto the edge of the bar.
Skip wasn’t expecting the contact or the force, so he loses his balance easily and goes flying, taking his drink with him. Tripping over his own feet, he lands on his side on