"We'll be closing in fifteen minutes," Marion called out into the crowd at the bar. She was behind the bar washing glasses, and she was dead tired from the long evening's work. She reached up on tiptoe to replace a glass on the rack, her tank top lifting to reveal her stomach and her short denim skirt riding up. She adjusted it, quickly checking behind her to make sure no one had seen a hint of her white lace thong under her skirt. No one. She sighed as she shifted her weight to relieve the pain in her feet; the stilettos were killing her.
"Marion," her boss called from the back, "I've gotta leave early. Can you close up?" He poked his head around the door, looking harried and tired. She nodded. He gave her a big grin and disappeared around the corner. She heard his car sputter and then start, and then the sound of gravel as he pulled out of the parking lot.
"Ten minutes!" she shouted, wearily picking up another glass to wipe. Looking up, she jumped when she saw a man sitting at the bar in front of her. He must have come in very quietly; he hadn't been there the moment before. He was tall and well-muscled, and a spicy smell of smoke and sweat drifted from his leather clothing. He lit a cigarette lazily, gazing straight at Marion.
"I'll have a whisky." His voice was deep, throaty. The voice of someone accustomed to being obeyed without question.
"I'm sorry, but we're closing soon," Marion replied. He smiled, his gaze traveling unhurriedly from her eyes down her body and then back up again. When his eyes met hers, she felt a sudden shock of fear. She crossed her arms, covering her breasts in the thin tank top. She opened her mouth to ask him to leave, but his hand shot out and grasped hers. She pulled away quickly, and discovered that she was holding a hundred-dollar bill. She looked at him in disbelief.
"What's this for?" she asked, bewildered and more than a little scared. Men had tried to pick her up before, always at closing time, and she suspected this guy was trying to pull something. The bar was emptying; everyone was gone except for one man who finishing up his drink at a table by the door. She looked back at the man in front of her. He was smiling.
"I'd like a drink," he said, "and I think you deserve some extra rewards. You must be tired from all that reaching." So someone HAD been watching! Marion blushed, and her hands went convulsively to tug her skirt lower. It didn't help much; it barely covered her round ass.
Her hands shaking a tiny bit, she reached for a glass and poured him a whiskey. She pushed it toward him, and their hands touched as he took it. He raised it to his lips, his eyes never leaving hers. She was suddenly aware of his broad shoulders, muscular arms, and strong jaw. A jolt went through her and her cheeks flushed a little.
"Come around and have a seat," he said, "You must be dying to get off your feet." It was true, and she lifted the bar and slipped onto a stool, her skirt riding even higher. She realized with chagrin that, except for the man still at the table by the door, she was alone in the bar with this man. Again, she felt a little thrill of fear.
"Now that we're on equal footing," he said with a smile, "I'll introduce myself. I'm Jared."
"Marion," she answered with a little smile. Wordlessly, he passed her his glass, and she drank, trying to still her pounding heart. She looked down into the amber liquid for a moment, and when she looked up, the man had left his table and sat down on the other side of her. He was a big man, wearing the same black leather outfit as Jared and smelling more of sweat. She smiled uncertainly at him, and he returned her smile, though his face seemed unused to the expression. Suddenly, she felt Jared's hand on her knee, cool and dry on her hot skin. She looked up at him, and he was smiling.
