I sat at the corner of the bar, running my fingers along the dripping glass of the beer that I'd ordered nearly an hour before. My date was late, though I shouldn't have been surprised. No doubt, he'd taken his pretty, inattentive wife to some fancy restaurant, joining the throngs of people pretending that February 14 was a date that meant something.
I knew better. I'd been fucking and sucking Brian for three months. I knew exactly how he liked his cock sucked. How he enjoyed when I tickled the sensitive skin of his anus. I had explored every savory inch of his body and never judged him for the slight belly that he sported.
No. I'd appreciated him for what he was. A man with a thick cock and needs.
Still, he left me and went home to that snide bitch after ever lovemaking session we'd had. I hated that part. I'd told myself I was done with him a hundred times. Yet, I'd wait anxiously by my phone waiting for a call or text from him.
Fuck, I was pathetic.
Even if Brian left his wife, he'd never truly be loyal to me. We'd be together for a while. We'd have fun. Then he'd get bored and find a new plaything and dump me.
And still, I sat in the damned bar nursing a beer and hoping he'd show up. I'd turned down a few guys, even though they were attractive. Thirty minutes till closing time and even my slutty ass wasn't getting laid this Valentine's Day.
Damn it all to hell.
I sighed and slammed the warm beer, holding my hand up to get the bartender's attention. He'd given me the evil eye despite the sizable tip I'd given him when I first ordered.
"Gonna make this worth my while, lady?"
"Vodka martinis. Keep 'em coming till I can't see straight. The dirtier the better," I said as I slapped a fifty on the bar. "Know what, make it a pitcher and I'll add another twenty to that as your tip."
The bartender glanced over his sunglasses, taking stock of me. I could almost swear his eyes were glowing with the faintest hint of red. Nah, I was imagining things. I watched as he turned to the bar and plucked a bottle of Ketel One from the top shelf of the backbar. The bartender kept the bottle and pitcher in my view as he skillfully mixed my order, not skimping on the alcohol.
He wasn't bad looking, either.
I slipped the twenty off the bar and replaced it with another fifty. A hundred bucks for a nice, masculine view and a pitcher of well-made martinis was reasonable in my mind.
By the time he finished mixing my order, the bar had virtually cleared out. The ladies--and a few men--gathered up their red roses and boxed chocolates before heading off to enjoy some holiday sex. There was a certain magic in the air, just not for me.
A few customers sat in a cluster under the big screen, their attention focused on a hockey game instead of any romantic pursuits. Most of the stragglers were regulars, people I knew by face only. I'd never talked to anyone other than Brian when I visited. The sensation of isolation was overwhelming, despite the proximity of other humans.
"I've seen you in here a lot over the last few months," the bartender said as he poured my first glass. "Usually with the same loser. He stood you up on Valentine's Day?"
I shrugged.
The bartender looked down at the bills I'd placed on the bar top.
"You don't owe me that much," he said.
"Take it, I appreciate your mixology skills," I replied as I drained my glass. "Will you keep it if I ask you to keep me company 'till I'm done?"
The bartender chuckled, flashing a smile that made me blush.
"Tell me your name and I'll throw in an order of those jalapeno poppers you like so much."
I blushed even more.
"Everyone calls me Becca," I replied eventually. "And you?"
"Me? I'm Jon," he answered. "I'll be back in a minute."
I poured myself another martini and tried to relax. I checked my phone, which was a mistake since Brian hadn't messaged like he promised he would. On some level, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was an idiot for thinking a married man was interested in anything beyond a quick fuck. We'd met quite accidentally one day at the local coffee shop, thrown together when the barista confused my white chocolate mocha order with Brian's chia latte. We'd chatted and laughed about the screw up. The next time we saw one another, we'd exchanged phone numbers.
A week later, I'd slept with him while his wife was away on a business trip. I damn well should have known better than to sleep with a man who ordered chia lattes.
It wasn't as though I couldn't get a date. I knew how to turn on enough charm to interest a man-or sometimes a woman-but I could never seem to attract people who were looking for a real connection. Everyone wanted a good screw. No one, it seemed, wanted the complication of a relationship.
I was lonely. Sex was nice, but I wanted someone to ask me about my day or someone who'd listen when I needed to vent about some asshole who cut me off in traffic. Or even buy me a single red rose jammed in one of those stupid plastic containers. I didn't have that. I had people I hooked up with, and they only wanted sex.
Jon reappeared with a steaming plate of goodies.
"That was quick," I said glibly. "And that is a lot more than an order of jalapeño poppers. I don't want to get you in trouble."
Jon offered a smile as he slid the plate between us. My breath caught, just a little, as I took him in. The man was a bit older than me. His build was masculine, although not ridiculously so. Jon was well proportioned and confident. I flushed again under the weight of his stare.
"The kitchen's closed for the night," he said simply. "This would go to waste otherwise. Give me a few to close out and I'll help you finish this off."
Even though I was suddenly ravenous, I waited for Jon to return. Instead of eating, I sipped my martini and watched his body move under the clean, white button-down shirt he wore. Heat built between my legs as I scanned further down, noting how his jeans molded around well-built thighs. I couldn't bring myself to look at the front side of Jon's pants when he turned around.
"Calm down, you idiot," I whispered to myself.
Behind me, someone chuckled. When I turned, I noticed the few remaining customers were still focused on the television. There was no way any of them heard what I'd uttered to myself. No way.
I drained my glass and poured my final martini. Frowning, I considered the empty pitcher. Jon made excellent dirty martinis, but I wasn't about to ask him to reopen the bar till to make me another. No, I'd nurse this one while I ate.
As if by magic, Jon reappeared with a fresh pitcher of martinis in hand.
"Why don't we move over to a booth?" he suggested. "We can eat and chat."
"Uh, sure."
I followed the bartender, bravely ignoring the obviously curious glances from the stragglers watching the hockey game. I had no idea why I was so interesting, and had I been more sober I probably would have called it a night. Instead, I slid into a surprisingly comfortable seat across the table from Jon.
He topped off my drink before putting an empty plate in front of me. I hadn't even seen him carrying a plate. Shaking my head, I nodded in thanks and watched as he served up an assortment of appetizers.
"I didn't bring out any calamari," Jon said as he loaded his own plate. "And I left off the heart shaped molten chocolate cake. You don't look like you'd enjoy it."
I shook my head. The last thing I wanted was a reminder that I didn't have a special someone.
"So, Becca, tell me about yourself," he said casually.
"Uh, like what?" I felt myself blush, though I had no idea why.
"What's your profession?"
"Oh boy," I replied. I shoved a loaded potato skin into my mouth to buy myself some time. "Uh, I'm a writer. You probably haven't read anything I've written, though."
Jon sat back and nodded. "I never knew the female Tolstoy frequented my establishment."
"Oh God, no!" I gasped. "I'm not exactly the
