Robbie and Jamie are both skilled, and they kick my ass quickly, jabbing me with put-downs the whole time. I accept them graciously, which is kind of unlike me not to verbally, good-naturedly poke them back, but my attention keeps being drawn to a couple sitting at a small table not far from us. They look tethered, like an invisible, giant hand is holding them down in their seats even though everything in them wants nothing more than to jump up and run for the door like the building is on fire. The guy is average in the looks department, but he looks cynical and jaded. I'd wager his day gig has him confined to a cube farm doing mundane work that has already stolen his soul and left him a cookie cutter soldier of boredom and mediocrity with no hopes or dreams. I know you think I'm exaggerating but I'm good at reading people and this dude looks like he would be torture to spend five minutes with, as if he could suck the life and creativity out of you like a dementor in the Harry Potter films and you'd be left only a zombie like him. He's frowning, sulking like he's Captain in charge of the S.S. Asshole. I'm not a fighter, but I kind of want to kick his ass, because he's so blatantly treating her like an irritation.
She, on the other hand, is a completely different story. Her hair is strawberry blond, more red than yellow, and it's the first indicator of the fire housed inside. She's wearing a You Me At Six t-shirt, which has me smiling because I already like her taste in music; a determined smile that seems to be a defiant, feisty, fuck you to his lackluster and piss-poor demeanor; and leopard print flats on her feet that for some reason just scream vixen to me, and not slutty vixen, but sassy, I-dare-you vixen. She has my full attention.
I'm out of our game of three, and Robbie and Jamie are still playing, so I take a seat on a stool next to their table. I'm eavesdropping, and their conversation is sporadic and limited at best—single or two-word exchanges.
"Hungry?" She's not kissing his ass, but it's a polite attempt to relieve the awkwardness.
Which he deflects with a simple, childish, pouty, "No."
"Another drink?" She needs, more than wants, another drink to cope with her predicament, I can hear it in her voice.
"No." He really could care less if he's coming off as a dick. I hate that.
"Play pool?" She's about done. That was short and sweet and sounded annoyed as all hell.
"No," the asshole replies.
I'm straining to hear her say something else. Please say something else. Anything. Because she has a British accent that's broken and a bit rough—not the stuffy, proper, royal type. She's just gone from intriguing to downright sexy.
"Toilet." It sounds final. She points to the restrooms on the other side of the bar.
He raises his eyebrows lazily to acknowledge the announcement and continues to look miserable.
And when she stands and walks to the restroom, I follow her. She's not aware I'm following her because I'm not tailing closely, but I can take her all in. She's maybe five and a half feet tall, loose curls fall to the middle of her back, her t-shirt's oversized and knotted at her hip, and her legs are wrapped in skinny jeans. She looks casual, but fucking adorable.
I hang outside the ladies room door for her and when she exits I step in front of her and block her progress.
She looks up at me and cocks her head. "Sorry, I need to get by."
The accent? From two feet away? Directed at me? I just died. I give her my most non-threatening grin because I don't want to scare her and come off like a creeper. "You really in a rush to get back to the walking dead?"
She shakes her head adamantly, but she's trying not to smile, I can tell. "Nah, I'm in a rush to leave while the wanker's not looking. Sneaking out the back proper getaway-like."
I laugh, because just listening to her accent has my heart smiling in my chest, but her attitude has me wanting to take her outside in the rain and have a long, drawn out conversation with her to see what she's made of. "Is he your boyfriend?"
She barks out a laugh. "Hardly. Blind date. My first and last blind date. Ever." She does the sign of the cross over her chest. "Swear to God."
"Come out back on the patio with me. I'll buy you a drink." I don't know why, but I need to know this woman. Need. To. I wink and add, "I promise, I'm not a wanker."
"Well, aren't you a bloody charmer. Not a wanker, huh? Not sure I believe you." Her small smile tells me otherwise. Like I said before, I'm good at reading people.
I shake my head, and all I can do is grin at her as she follows me outside. The rain's stopped, and it's muggy. I love the air after a rainstorm, it's clean and damp and fills your lungs with purpose and weight, as if it knows its job is to sustain us.
We take the only two dry chairs under an umbrella in the corner and seconds later one of the male bartenders appears. He's as flirty as his female coworker and eyeing my little Brit hard. I don't like it. "Another gin and tonic, love?" What is it with the bartenders here and their goddamn pet names?
"Nah..." and then she pauses and looks at me. "You sticking around or you leaving with your mates soon?"
I'll do whatever she wants me to do. "I'll stick around if you keep me company."
"Right then." Her eyes flash to the bartender. "Another gin and tonic with a cucumber slice please."
The bartender reluctantly looks at me, because he wants to continue visually feeling her up. I narrow my eyes for a second to let him know I'm on to him and that I'm not cool with it, and I answer, "Modelo and a shot of Cuervo."