Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the bartender staring at Della, practically drooling on top of the bar. “He’s totally into you,” I say, nodding in his direction while picking up my shot glass and draining it so fast I see stars.
“He has possibilities,” she shrugs, sucking on a lime wedge. “At least for tonight,” she says as she throws the lime to the side and flashes him a toothy smile like she wants to eat him alive, waiting for him to drift back her way. Which, after about a minute, he does, a shock of dirty blond hair falling over his eyes, biceps flexing as he leans over the bar to whisper in her ear.
Just watching them makes me depressed all over again.
She turns back to me, a wicked gleam in her eye. “His name’s Zach, and he says he wants to take me out for breakfast when he gets off work tonight. Should I let him?”
“Probably,” I say with a sigh. There goes my wing woman. Oh well, at least one of us will be getting laid tonight. It just won’t be me.
Again.
“Do you mind if I go over there and talk with him for a few minutes?” She points to the back door of the bar, which is propped open to let in a little cool air. “You know, just to make sure he’s not a serial killer or anything? I’d rather not start next year by waking up in a dumpster in Queens.”
“Oh, why not?” I say magnanimously, raising my glass to her, even though I’m dying inside.
“I love you to bits,” Della says with a wink, grinning naughtily as she eases herself off of the barstool. “Back in a flash.”
Right, I think. I watch her walk away as the bartender throws a towel over one shoulder and follows quickly behind her. If by that you mean I’ll probably see you sometime next Tuesday. She turns around, cupping her hands around her mouth so she can yell over the music.
“Stay out of trouble!”
I nod, trying to smile through gritted teeth and give her the thumbs up with my free hand. After she disappears into the crowd, I look at my new shot, still waiting for me to drink it, and take a polite sip this time instead of swallowing it down right away. The way this night is going, I’m going to need to pace myself.
Suddenly I’m jostled from behind, and I lurch to the side, almost falling off of my chair. “What the fuck?!” I turn around to see a guy elbowing the crowd out of the way and sliding onto the newly vacated barstool beside me without even apologizing or acknowledging my presence—or the fact that he practically knocked me unconscious.
And people say manspreading on the subway is bad.
“Excuse me?” I ask again, but he’s too busy looking for a bartender and doesn’t even notice.
I jam my elbow into his ribcage as hard as I can.
“Oww!” He turns.
“Whoops,” I grin. “I didn’t see you there. So busy. New Year’s.” I shrug, and if he knows I did it on purpose, he doesn’t say. His blue eyes go to my drink.
“You’re drinking tequila?” he asks. “Alone? Now that’s just sad.” He reaches for my half-empty shot glass and downs it in one.
I splutter. “One, I’m not alone. At least, I wasn’t before my friend decided to go fuck one of the bartenders. Two, you owe me a drink, and three . . .” I pause, trying to think of a third thing. “You’re very rude,” I manage to add.
He smirks. “You should be thanking me. I just saved you from a shitty hangover.”
I snort. “Believe me, you’re about three shots too late for that.”
“Ouch. Well, the least I can do is take the edge off.” He leans against the bar and gestures smoothly for service. Maybe any other night of the year the bartender would have come running, but it’s New Year’s Eve, and this guy is shit out of luck.
“Don’t hold your breath,” I tell him.
“Oh, ye of little faith. Are you sure I can’t buy you a drink?”
I’m about to turn back to wallowing in my own despair, then I take another look.
He hasn’t shaved in a few days, his dark hair needs a cut, and he’s dressed in the Brooklyn uniform of black skinny jeans and a plaid shirt, but his blue eyes are sparkling, and he’s smiling at me with a wolfish look . . . Hmmm.
Hot? Check.
Cocky? Double-check.
Drinking alone on NYE? Ding, ding, we have a winner. Step right up, ladies and gentlemen. Lizzie Ryan’s rebound fling has arrived!
“Alright,” I say, “I guess you can buy me a drink.” I cross one leg over the other in what I hope is an alluring fashion—and almost topple off the barstool in the process.
Whoops. Guess I’m a little drunker than I thought.
He reaches out one arm to steady me, and his grip is like the rest of him, strong and sure.
“Falling for me already?” he cracks as he reaches into the inside pocket of his coat and pulls out a silver flask. I’m surprised to see it isn’t some novelty thing, but the real deal: the silver is worn and antique-looking, a relic from a time where men drank bourbon on the rocks from glass tumblers and women wore red lipstick just to do a little grocery shopping.
Turns out my drink-stealer has taste, after all.
He twists off the cap and pours some amber liquid into my glass, filling it to the brim. I watch as he raises the flask to his lips and swallows hard, the whiskey going down his throat like water.
“Macallan 25,” he says, screwing the top back on and shoving the flask back into his coat. “Try it. It’ll change your life.”
I don’t know much about whiskey, as I’m mostly a tequila or gin girl, but I do know that Macallan 25 is obscenely expensive—Todd’s boss drank it routinely, and Todd had mentioned, back when I was still speaking to him, that is, that this magic elixir retailed for around two thousand dollars a bottle.
Make that hot, cocky, drunk, and rich.
“You know, between finishing my drink and barging your way in here, you owe me at least two apologies at this point—and I still don’t even know your name,” I say, picking up the shot of whiskey and peering at it closely.
But what if it’s poisoned? What if it’s full of roofies and you wake up on the street or, god forbid, in this guy’s apartment naked and tied to his bed without any idea how you got there? my inner worrywart whines.
Actually, that might be an improvement over the current state of things, thank you very much . . .
“Call me . . . Jacob,” he says, shrugging his coat off and letting it drop to the floor. “Drink up.”
I take a deep breath and pick up the glass. Fuck it. He’s drinking out of the same flask so it’s probably safe, I tell myself. Besides, a life without risk isn’t really worth living, something I seem to have forgotten lately.
The liquor slides down my throat, smooth as silk. I never got all that bullshit about aftertaste of peat moss and burning wood with just a hint of vanilla, but damn, call me a convert. I take another sip and almost moan out loud. If I could bathe in it I would immediately fill the nearest bathtub with this magical stuff.
Rich people get all the best toys.
“Elizabeth,” I tell him, putting the glass down on the bar. Lizzie is the girl who got dumped, ditched, and demeaned this year. Maybe I can be Elizabeth instead, just for the night. The flirty one who picks up hot guys in bars and embarks on a night of mind-blowing sex adventures.