Straightening my shoulders, I set off in his direction. Might as well just get this over with. If I at least say hello to him, I don’t have to lie to Dee when I tell her that we just didn’t connect.
It takes me a second to get through all of the people crowding the bar. The music has gotten considerably louder since I walked in only a few minutes ago. The bodies that are dancing around the bar make it hard to walk without being jostled, and the last thing I want is to be pushed and, God forbid, fall.
I finally reach Nikolas just in time to see him lift the bartender’s hand up to his lips and give her a wink before kissing her knuckles. What a shmuck, I think. It’s a shame that he’s obviously such a douchebag because he wouldn’t be bad to look at for a few dates.
I laugh at myself before reaching my hand out and tapping him on the shoulder. He leans over and says something in her ear, causing her to look over at me before meeting his eyes again. Then she nods her head before walking away.
What the hell was that?
He turns, his smile still in place, and doesn’t even pause before letting his eyes take in every single inch of my skin. I can feel his eyes as if they are a physical touch, and even though it’s a clear sign—as if I need another one—that this man is a major douche, I can’t help but feel a little more confident that I clearly can still make his eyes flash with arousal.
In your face, Asher Cooper, with all your bullshit chubby talk.
“Nikolas?” I question.
“Ah, Chelcie. I was beginning to think you had stood me up.” He grabs my hand, mimicking the same play he put on just seconds before with the bartender.
It takes all of my willpower not to snatch my hand out of his and run to find the closest bathroom.
“Nope, just had a little trouble finding the place. So…Slice is interesting.”
“Yes. Very interesting,” he mumbles while his eyes never leave my chest.
What a tool.
“Would you like to go find a place to sit?” I ask, hoping that he might just tell me that he would rather spend time with the Playboy Bunny behind the bar.
“Of course. Forgive me. It’s been a long week and my head must not be on right.” He waves his hand in front of him, hinting for me to take the lead.
When I start off in the direction of an empty booth, his hand rests heavily against the small of my back. The first step I take, his hand leaves my back, caressing my ass before giving me a little tap. I yelp before spinning around and glaring at him.
He holds his hands up. “Sorry, sweet cheeks. I just couldn’t resist.”
“It would be best if you remember to keep your hands to yourself, Nikolas,” I snap.
He smirks and gives me a wink before grabbing my hand and taking off in the direction we were headed. I try unsuccessfully to pull my hand from his, but he keeps his firm hold on mine.
What a nightmare.
***
So far, I’ve been in date hell for about two hours, and within those two hours, I’ve actually talked to my date for about thirty minutes. The second we sat down, ordered some finger food—since that was the only thing offered—and some drinks—nonalcoholic for me and shot after shot for him—he disappeared. I would have left, but the greasy food was so good that I couldn’t stop eating.
And then I ordered some more, along with another water with lemon, and by the time I realized that I had been people-watching and living in my own head, another hour had passed. It isn’t abnormal for me to space out when I’m in the middle of a crowded place. For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to be a writer. It doesn’t matter where I am. I sit and story after story just filter through my head. Clearly I have been living in my own personal bubble, because while I was writing a new story in my head, my date vanished.
Well, isn’t this lovely.
I flag down one of the scantily clad waitresses and pay the bill—the whole bill—before grabbing my purse and heading off to the bathroom before I leave.
The hallway leading to the bathroom is oddly quiet. The lighting is just as bad as the rest of this place, dark and smoky. Once I make it up to the door marked Chicks, I give it a good shove before realizing that it’s locked. I would leave, but since I was sitting there living in my head, I downed seven waters, and right now, baby bean is making it very clear that space is limited and my bladder looks like a nice pillow.
Knocking on the door, I yell, “Excuse me? Is anyone in there?”
“Yeah, bitch. Hold the hell on!” comes the muffled reply followed by a crash and some giggles that quickly turn into one of the longest moans.
While I’m sitting here about to pee on myself, cobwebs having collected around my neglected pussy, some chick is getting her rocks off. Life is not fair. I laugh at the thought of my lacking sex life. It’s not for lack of want—Lord knows the pregnancy hormones have me turning into some sex-craving whore—but there is only one man my body craves, and regardless of what I tell myself, that will never happen.