Does It Hurt? (8)

He hoods his eyes, and I know he doesn’t mean for it to appear seductive, but it’s the most heart-turning look I’ve ever had aimed my way.

My thighs have long since started to ache from constantly keeping them clenched in the past two hours Enzo and I have been talking. But it also goes beyond physical. Something about him draws me in, has me hanging on his every word, and makes it impossible to look away.

Maybe it’s the alcohol. Or maybe it’s not.

He stares deeply into my eyes when I speak; I’ve never felt so heard. The best part—he doesn’t offer unsolicited advice or lackluster comfort. He just… listens, and attentively at that. Like the next thing out of my mouth just might be the cure for cancer. Too bad I am the fucking cancer.

We’re both slightly buzzed now, and while he’s not exactly the nicest, he’s easy to talk to.

I like that he speaks as if he's dying and doesn’t have time to be pleasant when he has no fucking interest in doing so. He doesn't waste time on false narratives and assurances. He's the type that will sit next to you because he wants to and stays in a conversation because he cares enough to know what you're going to say next.

He's intentional.

And somehow, it’s made for a very intriguing conversation.

“It wouldn’t put a personal hit out on you. But at the end of the day, they’re wild animals and need to be respected. They can be temperamental and territorial and will attack if you agitate them or if they mistake you for food.” He shrugs. “But more often than not, they’ll just keep on swimming.”

I rest my chin on my hand, enraptured by how he talks. He’s passionate about his job. His hazel eyes are sparkling with excitement, he talks with his hands when he gets really fired up, and there’s always a trace of a dimple on his right side when he speaks about his profession, as if he knows something the rest of the world doesn't.

I guess, in a way, he does. He knows what it's like to swim alongside one of the world's oldest and most feared predators, and not many could say the same.

He may not have the best of manners, but I can admire his passion. The only thing I've ever been passionate about is surviving, and even then, I feel like giving up most days.

“Have you ever been bitten?”

“Not by a shark,” he drawls. I do a double take, sensing the innuendo within his words.

“You say that like you enjoy being bitten by not-sharks.”

He arches a brow, a slight grin pushing that dimple deeper into his cheek. He can arch one brow. Suppose it's no surprise. God has always played favorites.

“Is there a reason not to?”

I sigh loudly. “Stop trying to knock me up, Enzo. We're not even friends.” I pick up my drink and finish it off just to distract myself from testing his theory.

“I’ll try my best,” he states dryly.

“And I will accept nothing less. The only type of daddy I'm interested in is the sugary ones.”

“Would you like to go write your number on the bathroom wall?” he proposes. “Don’t think whoever calls would be the type to take home to your parents, though.”

His words are innocent, but they create a stabbing pain in my chest anyway. Sharp enough to cause me to set my glass down a little too roughly.

Noticing the shift in my mood, he sets his drink down and looks at me. Just… looks at me. Waiting without asking.

I force a smile and shrug easily. “Don't have those.”

“No family?”

“Just me.”

Again, he waits quietly while I fiddle with the wet napkin soaking up the perspiration from the ice in my cup.

“I had them until me and my brother, Kevin, were eighteen. They were driving home drunk and fighting like they always did. Probably because Dad got too handsy with another woman again. They went off a bridge and didn't come back up until the next day. Found scratch marks all over Dad's face from her nails, and both of their alcohol levels were high.”

He nods slowly, then asks, “Twins?”

“Yeah,” I confirm quietly. “Kev and I were twins. But now it's just me.” I finish the statement with a broad smile, signaling the end of that depressing conversation.

He casts an indecipherable look my way but ultimately says, “Come on, I want to show you something.” He nods his head toward the exit. “I don’t want to spend my entire fucking day in this shitty bar.”

Valid. So, I pick up his drink and finish it off.

Whiskey. Gross.

“You’re really rude,” Enzo observes, standing up and looking down at me with an unimpressed quirk to his brow.

He’s so fucking tall. Like, he has a solid foot on me.

“And you’re a mammoth,” I retort.

The bartender—who finally relented and told me his name is Austin—snatches the glasses while passing by without a glance, even as Enzo fishes out his wallet to slip out some bills and slap them down on the bar to cover our tab.

“You’re annoying.”

Not the first time I’ve heard that one.

“Does that mean you’re canceling our date?” I ask, a hint of hope in my tone. As much as I need Enzo to take me home—I always hate what comes after.

“It’s not a date. But, no, if you want out, then leave by yourself like a big girl.”