You're to Blame(5)
Lydia, the only female bartender around this place, forces me out of her way as she picks up my slack. She’s used to my antics and laughs when I gawk at my current distraction.
We slept together once, a year ago, and instead of never speaking to her again, which is usually how it goes, she and I became friends. She was new to the area, and Derks gave her a chance behind his busy and lucrative bar. Lydia and I get along because we both understand it was too much whiskey and a lack of sleep that brought us together the first night.
At the end of the day, I’m not a saint and don’t pretend to be. I’ve learned, through trial and error, it’s safer to be upfront and honest about my intentions to the females who trail in and out of my life. I prefer less mess to clean up.
“You look like a fucking creep, just so you know.” Lydia laughs as she leans around me to grab a bottle of vodka. “Go talk to her. The girl is hot.”
“A girl like her takes more than witty banter and flirting.” I grab the bottle before she can, and she rips it from my grasp, pouring the shots before handing it back to me. We are fluid behind the bar, guessing the other’s move before we make it.
“Well, that’s all you have in your arsenal, so you’re fucked.” She pats me on the shoulder and scampers to the cash register to empty her bulging pockets. “Better yet, stand here. Stare at the pretty girl at the end of the bar for a little bit longer.” Her loud voice carries over the music, and I glance around to make sure no one heard her.
Fuck it. What do I have to lose?
As I approach, the girl twists, revealing her flawless face. My stomach punches into my throat. Of course, she’s even more beautiful up close. The only problem is flirtation won’t work with this one. She’s spoken for. Taken. Committed. Take the pick of appropriate words. The worst part is she’s the girlfriend of one of my fraternity brothers.
Shit.
“Duke Anderson,” she sneers. My name sounds like a curse soaked in venom. The hatred is loud and fucking clear. But why?
Where her animosity stems from, I’ve never quite understood. Jacob and I are brothers. We’ve taken an oath to have each other’s back. We hang out occasionally, but Charlotte has never warmed up to me. Of course, to get warmed by the fire, she’d have to pull up a seat, and she’s always twelve paces away.
“In the flesh,” I banter back, extending my hands in a bullshit display of satisfaction. Her intoxicating blue eyes flash to the tattoos on my arms.
She swallows hard and shakes her head.
So, I affect this girl; whether it’s good or bad, the jury is still out. I have every intention of poking until she snaps. Girls like Charlotte Novak are easy to rile up, and maybe a small part of me enjoys the thought, even when nothing will come out of it. The thrill’s in the chase most of the time.
Take a shark for instance. He doesn’t sink his sharp teeth into a surfer and gobble them up. No, he nudges them with the tip of his nose, swims away, and then comes back to finish. Sharks play with their food. Consider me a great white.
The blonde observes us like a tennis match, shifting her head back and forth. She’s pretty in a slutty kind of way. It’s hard to judge a girl accurately when they’re standing next to a creature like Charlotte. Most girls can’t be classified in the same category as her. Charlotte’s a different kind of beauty. I may not be picky most nights, but I can appreciate how lucky guys like Jacob are to snag girls like her off the market.
“You guys know each other?” her friend asks. Her interests lie in what causes the palpable tension half the bar can sense building around us.
“No.” Charlotte shoots a direct venomous look, and it hits me in the chest. Damn, this girl really hates me.
“Yes.” Our responses overlap. Mine is much warmer than what she delivers.
Technically, we don’t know each other. We share common friends and have crossed paths occasionally. Jacob keeps his worlds separate and tends to lock her away in an ivory tower. So, outside a random encounter on campus, we don’t see much of each other.
The first time I caught a glimpse of her, Jacob and I were freshman. The frat brothers gave him shit, roasting him for tying his time up with her. When she came to campus later that year, I understood, for the first time, why he wasn’t willing to give her up just to have a good time. She laughed in a way the whole room paid attention, even when we weren’t privy to the joke. It wasn’t just how beautiful she was; it was the way she carried herself that made me pause and pay attention.
“Oh, this sounds like a story.” Her friend jumps up and down, her large rack bouncing with her anticipation.
“There is no story,” I speak up. “What can I get you to drink, honey?” I smile at the blonde. It would go to waste on Charlotte, and I don’t hand them out lightly.
“I’m Rachel, and I’ll have Sex on the Beach,” she says, her voice deep and suggestive. She throws in a cute wink for good measure. This one is trouble. No girl who orders a Sex on the Beach ever has good intentions.
“It’s nice to meet you, Rachel. Anything for you, Char?” I ask, hoping she’ll wipe the scowl off her perfect face.
Her attention is on the dance floor. The envy in her eyes is nearly hidden as she takes in a couple grinding against each other. She tightens her resolve, erasing the jealousy from her expression when she addresses me.