One & Done by Cynthia Sax

Author:Cynthia Sax [Sax, Cynthia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2016-07-17T21:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

By five o’clock, I’m starving, both for food and for sex. Azure is still MIA. I don’t want to go home alone, don’t want to spend the evening watching TV.

I consider going to Smoke’s club but he doesn’t want to see me and Tyrice might not let me into the building. I can’t deal with another rejection today.

There are other places to pick up men.

I wander out of the office building, weave between slower-walking pedestrians and head to The Eager Beaver, a bar on Front Street.

Edward and I had a surprise date there years ago. He was attending a legal tradeshow at the Convention Center and ran across the road, dodging streetcars and lost tourists, to have a pint of beer. The accounting profession was coincidentally hosting a meet and greet at the bar on the same day.

We didn’t know about each other’s plans. He spotted me sitting at the bar, and claimed the barstool beside mine, ordering an India pale ale, a classy beer for a classy guy. We laughed, called it fate. One beer became several. He took my drunk ass home and we made hot, passionate love.

This night could end as happily as that one.

I step into the darkened bar. Heads turn. Some men immediately dismiss me, looking away quickly. One clean-cut, dark-haired man makes a comment, his lips moving, and his friends snigger. They’re laughing at me.

It hurts.

Then I remember that I have the most magnificent tits a certain jaded player has ever seen. I stick out my chest, saunter to the bar, hips swaying and I select the same barstool I had claimed two years ago. Several gazes follow me.

“What will you be having, miss?” The bartender, an older gentleman with gray hair and a twinkle in his brown eyes, wipes the wood in front of me with a cloth.

“An India pale ale.” The words slip out of my mouth before I can stop them. Do I want another Edward? I’m supposed to be collecting experiences.

The bartender pours me a glass. I pay. Hopefully this will be the last drink I buy for myself tonight.

“If you must drink draught beer, that’s the most intelligent choice.” A man in an impeccably tailored, navy-blue suit, crisp white shirt, tightly knotted blue tie sits beside me. His blond hair is perfectly trimmed, his eyeglasses are spotless, and his hands well manicured. “Pale malts are crafted using the lightest and finest barleys.”

“You don’t drink draught beer?” I smile at him.

“No.” He lines the coasters up with the edge of the bar.

Oh my God. My smile wavers. He’s OCD.

Many serial killers are obsessive-compulsive. That’s how they remain undetected. They’re painfully precise and neat, covering their murderous trails.

I gulp my beer. The alcohol warms my empty stomach.

“Your button is undone.” He frowns at my blazer.

I hastily fasten it, not wishing to give him a reason to slice and dice me. “Thank you.” I shift and the barstool squeaks under my huge ass.

Mr. OCD’s attention moves to my seat. “Your barstool isn’t well maintained.

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