After Hours (InterMix)(14)

“Ouch.”

“It’s either keep it on or have it cut off. And I haven’t been able to bring myself to get it clipped.”

“Understandable. Though it’s a liability. Safety-wise and romance-wise,” I said, instantly regretting it. But I’d gone there. May as well commit. “Have you had any girlfriends take issue with it?” Had or currently have . . . ? Oh God, who was this woman in my head who even cared?

“The sorts of issues I offer women tend to overshadow concerns about misleading jewelry.”

I frowned at his cryptic answer. “You mean like ordering them drinks without even asking what they like?”

He eyed my glass. “All women love white wine. White wine and salads with cut-up chicken on them.”

I scoffed. “That’s so sexist.”

“If it offends you, get your fellow females to quit ordering it all the time.” He narrowed his eyes. “What did you want to drink?”

White wine, probably. But it would’ve been nice to be consulted, what with this being the twenty-first century. “Whiskey,” I lied, wanting to sound tough.

“I stand corrected, then.”

To my dismay, Kelly flicked his hand at the bartender and ordered me a double shot of Bushmills, no ice. With this morning’s four thirty wake-up call, a twelve-hour shift, a banana for lunch, and a single bite of pizza for dinner, I’d be under the stool before I finished wincing my way through the first sip.

“Um, thanks.” I held up the shot when it arrived and Kelly tapped it with his bottle. I drank just enough for it to wet my lips and tingle against my tongue.

I set the glass down with a blasé clack, hoping I looked like I did this all the time. “What else do women find so troublesome about you?”

Kelly shrugged. “Just general bossy *ry.”

“Ah. Well, nice that you’re self-aware, I suppose.”

“I’m real my-way-or-the-highway. Got no patience when things don’t go how I want them to.”

“How so?”

He leaned his elbow on the bar and looked me square in the face. “I got exes who might try to tell you I treated them like servants. They were all fond of telling me as much, anyhow. But I work hard. I’ve got needs. If they don’t get met to my satisfaction, I get grouchy.”

“Charming.”

“Don’t get me wrong though—I’ve never shouted at a woman during an argument. Definitely never hit one. I’m a dick, not a piece of shit.”

“Gotcha.” I took a sip of my whiskey. My ludicrous attraction cooled as quickly as it had warmed, but good that he was telling me himself, I supposed.

“My sister and mom have both dated their share of your type, but none of those guys ever had the decency to own up to it.” Weird to think Kelly was one of those men who’d put my family through so much grief. Suddenly I was having a drink with the enemy . . . though it still didn’t feel that way. “You don’t seem impatient or bossy at all on the ward.”

“And I’m not. But I spend forty to fifty hours a week at everybody’s beck and call. When I’m off, I want what I want, the way I want it.”

“Understandable.” If not particularly appealing to even the most middling feminist. “Sounds very old-school. Was your dad a factory guy? Twelve-hour shift, and dinner better be waiting when he gets home?”

“The only place my dad ever spent twelve hours at was sitting on a stool, like we are now. Though if alcoholism was a paid gig, he’d have built himself an empire.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I don’t offend easily. Save your ‘sorries’ for somebody who’ll appreciate them.”

So he’d grown up with a drunk for a father and spent his days keeping order in a ward full of unpredictable, violent men. I guessed I could understand Kelly wanting a bit of control when he punched out. I decided to concede my annoyance over the wine.

“How did you get into nursing?” I asked. “Well, being an orderly, I mean.”

“It was real random. Or maybe not. Maybe it makes perfect sense, now that I think about it . . . By the time I was fifteen I must have been about six-two. And big. Like somebody had slipped me growth hormones at puberty. I spent so much time at this shady bar in my neighborhood, hauling my dad’s drunk ass home, they wound up giving me a job, bouncing. Years before I could even drink, myself.”