Girl Crush(47)

We’d pulled into the parking lot at Bar None, and I couldn’t get out of that car fast enough. The two of them had serious issues, and I’d have to get the details from Ronnie when her other half wasn’t around.

Thankfully, Roxie, Amy, Beck, and Stella were all waiting at the door, talking to the bouncer, when we strolled up. I tried to wipe the vexed expression from my face and offer them a smile. “Hey, guys. Where’s Roma?”

“Already inside,” Beck answered and then opened the door for us to all pile in.

The place was packed for it to be this early on a Friday night, and the crowd that was typically filled with people in their late twenties seemed to have matured to the mid-thirties. Surely it hadn’t been that long since I’d been here that the entire customer base changed.

Roma dragged my attention away from the patrons when she called my name. “Giselle, over here.”

She looked like sex in heels. My mouth watered at the thought of hooking up with her—she was single. I was single—she had a dugout that matched my own. And I quickly reminded myself, I needed a bat, not a glove, regardless of how pretty she was, or the fact that she could make straight women pant, she couldn’t drive it out of the park without anything to swing.

The moment I set my purse on the high-top Roma had secured for our group, Ronnie and Trish started up again about a baby and pregnancy. No one else seemed at all shocked by the topic and even joined in supporting Trish. I’d entered the Twatlight Zone, and I needed to escape. The wine I’d consumed at home only served to dull my senses but not drown out the insanity coming from my best friend’s mouth.

“Giselle, you look amazing. Jesus, I hope I’m in that great of shape at your age.”

I pressed my lips together tightly and forced them in the direction of visual happiness, but the smile was strained. Roma was too young to understand my age was a touchy subject or how hard I fought the genetic time clock that ticked away on my face and body. Instead, I focused on the fact that all my friends had said nearly the same thing upon seeing me. Something was rotten in the state of Denmark, and it was more than the fish between these hoochies’ legs.

My hands went up in animation. It happened every time I got riled up. I couldn’t help it—I was a hand talker. “What the hell is going on?”

All seven of the heifers gave me innocent glances as if they had no clue what I referred to.

“Don’t play coy with me. What’s with the compliments?” I glared at Ronnie who had stopped bitching at Trish long enough to respond.

“You’re paranoid, Gizzy. You just look hot tonight.”

I could normally spot a lie from ten feet away when it came from Ronnie, but she appeared sincere. The rest of these whores, I wasn’t so sure about. Something was going on, but I wasn’t privy to what. Maybe I really was suspicious for no reason. I eyed each of them skeptically and decided on alcohol at the bar. I didn’t offer to get anyone else anything, I just needed a few minutes to pull myself together.

“What can I get you, doll?” The guy behind the bar was hot with a bad-boy vibe. His arms were covered in ink, and his eyes were captivating—but that grin would have the ladies’ panties on the floor before he could unzip his pants.

“Vodka tonic, please.”

My back was to the crowd while I watched Johnny Rocker mix my drink when a hand landed on my waist and warm breath hovered near my ear. “Would you like to dance?” The voice was deep and mellow…and unfamiliar.

When I glanced over my shoulder, a good-looking guy stepped back but didn’t remove his fingers from my hip. I took the drink from the bartender after paying him and returned my attention to the man waiting for my reply. My girlfriends hadn’t noticed my absence, and I wasn’t interested in whatever they had going on, so I gave him a nod and followed him to the dance floor with my vodka in hand.

The upbeat music thumped around us, and people clogged the small space, but the man who remained nameless found a spot in the center of the crowd and created a nook for us to move. I tossed back the remains of my liquor and placed the empty glass on a tray when a waitress passed by. The instant my hands were free, his found the belt loops in my jeans and snagged them with his thumbs. He pulled me closer, and the only thing I could grab onto were his thick upper arms. I could feel the muscles contract beneath his shirt, and the definition was obvious even through the fabric. Although he was attractive by any standards, he didn’t pre-heat my baby oven.

He never tried to talk and didn’t push the personal space boundaries—the man appeared to be content dancing. Even when the beat slowed and the moves became more provocative, he never took it too far. By the fifth or sixth song, my skin had dampened with sweat, and my throat dried. When I told him I was going to the bar for a drink, he didn’t ask what I wanted or offer to get it for me. He just let me go. And when I turned around after placing another order with the tatted mixologist, my dance partner had already paired off with someone new.

I didn’t have it in me to care. He’d saved me the trouble of telling him I wasn’t interested. I stood there and stared out at the people moving to the music and thought about Justin and how my standards had gotten so low, and now, a solid eight held no interest. And I could tell, just by the way the stranger danced, he’d be an amazing lay. Meh, still nothing.

Leaning with my back against the edge of the bar, I swirled the ice in my glass and took in all the hordes of lonely people—most were smiling, appearing to have a good time, but I let myself believe they, too, were all going home to an empty house and cold bed. Not even the sight of my OPI “St. Mark’s the Spot,” polish on my freshly painted nails brought a smile to my lips. I’d waited months for this color to come back in stock and made sure to coordinate my top with the vibrant blue, but it did nothing for me.