The Trouble With Quarterbacks(6)
“Lads! Oy!” I interrupt them. “Can I get drink orders?”
I’m small, but my accented voice carries, and they all turn at once to lock their eyes on me. I stand at the base of their round booth, waving around the little notepad I use to jot down lengthy orders.
“Are you on the menu?” one of them asks, a bit under his breath, but they all hear it and so do I. A few of them snicker.
I take no offense. My main goal tonight is to earn tips, and I’ll bet they’re mostly harmless. All-talk sort of guys.
“That depends,” I reply saucily, propping my hands on my hips.
They all lean in, interested.
“Shall I bring the bachelor boy a round of shots and we’ll all have one?”
“Yes!” one of them shouts before the others have a chance. “Top-shelf tequila. Whatever you have that’s best.” He reaches into the back pocket of his suit pants and tugs out his wallet.
I hold up my hand; I already have their cards at the bar for their tab. He’s forgotten, but I remind him.
“Right,” he says, continuing to tug a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill from his wallet. “This is just for you then—if you take that shot with us.”
For some, his offer might creep a bit too close to selling your soul. Putting up with these guys, joking and laughing with them…yes, they’re leering at me like I’m a glossy rack of prime rib, but that hundred-dollar bill is too good to pass up. Besides, Roger knows the drill.
A few minutes later, we all take a tequila shot like pros, sucking it down and chasing it with a tart lime wedge. I use the back of my hand to wipe a bit of the juice from my chin and then unfurl a proud smile. They all watched me take mine, unsure of my abilities to hold my liquor. Of course, they don’t know that Roger watered mine down enough that it barely had any bite to it at all. It’s the only way to make it through a shift, especially with guys like these.
“She’s my dream woman,” one of them says, leaning in to take my hand. “Marry me?”
I laugh and play along, though his hand is a little clammy with sweat and he reeks of alcohol. It’s barely masked by his expensive cologne, and though he’s got a handsome enough face and a fat enough wallet, he’s absolutely not my type.
“I appreciate it, really, but—”
“Candace?”
The sharp voice carries over the noise of the bar, drawing my attention toward the VIP section. Up on the second-floor landing, I spot Logan right away. It’s not as if he’s hard to find, standing up and facing me, as impossible to ignore as the sun. God, what a bloke. All tall and tanned in his black shirt and jeans. He’s dressed way more casually than most of our patrons here, but he looks more like he belongs than anyone. His hair is just as perfect as I remember—short enough that it barely gets to do any of its marvelous curl, but long enough that my fingers could get tangled in it. Easily.
He curves around the tables to get to the entrance of the VIP section, and I watch him move, amazed by how fluid his steps are, how he commands his body and the people around him. They move and shift for him before he even has to ask. Noah parting the Red Sea, this one. Sheesh, quite convenient little trick that is. I’d never have to fight my way through packed subways again.
It’s only been a week since I met him at The Day School, but I’d forgotten tiny details about him already. They coalesce back into perfect clarity as he comes to stand right in front of me.
I haven’t had the good sense to wrest my hand away from Mr. Clammy Smells-a-Lot, and he hasn’t finished the task either. Logan glances down at where our hands are linked, and a disgruntled frown takes over his handsome features.
“Are these guys bothering you?”
“I FUCKING TOLD YOU! IT’S HIM!” the original guy declares, and his friends all go crazy, crushing toward the end of the booth to get to Logan.
“Mr. Matthews. Truly, it’s a pleasure. Oh my god. Dude, can we get a picture?”
My hand is released and I’m long forgotten, pushed to the side as they all try to get closer to him. I rub my shoulder where one of them not-so-politely elbowed me out of the way, and Logan is there, taking in every moment, completely unbothered by the swarm of lads surrounding him.
I looked into the foosball league like I meant to, but I didn’t find much, and truthfully, it looked a bit…silly? Nothing like these guys are making it out to be. It’s like Logan is really their hero. They want autographs and photos and “Can you call my girlfriend and leave a message? She’s in love with you, man. You’d really be helping me out.”
Logan doesn’t take photos, but he signs a few cocktail napkins quickly and they get distributed among the group with a few grunts and threats and one solid punch to an arm.
“Dude, he gave it to me!”
“Candace?” Logan says, pinning the full weight of his attention back on me. My knees go weak a bit like maybe I’m not quite strong enough to handle him like this, looking at me from head to toe, brows pinched together, concern filling his brown eyes. “Come back to my table with me,” he says, waving away the group’s further requests and reaching out to take my hand.
With the contact, an electric current zings up my arm like I’ve just shoved the tines of a fork straight into a wall socket. I’d be shocked if my hair wasn’t standing on end.