Conviction (Consolation Duet #2)(80)

10 . . . 9 . . . 8 . . . 7 . . .

I started the mental countdown ritual. I could do 10. Twenty was reserved for extra shitty days. Fifty was for all-out hellish catastrophes. Today felt more like a 10: a craptastic situation.

“You can do this,” I whispered to the reflection staring back at me. “It’s ok. You’re ok. It had to be done. You have to keep going. You can do this, Kami Duvall. You will not break. Not today.”

The bar’s marquee stated Dive, though it only slightly resembled the traditional, hole-in-the-wall dive bars I was accustomed to. As I scurried into the air-conditioned building, seeking refuge from the relentless Charlotte summer sun, I could tell it had been recently upgraded with modern furniture and a fresh coat of paint. I liked it already though ambiance was not a requirement for what I had planned for the rest of my evening.

I settled in at the bar and ordered a shot of tequila along with a Long Island Iced Tea chaser. When the bearded bartender raised a questioning brow at my request, I diverted my eyes to a bowl of peanuts a few seats down. I didn’t need his misguided judgment.

“Damn, baby. Sure a pretty little thing like you can handle a drink like that?” a voice laced with a southern drawl called out to me. I looked up to spot a smiling onlooker across the bar. Great. Judgment and an asshat with my beverages.

I smiled sweetly before grabbing my shot of tequila, downing it, tossing the slice of lime to the side, and slamming the glass on the bar. When I looked back up, Asshat was already making his way towards me, obviously intrigued with my shot-pounding capabilities. Unfortunately for him, that’d be the only thing getting pounded tonight.

“Hey there, honey. I’ve never seen you ‘round here. You must be new. I’m Craig,” he smiled, extending his hand. I looked at it, scanned the length of his body and turned my attention back to my drink. It was much more exciting. Craig took the hint and pulled his hand back but still settled in the seat beside me. I rolled my eyes; he was a persistent little prick. Normally the southern charm was endearing to a California girl like me, but after what I had just been through, it was annoying as hell.

“Craig, right?” I asked after a long pull from my Long Island. He nodded and flashed a hopeful smile. I couldn’t wait to wipe that dumb look right off his face. “First off, calling the wrong person ‘honey’ could very well get you cut. And second of all, how would you know if I was new? Do you hang out here on a regular basis?”

“Easy there, darlin,’” he chuckled, holding his hands up in defense. “Just making friendly chit-chat. And yes, actually, I do come ‘round here often. This happens to be my family’s place.”

I eyed Craig disapprovingly. With his wavy, chin-length brown hair, light brown eyes, and the bit of scruff on his chin, he wasn’t exactly bad to look at. He was actually pretty cute in that young southern gentleman kinda way, but I was too far gone on the self-depreciation train to even fall for his charm.

“So what? That gives you a right to harass all the paying patrons?” I replied with a raised brow before downing the last of my drink. It was strong, but not strong enough to stow my bitchiness.

“You are an exotic little thing, aren’t ya? Yes, in-deed,” Craig appraised, ignoring my jab. He finished his beer just as our empty glasses were quickly swiped from the bar. “Let me guess-you’re one of those moo-lot-toe girls.”

I nearly choked, and probably would have spit my drink right in his face just for shits and giggles if I’d had a mouthful. “Excuse me? Are you trying to say mulatto?”

“Yeah! That chocolate and vanilla swirl! I’m right, aren’t I?”

Wow. Craig was a bigger asshat than I initially assumed. I had played this game with guys before. The whole, “What are you? Let me guess . . .” bit was not new to me. Usually I shut it down, but since I had nothing else better to do than stew about my predicament, I thought I‘d humor Craig and eventually make a fool of him. I didn’t think it would take long anyway.

“No, I’m not moo-lot-toe, jackass. Chocolate and vanilla? Do I look like an ice cream cone to you?” I snickered. Craig’s eyes widened with glee at my choice of words, instantly making me regret them. Thankfully, the bartender returned with our drinks, so I could get back to the task at hand: getting stupid drunk.

I looked up to say thank you and was met with a hooded pair of chocolate brown eyes and a boyish grin. His hair was covered in a worn baseball cap, and he had just the right amount of scruff on his chin and upper lip to give his baby face an edge. His hands and arms were covered with intricate, colorful tattoos. He was different from what usually attracted me and absolutely beautiful. So beautiful, in fact, that I had to tear my eyes away before I used Jedi mind tricks to undress him. I wanted to see what else those tattoos covered. Badly.

“CJ, I hope you’re not botherin’ this young lady,” the younger, much more enticing bartender smiled, his deep voice laced with a touch of southern drawl. His large hand (yeah, I noticed) clapped Craig on the back as he shook his head, a lock of brown hair escaping his cap and falling into his eyes. His gaze came back to me, and he winked.

Under normal circumstances, the move would have probably made me blush, and/or flash a flirty smile, but my mind and heart were still heavy with grief. I returned the sentiment with a nod and a nervous half-grin. Sure, he was attractive, painfully so, but that thought would be all I could allow myself to enjoy.