Sliding my fingers along the edge of the bar, I play with the texture, feeling the bumps and nicks in the stained wood. Just distracting my fingers while my mind tries to work. I’m rationalizing, just because I was too drunk and lovesick to remember to wrap my pecker. Fuck.
Angie’s not the first girl I’ve fucked and dumped. She’s not the first to try and trap me with pregnancy shit either. I didn’t make it out of fucking high school before our lawyers had to handle my first paternity test. Negative. Which she already knew, but that didn’t stop her from trying.
And then there’re the creeps with investment opportunities too good to pass up, so long as I act now. Just a few million, and we’ll never have to work another day in our lives, they say like that’s not my life already.
So I say sit back and use the users. If they want to fuck me, I’ll give ‘em a ride. If they want to wine and dine me, I’ll gladly oblige. Just don’t expect me to call in the morning. Not once have I felt bad about it. Until today.
Waking up next to Angie was different. The sun played over her naked body, golden light warming the hints of skin peeking out of the sheets like a naughty promise. Different? Fuck, it was awesome. So why does she have to just be like all the others? Is she? asks a distant voice in the back of my head.
Tipping back my glass, I drain it. Hair of the dog. Just what I needed to burn off what was left of my hangover. It’s exactly what I need, because while I’m trying to let go of her, something in the back of my head isn’t letting me, and the scotch helps me pretend not to care.
I try to drain my glass again, but nothing’s coming out. Right. Already did that. “Another.” The bartender shakes his head again and I get ready to bitch him out when the world rocks. For a second I don’t get what happened. Buzzed? Abso-fucking-lutely. World rocking drunk? Not even close. It’s not until I see the bartender securing the glass racks and putting bottles away that I realize it’s the ship rocking and not me.
Through the window I see thick clouds rolling towards us, not quite obscuring the sun, but soon. Looks like crappy weather’s coming our way. Awesome. Suits my mood better anyway. I was getting a bit sick of all the happy people hanging out in their designer swimwear, lounging around happily on the sundecks talking in happy voices about how awesome everything fucking is. Because it’s not.
“Gavin.”
I don’t turn to face the voice. Of course I recognize it. She sounds angry, disappointed and sad, all at the same time. How the hell am I supposed to respond to that? I’ve got enough going on in my own head, thanks.
When I don’t answer, Angie slides onto the stool next to me. Having her near me drives me crazy, muscle memory remembering last night and eager to go again. She’s wearing a flowery sundress that’s sheer enough that in the right light, I bet I could see everything.
I want to tear it off to see if she’s wearing anything underneath. Common sense says she is, but my imagination is convinced she isn’t, filling my mind with images of fucking her right on top of the bar, in front of everyone. Hell, why shouldn’t I? The damage is already done.
The bartender gives us a curious look but keeps his distance until she speaks to him. “Could I have two glasses of water, please?” She sounds cool and collected. A far cry from how I left her. Gone from molten heat to frosty ice.
“Sure thing, Mrs. Caldwell.” We watch in silence as he pulls down two tall beer glasses, fills them with ice out of a bucket under the bar, then pours them full of water. With a practiced motion, he slides them down the bar just like he did with my scotch. “I’d keep a hand on them, though. The seas are getting choppy out there.” After seeing us catch, he moves to the other end of the bar, pretending not to watch us.
“Thank you.” Taking one glass for herself, Angie pushes the other towards me. “Unless you want to feel even more miserable after you’re done feeling miserable, you should drink some water.” I watch her sip hers but I don’t touch mine. It’s a stupid kind of spiteful pride.
Minutes drag by without either of us saying anything. What does she want? An apology? She’s not getting it. Not unless I’m sure, and I’m not good at that apologizing shit anyway. I can’t blame the cruise on her, or our crazy fucking wedding, but for all I know she just grabbed the perfect opportunity.
Fuck, that sounds lame even to me.
“So tell me. What do you want?” I lash out at her like a wounded animal. “Money for college? A house in France? A diamond-studded hobby horse? Can’t put a price on love, can you? But a baby on the other hand... gold mine.”