Like she summoned him, the young busboy appears and I have to fight the urge to kill him. This woman will be the death of me. I’m still shooting daggers at him when the bartender asks for our order. Finally, Diem has to kick me—with those six-thousand-dollar shoes—to get my attention.
“The filet. Medium. Baked potato.”
He walks away and I focus my attention back on my lovely date. “So, you come here often?” I wiggle my eyebrows and she slaps at my chest, playing along.
“Sir, I have a boyfriend.”
“Pity. I have a dick like a rocket.”
Laughing, she rolls her eyes. I can’t stop looking at her. She really is a beautiful sight. “You’re growing on me, Zeke,” she says, and I’m not sure if she meant to say it out loud. But I’m looking at her. I know the meaning behind her words. She’s telling the truth. And it feels too fucking good to hear it.
“You’re growing on me too, Diem,” I admit. She starts to turn cold, ready to crash the feelings I think might be developing for me. In an effort to not ruin the night, I lighten the conversation and bring it back to something that’s more our pace. “I mean, it’s kinda like a fungus that’s itchy and festering, but it’s there.”
“You’re disgusting.” She narrows her eyes and I smile. The banter is normal for us. This we both can handle. “Let’s play a game.” She grows excited just at the mention of a challenge, and now it’s my turn to roll my eyes.
“Fine.” I might as well give in. She already thinks I’m a pussy. And to drive the final nail in my coffin, I take a sip of my wine.
“Let’s see who can pick up the hottest date.”
“Fuck no,” I snap, already getting pissed at just the thought of her picking up some other guy.
“Oh, come on,” she whines. “It’ll be fun!”
“Somehow, I don’t believe that to be true,” I mumble, downing my wine and trading it in for a shot of whiskey.
She holds her fingers up to the bartender, adding another five shots to my order. “All you have to do is get a phone number. The first person to do that wins.”
“Excuse me,” I say to the bartender. “Can I borrow your phone?”
“That doesn’t count,” she says, waving off the bartender, who looks at us both like we’re crazy. Hell, she is and she’s driving me that way too.
“So what do we win?” Might as well find out the consolation prize. It might actually be worth playing this stupid game.
“What do you want?”
“I get to pick?” Can’t believe that shit.
“No.” I knew I couldn’t believe it. “I’m just asking.”
I shake my head at her. Does she ever listen to herself? “You already owe me one thing, if I remember correctly.” At the reminder, her cheeks heat. “I can’t think of anything else I really want.”
“What about a time? I never said when.” Shit. She had me there.
“Okay.” I smirk, a little more interested now that I have a goal to work toward. “If I get the number first, then you let me go where no other man has gone before.” I throw her exact words back at her before adding, “Tonight.”
She shrugs. “Done.” That was too easy. I wait for the double-edged sword to strike. When she gives me that evil smile, I know I’m fixing to get it. “And if I win, you get nothing.”
Handing her a shot, I grab one for myself, then clink my glass to hers. “Game on, pretty girl.”
* * *
I waste no time getting to work. I’m sure I’ll be back at the bar before my steak comes. Although I doubt I’ll be able to eat it with her precious little ass in mind. I scan the other side of the bar, making sure to find someone that can’t see Diem and me from where we sit. My eyes land on a very attractive girl who looks to be in her early twenties. She’s holding her cell phone in her lap texting. The glass of wine in front of her looks untouched.
She’s dressed up like she’s expecting a date, but no one showed. Poor thing. Tonight, I’m going to become her tattooed hero. And if Diem’s into it, maybe even a little three-way action. But I don’t get my hopes up.
Grabbing the busboy I’d wanted to kill moments ago by the shirt, I pull him out of sight. He looks at me like he might shit his pants, so I offer him a kind smile while I smooth his shirt back down. “Hey kid, I ain’t gonna hurt you.”
“O-okay,” he stutters. I must be on my man period, because I suddenly feel sorry for him. He’ll never get laid with a face like that. I hope he has a good personality. Or at least some good acting skills.