Page 93 of Her Irish Savage

There. I’m ready to go out.

I tuck my phone into my cleavage, step into my highest needle-heel shoes, and head downstairs. One quick stop to leave my key in the mailbox, and I’m on my way to Wicked Sins.

Henry’s behind the bar, which should be a good thing, because he pours with a heavy hand. He also knows I’m partial to Glenfiddich. He already has his hand on the bottle as I make my way to the counter.

One glance at the label, though, and I’m earwormed with Frank Sinatra, which is ridiculous, because this bar only plays loud rock music. My mouth fills with the taste of Scotch spun with cream, and Millionaire Malts are a stupid idea, and anyone who orders one should be shot on sight.

“I’m going with Grey Goose tonight,” I tell Henry.

He raises his eyebrows but doesn’t say a word, which automatically triples his tip. My double on the rocks is more like a four-in-hand, and that’s the fucking knot Patrick uses on his neckties, and I’m closer to tears than I’ve been since Madden beat me black and blue.

“Here you go, beautiful,” Henry says, pushing the drink over to me. I catch my breath, because that’s the sort of thing Patrick would say. I wait for my body to betray me, for my pulse to pick up, for the traitor between my legs to soften with a lazy, spinning swoop.

But none of that happens—nothing at all. I tell myself I’m grateful, because what sort of woman can go through life falling apart at a single kind word? But really, I’m devastated. I’maching. I’m terrified that I’ve lost that feeling forever, that Patrick’s ruined my pussy, and I’ll never come again.

I gulp my drink like it’s water and gesture for Henry to work his magic again.

He gives me a wary look, but he pours. This time a double is exactly what it’s supposed to be. Exactly what I deserve.

I sip, because I’m pretty sure he’ll cut me off if I chug this one. Henry nods once, a sign of approval that ices all my insides. He heads over to the sink as a man steps up to the bar.

“It’s busy in here for a Monday,” he says.

I tell myself that’s a perfectly reasonable opening for a conversation. I remind myself to smile. I take a look at his glass, and he’s drinking something clear—gin and tonic, I’m guessing, from the lime.

Good. I can kiss him, and he won’t taste like Jameson.

“I haven’t seen you here before,” he says. He takes just the right amount of time to eye my outfit. He appreciates the buckles. He’s curious about what I’m wearing beneath my skirt. But he doesn’t stare. And he doesn’t reach out to answer his question without an invitation. “I’d remember,” he says.

His smile is lopsided. He’s got sand-colored hair that was probably blond when he was a kid. His eyes are light—blue or green, I can’t tell in the bar’s dim light. He’s wearing a white cotton button-down, expensive, tailored to fit his trim waist.

“Law?” I ask. “Or finance?”

He smiles again. His right front tooth is chipped. “Banking law,” he says.

“Want to fuck?”

That takes him by surprise. But he laughs a little, and then he says, “I’m used to a little foreplay before I jump right in.”

I clutch my glass like it’s the last parachute in a plane that’s going down. For just a moment, I think I’m going to faint. I take a deep breath. Hold it for a count of four. Exhale on a count of four. Realize I’m breathing like Patrick and once again fight the urge to cry.

Or scream. I could scream instead.

But I choose a third option.

I reach out with my left hand, the one that isn’t holding my drink. I cup Mr. Banking Law’s crotch, just enough to feel the leap of his dick beneath my fingers. I squeeze once. “There. That’s foreplay. Ready to fuck?”

This isn’t right. This isn’t what I want to do. It’s not what I want to say, what I want to think, how I want to feel. I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, looking into a canyon, and if I take one more step, I’ll fall for the rest of my life.

Mr. Banking Law shakes his head. “Sorry,” he says. “I think you’re looking for another guy.”

He takes his gin and tonic and heads back to his table.

I barely make it to the ladies’ room before I start to puke. The vodka burns a hell of a lot more coming up than it ever did going down. It takes a long time for my stomach to empty, which is ridiculous, because there’s hardly anything in it.

I’m Fiona Fucking Ingram. I’m supposed to feel strong. I’m supposed to be powerful. Men drool like dogs when I spare them a single glance. Women stare in awe.

I flush the toilet. At the sink, I wash my hands, and then I rinse my mouth. I stare at myself in the mirror—at my smudged eyeliner, at my smeared lipstick, at my hair, which looks like I’ve run it through a blender.

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