Page 14 of Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

Though the veranda looks full, that’s where I’m headed. Drinks on a veranda to people-watch the night away. Alone without being alone.

Inside, there’s a considerable line at the hostess station, but seeing as I’m a single, the hostess leads me to the bar outside straight away.

They’ve furnished the stools in a high back husky gray. Rounded metal backs and comfortable, stylish cushions in a vinyl rather than leather, which wouldn’t stand up to the weather.

To smell the fresh sea air, I’m not sure how my mother ever left here for the overpopulated likes of the big city. If Chicago is the Windy City, then Smithfield is the sultry, balmy, breezy town. That might be a long moniker, but it fits.

Smithfield. Perfect in its simplicity.

“What can I get you?” The bartender, a woman about my age, asks. Pretty, brown skin. Long fingernails painted red to match her lips.

“I’ll have a Sea Breeze.” Because that’s not what the old me would order. I’m done with whiskey or beer, at least for the time being. Whiskey and beer are too serious. A Sea Breeze, the restaurant’s signature drink, now that’s a drink for the new me. Lighthearted and carefree. I deserve lighthearted and carefree.

“Good choice. Coming right up.”

Resting my elbows on the bar, I watch as she pulls a glass from under the counter and fills it with ice. She pours the vodka and cranberry juice, then tops it with a splash of grapefruit juice. Before sliding it across the bar top, she garnishes the drink with a slice of grapefruit and sends it off with a wink.

Saluting her skills with the drink raised in one hand, I slide her over the money with the other. Smitty cuts me a paycheck for the purpose of record keeping, but always cashes it with petty cash for me, since I don’t want to open a bank account. Accounts can be tracked. I don’t offer the why and he doesn’t ask. It’s why we work so well together.

“Keep the change,” I tell her. It’s a good tip for a place like this. Since I have to drive home, starting a tab is out of the question.

As I bring the straw up to my lips, a man in an expensive-looking suit slides effortlessly into the seat next to mine. He’s quite handsome. Hair a stylishly cut dark chocolate, with a full, trimmed beard to match. Eyes a seafoam green, so pure, if it weren’t for his glasses, I’d swear he wore color contacts. Eyes are the first thing I notice about any man. I guess because Gage has such startlingly blue eyes, so soulful and loving. I rate their attractiveness on a scale ranging from Chunk, a bully of mine growing up, to Gage. This guy falls closer to Gage, but I’ve yet to meet a man to surpass him.

“What can I getyou?” The bartender asks him the same question.

“Whiskey. Straight,” he answers. “And—” He turns to me. “Another of whatever she’s having, for the lady.”

“No thank you,” I refuse politely, watching the bartender fill his glass and slide it over to rest in front of him. Then I blink, and swallow. “I have a drink.”

“Yes, but it’s halfway gone.” He has that eyebrow lift that all deliriously good-looking men perfect by the time they graduate from deliriously good-looking man school.

“Thank you, but I’m fully aware of the implications society places on me accepting that drink. I’m in a very committed relationship, so I won’t be sleeping with you tonight.”

“So you’re in a relationship,” he repeats.

I nod and sip some more of my drink.

“Committed, you say?” The man lifts his glass and sniffs the amber liquid before lowering it to his lips to drink but not drinking, never in that whole transaction, taking his eyes off of me.

“Very,” I agree.

“Then where is he? Why would he let you out to a bar alone?” It’s almost predatory, the way he holds that drink, still not having taken the first sip, leaning heavy on his elbow resting against the bar top as accuses me of… Of what, I’m not even sure.

“He doesn’tlet medo anything. I’m a fully capable adult and can make my own decisions. But he’s working, if you must know.”

“Working.” The man repeats my word again. I don’t like how he continues to repeat everything I say.

“Yes, not everyone has a nine to five.”

“Touché. Listen, I’m new in town and am just out to get to know people.”

“Well, I didn’t see you walking over to that table—” I point to a table full of men in the opposite corner. “Before you slid in next to me.”

“So you watched me, then. Promising.”

“No. I already told you. I’m in a committed relationship.”

“Very. I’m Michael, by the way.” He holds his hand out for me to shake. I’m hesitant, but go ahead and shake it anyway. What could it hurt?

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