Page 5 of Playboy Pitcher
“So, are you going to tell me the truth?”
Staring into my empty glass, I swallow the bitter words sitting on my tongue with a shrug. “You got me. I’m a rock star.”
Smirking, he fist-pumps the air. “And he’s back to level two, ladies and gentlemen.”
God, he’s an arrogant bastard.Still, I can’t stop my lip from twitching, and I quickly turn my head to stifle a giggle.
Back the fuck up.
What the hell just happened? Did a blood vessel pop in my brain? Where’s the guarded cynic who walked in here? One hour in Ben’s presence, and suddenly I’m waxing poetic, spilling half-truths, and shooting battery acid?
I close my eyes in an attempt to unfuck whatever this guy did to my head, when I feel his fingers on my chest. Primed for a fight, I open them to find him removing a stray napkin still stuck to my collarbone.
Oh.
Balling it in his hand, he tosses it onto the bar. “Okay, Puddles, stay mysterious if that’s what you want.”
“What I want is for you to…” My words trail off. “Did you just call me Puddles?”
“What? A random waitress can call you pet names, but not me?” He clutches at his heart again. “You wound me, woman.”
“Game in peril, Ben,” I warn him, avoiding his stare by turning the shot glass on its side and rolling it back and forth. Another silence falls between us, and I find myself searching for something to say to keep him talking.
Before I can come up with anything, Ben glances over my shoulder and nods toward the windows. “Looks like the storm has passed.”
I turn slowly, my shoulders sagging. He’s right. There’s nothing but miles of clear night sky. “Oh.”
Oh.It’s all I can say because my brain is too busy crafting feeble excuses not to leave.
I have a cramp in my foot.
I could catch a cold.
I could get eaten by an alligator.
Ben clears his throat. “You know, these things are always unpredictable. You should probably give it another half hour just to be sure.” That silky sandpaper voice forces me to turn back around just so those damn blue eyes can ensnare me in a hold I can’t break.
“Yeah,” I agree on a breathy exhale. “You might be right.”
That sexy smile curves his lips, and even though the black cloud that drove me in here still hangs over my head, my self-control starts to crack. Three shots later, that crack becomes a canyon, and my mouth thinks it’s open mic night at the Truth Cafe.
“So, what do you do in New York City?” he asks, cocking his chin.
I grin up at him while swaying in my chair. “You mean besides chasing my promising rock star career?”
Laughing, he bumps my shoulder. “I’m serious.”
If I were sober, there’s no way I’d consider answering this question. However,in vino veritas,and a Kick in The Balls shall set you free.
Yeah, I’m definitely drunk.
“I’m an artist,” I blurt out.
Ben arches an eyebrow. “An artist, huh? Not in my top three guesses, but not surprising. Is your work displayed in a gallery in Manhattan?”
“More like a parlor.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
