Page 5 of Finding Haven
Five minutes later, I watch as the blonde woman excuses herself from the table, taking her small purse with her as she walks towards the back of the restaurant where the restrooms are located. Disgust coils deep in the pit of my stomach as I watch the man reach into his pocket, pull out something small grasped between his fingertips, and drop it into her drink.
Abso-fuckin-lutely not.
Men like him are part of the reason why the Legion exists. He doesn’t deserve to be in the presence of the beautiful woman who has so graciously chosen to spend her evening with him. I need to remove him from the premises before his date returns and is put in harm’s way.
Standing, I take a moment to straighten my tie and slowly roll up the sleeves of my shirt, using the time to scan the room and settle my attention on the man. His eyes are wide and locked on the woman’s glass of water, his fingers anxiously tapping on the table as though he’s pleading for the drug to dissolve before his date returns.
“Good evening, Sir,” I say, my voice cold and firm as his head snaps in my direction. Beads of sweat are collecting along his hairline as he sits back in his seat, pulling his hands into his lap.
“Can I help you?” There’s a quiver to his voice as he shifts in his seat. He’s nervous. Unsure. Perhaps this is his first attempt at forcing a woman to do something against her will. The piece of shit probably thinks I’m the restaurant manager here to inquire as to whether or not the service has been satisfactory.
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” Ice laces my tone, slithering into place like a missing puzzle piece.
“That’s bullshit! I haven’t done anything. I’m just waiting for my girl to come back from the restroom,” he stammers, anger masking his clear discomfort.
My lips twitch with a hint of a smirk. “You have sixty seconds to stand up from your seat and vacate the premises before I throw you out on your fucking ass.”
3
Quinn
Idon’tknowwhyI let Becca convince me that going on a date with some random guy from a hookup app was how I should be spending my night. He had seemed nice enough over text, but now I’m pretty sure his charming behavior was just a facade to get me to go out with him.
I reviewed the menu online before arriving and calculated the carbs for my meal to make the night easier. I pre-bolused for my planned appetizers and drink before walking into the hotel restaurant so that the insulin would begin to work its way into my system in the hopes of avoiding any post-meal blood sugar spikes. I wasn’t planning on sticking with water tonight, but the way he keeps encouraging me to order a drink and dragging his gaze over my body feels predatory. He clearly has an expectation about where the night is going, but unfortunately for him, I’m not that kind of girl.
Any kind of intimacy is incredibly personal for me. Letting someone in and allowing them to see all of the chipped and damaged pieces of my mind and body isn’t easy. This guy, Jeremy something, isn’t going to get anywhere near either one.
The conversation between us has been tense and more miserable than all of the injections, pump site changes, and low blood sugars I’ve endured over the last nine years. It’s become downright excruciating,leaving me no choice but to excuse myself to the restroom. For a brief moment, I think about walking right out of the restaurant and leaving the hotel, but I can’t do that to someone. The thought alone almost makes me as uncomfortable as the date that I’m currently suffering through.
I don’t know if this even qualifies as a date. He’s barely told me anything about himself, aside from surface-level nonsense. He’s going to school for his master’s degree, but I don’t remember what he said his major is. Standing in front of the large mirror in the women’s restroom, I take a moment to freshen up my makeup and comb my fingers through my hair. After quickly making sure that I’m the only one in here, I slip my phone from my purse and position my arm just far enough away from my face to capture my nose, lips, neck, and cleavage, but nothing else. I intentionally leave my face cut off to keep my eyes from being in the picture. I don’t carry one of my masks in my purse, though it’s not a terrible idea for when I want to capture more casual selfies for my subscribers.
This date may not be going the way I hoped it would, but the comments from my subscribers on Frisk always lift my spirits. Some are a bit forward and cringeworthy, which is to be expected. For the most part, they always leave me feeling confident and desirable. I’ve never been the type to feel self-conscious about my body, but I still enjoy the compliments. Plus, each new photo I share tends to bring in at least one special content request, giving me the room to explore and learn more about my body and what I’m into. Granted, I don’t accepteveryrequest that comes in because, let’s be real here, some of them are disgusting. But I’m not exactly in a position to be turning down extra cash.
I know I can’t hide out in the restaurant’s bathroom forever, so I slip my phone back into my purse and head back to my date. Only to find an empty table with no evidence that Jeremy had ever been there.
Great. He was the one being an asshole, and somehow, I’m the one who gets ditched.
Heaving a sigh, I head over to the bar and slide onto one of the only empty barstools. Right next to the most devastatingly handsome man I’ve ever seen. His black hair seems like it may have been styled back at some point but is now tousled, a few pieces hanging over his forehead as though he’s been running his hands through it. Even from his side profile, I can tell his cheekbones and jawline are sharply cut, amplified by the clenching of his jaw. His eyes flick in my direction as I situate myself on the seat, and I’m suddenly thankful that I opted for the dark-wash jeans that hug my plentiful curves instead of the skirt I’d been considering. The last thing I need this handsome stranger to see is me struggling to get comfortable as my legs stick to the leather seat.
The bartender approaches me with a kind smile and asks, “What can I get for you?”
“Glass of champagne with a splash of pineapple juice.” I hold out my ID for him to check.
“You got it,” he replies, turning around to make my drink. Champagne has a reputation for being a celebratory drink, but it also has a fairly low carb count. The splash of pineapple juice adds the perfect amount of sweetness, and to be honest, I could use the drink after that disaster of a date.The man beside me makes some sort of non-committal hum as he raises his drink to his lips.
“You look like your night is going about as well as mine,” I tell him, turning to face him with a soft smile. If there is one thing I’m good at, it’s striking up a conversation with random strangers. Even grumpy ones who seem like they’d rather be doing anything else.
“I’ve had better,” he grunts, setting the glass of amber liquid in front of him. He stares down at the glass as though he’s lost in thought. I’m almost certain he’s going to blow me off or get up and leave. It’s not like he’d be the first man to do so tonight. “Your night not going well?” he asks, surprising me.
My night has most definitelynotbeen going well. “You could say that,” I say with a scoff as the bartender sets my drink on a paper coaster in front of me, the light bubbly liquid suddenly calling my name. “Considering my date just up and left after spending the entire time trying to get me to order a drink, I’d say my night can only get better.” I’m not stupid. I’m well aware that Jeremy’s reasoning for wanting me to order a drink was probably malicious.
“You weren’t enjoying yourself?” he asks.
“Not even a little bit,” I tell him honestly, raising the champagne glass to my lips and taking a sip. The sweet and acidic notes of the pineapple juice combining with the bubbles of the champagne bursting on my tongue.
“Then why suffer through it?”
“I mean, I wasn’tsuffering. It just wasn’t what I’d consider a ‘good time.’ I’ve had plenty of nights worse than this one.” I pull my shoulders up in a slow shrug as I set my drink down, slowly swirling my pointer finger around the rim. “What’s making your night not so great?”
