Page 12 of Mourner for Hire
I register his words and pout.
“Fine,” he relents.
The absence of him between my legs when he walks to the bar makes me feel unusually reckless, but I can tell this is just another day for him, having the new woman in town melt at his feet after a couple of mojitos and a few rounds of pool. It should turn me off, but it doesn’t. I like his smile and the way his honey-colored eyes lighten when he looks at me. I like the sound of his voice and the smell of his skin.
I’m drunk enough to not care—probably drunk enough to beg.
When Dunner comes back with two tumblers, filled to the brim with ice and clear liquid, I take it. The cold condensation drifts over my fingertips as he holds his glass between us.
“To meeting you,” he says.
“Cheers,” I say, clinking his glass. It takes me one sip to realize it’s just water. I toss my head back and laugh. “Am I already that sloppy?”
Dunner laughs, still standing between my legs, a hand shamelessly resting on my thigh. “No, I just make sure to always take care of my customers.”
“You sound like an escort,” I tease.
“You sound like a smart ass,” he says, moving his mouth closer to mine.
“I don’t really want to play pool anymore,” I whisper, our breaths intertwining.
His hands are in my hair now, cradling my head so my lips are tilted toward his, ready for the taking.
“If I kiss you, will you be okay with it?” he asks.
My vision blurs, and my mind spins. It’s always that first sip of water after drinking too much to make you realize how drunk you are.
“Yes,” I pant. Because I don’t care that I’m drunk. Heprobably could have kissed me when my bladder was about to burst, and I would have willingly chosen to wet my pants just so I could get a taste of him. “Please, Dunner. Kiss me.”
And his lips crash into mine. Despite us both being drunk, the kiss isn’t sloppy. It’s thoughtful and passionate. He’s a man who also kisses with his hands, and it makes all of my senses scream. His tongue glides against mine, and my stomach drops and flutters and kicks my need for him into high gear. I tug at his shirt and run my hands over his abs.
“Oh my God, are you real?”
He chuckles against my jaw before sinking his teeth into my neck.
“Ah, vampire shit. I’m into it,” I add with a moan.
A rough laugh trembles out of his mouth and vibrates on the tender skin of my neck. He takes my mouth once more, and I bite his lower lip, sucking and pulling just enough that a low rumble vibrates in the back of his throat. He digs his fingers in my hair, and I whimper, my body betraying me as I inadvertently move closer to his.
We’re on the cusp of this kiss getting very out of hand, and if the room would just stop spinning, I will lead the way into passionate chaos.
He pulls back, staring at me. “I like how you taste.”
I hum, pulling him closer as he kisses my neck again. My head grows even dizzier, and as I try to focus so I can stay in the moment, my gaze catches on the tin analog clock hanging on the wall in a gallery of bar art. It’s probably fourteen inches in diameter and rusted along the edges with worn numbers, except for the six, which is a sun.
I know this clock. A faint, dream-like memory pulls me into it, and I can hear my five-year-old voice asking my mom,Why’s there a sun instead of a six?
Because the sun wakes up at six in the morning to tell us to start our day—she kissed the top of my head—then is done shining at six to tell us it’s time to wind down for the night.
And sing You Are My Sunshine?
Yes, baby, every night.
Before tonight, I didn’t even know that memory of my mother existed. It was buried deep underneath the other lucid memories and coping mechanisms. Somewhere deep in the threads of my mind—under the heartbreak and bruises that now seem fresh and new.
“Are you okay?” Dunner asks, cradling my face with his hands as I stare at the clock on the wall.
“My mom had a clock like that… I think.”
