Page 12 of My So-Called Perfect Life
I feel like a basketcase, as though I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Deliriously angry one moment and incredibly heartbroken the next.
“Asshole,” I grumble as I take a seat at the bar.
A shot of clear liquid is placed down in front of me as a tall blonde with colorful tattoos covering her arm smiles at me. “Seems like you could use this. It’s on me.”
I glance up and check her name tag. “Thanks, Roxy.”
It doesn’t even cross my mind to ask what’s in the glass before I pick it up and toss it back. The vodka burns like hell as it slides down my throat.
“Another, please.” I nod toward my empty glass. I don’t typically drink vodka because I think it’s gross, but now, it doesn’t matter what I drink as long as it numbs me. “And thanks. How’d you know?”
I watch as the stream of liquid pours from the bottle to the glass, promising to numb my pain soon.
“Most women who come in, mumbling about an asshole, need a shot.”
“Ain’t that the truth?” I agree, raising my now-filled glass in a toast. “Fuckin’ assholes.”
“Food?” she asks, holding up a menu.
I nod. “Please.”
I glance over the menu. The bacon cheddar burger sounds amazing. The only thing is, I don’t want to wait twenty minutes for food. I need it ASAP, especially now that I’ve thrown two shots of vodka into my empty belly.
“Nachos,” I order as Roxy comes back down the bar.
“Coming right up.”
I look around the bar, and it’s pretty nice. The L-shaped bar top has a decent number of patrons sitting at it. Roxy talks to most of them as she flits around, refilling drinks and chatting.
The place itself has a rustic yet modern design to it. Everything is wood and metal, except for the mirror behind the bar, framed by what has to be about a hundred bottles of liquor. One TV is showing the baseball game, and the other is set on an episode ofFriends. I’m not sure why though. It’s not like anyone can actually follow a TV show in a bar.
A plate of nachos is placed in front of me, pulling my attention back from the televisions.
“Hey there Rocky. You’d better get some ice on that hand.”
“What?” I look up to find an attractive man behind the bar looking at my red swollen knuckles.
He holds out his palm. “Can I check it out for you?”
I put my hand in his. He asks me to bend and flex my fingers. Pain jolts down my arm. It hurts so bad I can feel it in my teeth. I wince and pull my hand back.
“Well, it’s not broken, but it’s going to hurt for a few days,” he says. “Let me get you some ice.”
I have no business checking out this broad-shouldered, tattooed, five o’clock–shadowed man who screams of a good night and zero commitment, but I do anyway.
Scott is the quintessential boy next door. He is good-looking in the classic Kennedy-esque way. He wears Dockers and a tie to work every day. He opens doors. Makes reservations. He did all the little things women are supposed to swoon over. But even he couldn’t keep it in his pants.
I wonder how many side pieces this guy has with his bulging arm muscles, colorful dragon tattoo covering his arm, and husky bedroom voice.
He returns with a bar towel full of ice, as promised. He gently places it on the top of my hand. “Keep this on for no longer than twenty minutes. Then leave it off for an hour. Then ice for another twenty. Keep it up for the next day or two.”
My eyes glaze over. Too many numbers after too many shots. The ice slips off my hand as I compare my right hand to my left. “Are you a doctor or something?”
“Nope,” he replies. “Just a guy behind a bar who’s seen his fair share of busted-up hands after bar fights.”
I try wiggling my fingers again but stop as soon as I start. “Damn, that hurts.”
He puts the ice back on my hand. “Ice. Now. Trust me, you’ll thank me tomorrow.”
