Page 2 of The Night Shift
A lopsided smile tugs at his mouth. He takes my remark as an invitation to take a seat next to me. “That’s too bad.” He puts his hand on my knee. “Only a fool would keep a woman like you waiting.”
I take a deep breath and shove his hand back where it belongs. “You should really ask before you touch a person.”
He laughs like I just told the world’s greatest joke, and scoots closer, repositioning his hand over my back. “Can I get you a drink?”
Un-fucking-believable. “Why? Do you work here?”
Another laugh. “Okay, can I buy you a drink then?”
“I can buy my own drink.”
“So buy me one.”
“Are you really that desperate?”
He laughs again. A sick, sputtering noise like a dying engine. “What’s your name?”
“Ashley.” Another lie.
“Hi, Ashley. I’m Nick.” He brings his hand back to my knee. “What do you do?”
I pry his fingers off my leg and give him the short-story (false) version. “I’m in fashion school.”
“You’re a model?”
“No, I’m studying design.”
“But you could be a model, huh? You’ve definitely got the legs for it.”
I don’t miss the way his gaze lingers a beat too long on the curve of my hip as he slides his barstool a bit closer to me. He offers to buy me a drink and I let him. Not because I want it — I can buy my own — but because it seems easier to say yes than to argue. Maybe if I humor him now, he'll lose interest and move on. A few moments later, the bartender returns with our order, and I’m proved wrong immediately.
For the next twenty minutes, we talk and drink and the entire time the man — I’ve already forgotten his name — keeps his hands on my knee, or my thigh, or on my back, occasionally trying to drape an arm around my shoulder, tugging me towards him. I ask him to stop but he doesn’t. He simply laughs and never stops touching me.
I take a slow sip of my drink, letting the burn of the gin linger on my tongue before swallowing it down.
The bartender from earlier looks over at me and mouths a silent, “you okay?” Our eyes hold for a beat. I nod. She offers mea small, understanding smile. I look away, chug the rest of my martini, and request the check.
“Oh, we’re leaving already?” the man slurs, leaning toward me. I push myself off the bar stool, wobbling on my heels, not realizing how drunk I am until my feet hit the floor.
“Oh, come on,” he gets up with me, “stay. I promise, I’ll be worth your time.”
I doubt it.
“It doesn’t even have to take a long time,” he says, like it’s somehow a good thing. “My place is right around the corner.”
I’ve never felt more optimistic about a decision. “Have a good night.” I start putting on my coat.
He grabs my arm and pulls me back. “I just bought you a sixteen-dollar drink. The least you can do is give me your number. Or a smile.”
My blood turns molten. “I didn’taskyou to buy me the drink,” I grit through my teeth, trying to snatch my hand back. “But thank you for implying that my smile is worth less than sixteen dollars.”
“Is there a problem here?” the bartender asks, her fierce gaze burning a hole in the man’s forehead.
His expression intensifies, changing in a way that reminds me of a four-year-old about to have a tantrum in the toy aisle. Eyes darting between the two of us, he scoffs and releases my arm. He shakes his head at me, then turns the other way and reaches for his drink. “Fucking tease bitch,” he mumbles.
Too wrapped up in the need to get away, I ignore his insult and snag my purse off the counter. I put some bills on the bar and make a direct beeline for the exit. I push open the door and a cool November breeze assaults my lungs. I tug my coat around my green dress, trying to combat the chill. The bar is somewhat of a “hidden gem,” tucked away inside a secluded street near Chinatown so there’s hardly anyone around. My heels clackagainst the pavement and I turn the corner, slipping into a nearby alleyway. It’s a little over ten-thirty p.m. and my feet kinda hurt, so I pull out my phone to call an Uber and — fuck.
It’s dead.
