I slid the cloth over the counter, my eyes not bent on my task, but on the man sitting at the end of the bar. His fingers tapped idly against the glass as he took a drag from his cigarette. Six hours. That’s how long he’d been sitting at my bar, sipping bourbon and scanning the patrons.
To the unfamiliar and ignorant, he would have seemed like a sorry waste of space milking the bottle as though it held the answers to all of life’s questions. The problem, I was neither ignorant nor unfamiliar with his type. He reeked of law enforcement, and the question lingering in the back of mind had me distracted. That and the color of his eyes. I hadn’t gotten a decent look at them, since he refused to make eye contact with me.
I watched the remaining patrons pay their tab with the waitress and tossed the rag into the sink. With a nod to her, I turned toward the last man standing…well, sitting.
“Alright, spill it.” I leaned against the bar, staring at him. His shaggy brown hair hung across his face and over his collar. He pushed his hand through it and glanced up. Amber. That’s what color his eyes were. The same color as the whiskey in his glass. Goddamn…they even seemed to shift like liquid. I shook my head. “Well?”
“Sorry, what was that?” he drawled.
Well, southern boys were a dime a dozen in my bar, but this one, his accent pitched him somewhere between the cultured southern gentleman dashed with a hint of Creole and a smidgen of Mississippi River. He certainly wasn’t from around these parts, and now he had my undivided attention.
“What are you doing in my bar?” I asked, but when he stared at me with the most irritatingly innocent expression, I knew the truth. Sliding around the end of the bar, I made my way to his side. He turned to face me, his expression blank, but his eyes darkened noticeably.
“You just looking for an excuse to be alone with me?” I brushed my breast against his arm as I leaned past him and picked up his glass. He licked his lips, and I smiled before sipping the whiskey, savoring the smoky flavor as the alcohol burned my throat. “I’m flattered.” I downed the remaining contents and placed the glass back on the counter. His gaze followed every movement as I rested my hand on his knee.
“Now, answer me honestly—” I slid my hand up the length of his thigh, brushing my fingertips against the bulge in the front of his jeans “—why is a cop sitting in my establishment, monitoring my guests without asking for my permission.” I leaned close, watching his lips twitch. “Or are you heartbroken and hard up?” Bless his heart, he didn’t look away as I stroked him through the denim. Most men would have broken, but he held firm…literally.
“If you don’t stop, I can’t promise I won’t bend you over that table and show you just how hard I am.” He grinned, the movement creasing the lines at the corners of his eyes.
“Tell me why you’re here.” I gripped him harder.
He groaned. “I’m undercover.”
“For who.” I twisted my wrist.
He winced. “Your ex-husband.”
“Figures.” I released him, and he relaxed, taking a deep breath, but not breaking eye contact. “Now, I believe you promised me something…”
I figured I’d have a little fun with today’s post. I always seem to tie in bars and bad boys. I wonder how bad our undercover detective can truly be. Do you think there’s a story here? Thoughts?