Page 84 of The Match Faker
“I didn’t know how to explain everything to him,” I say simply. “I’m sorry.”
Under the overhead lights, the bar is cast in strange shadows. The graffiti wall looks harsh instead of cool, the mirror behind the bar revealing its cracks and water damage. Nick is strangest of all. His eyes a little wild, not a smart-ass smirk or grin in sight.
“I didn’t take it,” he says. “The loan.”
“What?” I will not cry, even though I want to. He was close, so close to his dream. “Why not?”
He lowers his head, gives it a shake. Sniffs, like maybe he’s also doing his best not to cry. “I couldn’t take his money, Jasmine. Not like that. Not when it wasn’t…”
Real.
He pulls a bottle down from the shelf and pours himself a finger’s worth of amber liquid. Staring into the glass, he gives it a swirl then tips it back and swallows half of it. “I talked to Bernie and Rocco. We thought about pooling our money, going in together, but…”
“It’s still not enough?”
He nods, gaze averted, but devastated. So, I go to him, take the glass from his hand, bring it to my lips.
“I’d have poured you some,” he says, focus fixed on my mouth as I drink. “But it’s not cab sauv.”
The whiskey is smoky, spicy, a bit harsh.
“I can handle it.” I hand him back the empty glass, relish the alcohol’s burn.
His gaze is warm, as warm as the whiskey and his hand on my hip. He leans in close, his lips shine. I want to make him shine with more than just whiskey.
“I should go,” I whisper. He closes his eyes, drops his forehead to mine. His erection presses into my stomach, hot and insistent. “Down boy.” Even to my own ears, I’m not believable.
A smile spreads across his face, wolfish. So very Nick.
“Stay,” he says. “A little longer.”
“I…” Can’t think of a reason not to. Actually, I can think of many reasons not to. They’re just not very convincing. “I really should go,” I say, a last-ditch effort. The words tremble in my throat.
Nick leans close, and I can already taste him, the whiskey on his lips. “So, he took you out for dinner?”
“Yes.” I close my eyes in a fruitless attempt to hide my arousal and the shame that comes with it that I can’t disentangle.
His fingers drift down my front, tugging at the buttons on my coat. “You wear this for him?” he asks, the faintest mocking in his voice.
Nick opens my coat, his fingers linger where the hem of my sweaterdress meets the thigh-high boots, long enough only to feel the brush of his skin on mine, then he pushes the coat off my shoulders.
“Nick, what thefuck—” I hiss at him, bending to grab my coat from the sticky, dirty bar floor.
He beats me to it. “I already mopped,” he mutters, folding the heavy fabric over his arm and draping it over the bar. Despite still being fully clothed, I’m suddenly vulnerable. I grab hisforearms, a crutch, a buffer, but he turns me in his arms to face the long mirror against the back wall of the bar.
The floor behind the bar is spotless as well, the counters and cupboards wiped. The garbage changed. The air smells faintly of whatever lemon-scented cleaner he uses and him. Each bottle has been returned to its place, the taps cleaned and plugged, the ice drained. It’s as clean as a dive bar can get.
In the mirror, we’re distorted, made worse by the low light. Because it’s Saturday night on King Street West, the shouts and laughter of people still outside despite the cold and the late hour drift in from outside, but behind the bar is our own little haven.
The mirror is set higher on the wall than the one we stood in front of at his childhood home, cutting off my view of us below my waist, but I don’t need to see what he does next. His hands return to my thighs, fingers curling into the dress, nails scraping gently. “You wore this?” he asks, his voice husky. “For him?”
Again, I can’t look. I lean my head back against his shoulder, keep my eyes shut. “Yes.” Then, quickly, “No.” I meet his gaze in the reflection. “I wore it for me.”
It’s far more daring than my usual style, but I felt—feel—good in it. Sexy. And I don’t feel bad about wanting to feel that way, either.
“Yeah,” he says, more an exhale than a sound. His chin bobs against my shoulder as he nods. “Yeah, you did.” He drags his thumb against my lower lip and it’s easy, it’s nothing to open my mouth, taste him, answer him with the drag of my teeth against his skin. He hisses when I bite too hard, pressing his cock against my ass.
Slowly, he pulls the hem of my sweaterdress up, higher and higher. He watches with me, over my shoulder, stopping only when the white of my panties is visible.