Beautiful Stranger
Page 64
“You’re pissed?”
Her brows pinched together for a brief pulse and then smoothed as she smiled. “British for drunk? Yeah, I’m tipsy.” She stood on her toes then . . . and kissed me.
Holy. Fuck.
Beside me, Richie chimed in. “What the . . . Max. There’s a girl on your face.”
Sara pulled back and her eyes widened in realization. “Oh, crap.”
“Calm down,” I told her quietly. “No one here gives a f**k who we are. They hardly remember my name every week.”
“Patently untrue,” Richie said. “Your name is Twat.”
I tilted my head to him, smiling at Sara. “Like I said.”
She held out her hand and gave Richie her wide-eyed smile. “I’m Sara.”
He took her hand and shook it. I could see the moment he really looked at her and registered how ridiculously pretty she was. He immediately checked out her chest. “ ’m Richie,” he mumbled.
“Nice to meet you, Richie.”
He looked at me, eyes narrowed. “How the f**k you land that one?”
“No idea.” I pulled her closer, ignoring her mild protest that I was going to get her dress dirty. But then she wiggled free and turned to Derek, on my other side.
“I’m Sara.”
Derek put his beer down and wiped a grimy hand across his mouth. “Fuck yeah you are.”
“Sara’s with me,” I muttered.
And like this, Tipsy Sara worked her way down the bar, introducing herself to every single one of my mates. In her, I saw the politician’s wife she’d almost been, but even more than that, I saw that Sara was just a really f**king sweet girl.
When she returned to me, she kissed my cheek and whispered, “Your friends are nice. Thanks for inviting me.”
“Yeah, sure.” I lost my ability to form coherent thoughts. Almost nothing in my life made me feel the way she was making me feel—so bloody good. I wasn’t full of self-loathing, but I’d been a bit of a slut, worked in investments that, let’s be honest, relied on people losing money as much as others making it, and I’d fostered few deep connections since I’d been stateside. My closest friend was Will and most of the time we just called each other names that were all variations on the word pu**y.
Tell her, you dick. Pull her to the other side of the room, give her a good snog, and tell her you love her.
“Take this old blues shite off the speaker, Maddie,” Derek yelled across the bar.
And just as I was about to touch Sara’s elbow, ask her to come talk to me, she straightened. “This isn’t blues,” she said.
Derek turned around, eyebrows raised.
“It’s not. It’s Eddie Cochran. It’s rockabilly,” she said, but under his continued inspection she seemed to shrink a little. “They aren’t the same at all.”
“You know how to dance to this rubbish?” he asked her, looking her up and down again.
To my surprise, Sara laughed. “Are you asking?”
“Fuck no, I—”
But before he could finish his sentence, she’d jerked him to his feet, and all 115 pounds of her was dragging his enormous frame to the dance floor.
“My mom is from Texas,” she said, eyes sparkling. “Try to keep up.”
“You’re kidding,” he said, looking over at us. The entire bar full of Brits had stopped talking and was watching them with interest.
“Go on!” I yelled.
“Don’t be a pu**y, Der,” Maddie yelled, and everyone began clapping. She turned up the music. “Give us a show.”
Sara’s smile grew, and she placed his hand on her shoulder, shaking her head when he protested. “It’s the traditional pose. You put one hand on my back, the other on my shoulder.”
And while we watched, Sara showed Big Derek how to do a dance across the floor: two quick steps, two slow steps. She demonstrated how he was to quickly spin her counterclockwise around the room. Within one song, they were moving pretty good, and by the middle of the second, they were both cracking up, dancing together like they’d known each other for years.
Maybe that’s what it was about Sara. Anyone who met her wanted to know her. She wasn’t just appealingly sweet to me, with her innocence pushing through even given her basest fantasies. She was irresistible to everyone.
And in that moment, there was nothing I wanted to do more than punch Andy’s smug f**king face. He’d wasted his time with her, wasted her.
I stood, moved to the dance floor, and cut in. “My turn.”
Her brows pinched together for a brief pulse and then smoothed as she smiled. “British for drunk? Yeah, I’m tipsy.” She stood on her toes then . . . and kissed me.
Holy. Fuck.
Beside me, Richie chimed in. “What the . . . Max. There’s a girl on your face.”
Sara pulled back and her eyes widened in realization. “Oh, crap.”
“Calm down,” I told her quietly. “No one here gives a f**k who we are. They hardly remember my name every week.”
“Patently untrue,” Richie said. “Your name is Twat.”
I tilted my head to him, smiling at Sara. “Like I said.”
She held out her hand and gave Richie her wide-eyed smile. “I’m Sara.”
He took her hand and shook it. I could see the moment he really looked at her and registered how ridiculously pretty she was. He immediately checked out her chest. “ ’m Richie,” he mumbled.
“Nice to meet you, Richie.”
He looked at me, eyes narrowed. “How the f**k you land that one?”
“No idea.” I pulled her closer, ignoring her mild protest that I was going to get her dress dirty. But then she wiggled free and turned to Derek, on my other side.
“I’m Sara.”
Derek put his beer down and wiped a grimy hand across his mouth. “Fuck yeah you are.”
“Sara’s with me,” I muttered.
And like this, Tipsy Sara worked her way down the bar, introducing herself to every single one of my mates. In her, I saw the politician’s wife she’d almost been, but even more than that, I saw that Sara was just a really f**king sweet girl.
When she returned to me, she kissed my cheek and whispered, “Your friends are nice. Thanks for inviting me.”
“Yeah, sure.” I lost my ability to form coherent thoughts. Almost nothing in my life made me feel the way she was making me feel—so bloody good. I wasn’t full of self-loathing, but I’d been a bit of a slut, worked in investments that, let’s be honest, relied on people losing money as much as others making it, and I’d fostered few deep connections since I’d been stateside. My closest friend was Will and most of the time we just called each other names that were all variations on the word pu**y.
Tell her, you dick. Pull her to the other side of the room, give her a good snog, and tell her you love her.
“Take this old blues shite off the speaker, Maddie,” Derek yelled across the bar.
And just as I was about to touch Sara’s elbow, ask her to come talk to me, she straightened. “This isn’t blues,” she said.
Derek turned around, eyebrows raised.
“It’s not. It’s Eddie Cochran. It’s rockabilly,” she said, but under his continued inspection she seemed to shrink a little. “They aren’t the same at all.”
“You know how to dance to this rubbish?” he asked her, looking her up and down again.
To my surprise, Sara laughed. “Are you asking?”
“Fuck no, I—”
But before he could finish his sentence, she’d jerked him to his feet, and all 115 pounds of her was dragging his enormous frame to the dance floor.
“My mom is from Texas,” she said, eyes sparkling. “Try to keep up.”
“You’re kidding,” he said, looking over at us. The entire bar full of Brits had stopped talking and was watching them with interest.
“Go on!” I yelled.
“Don’t be a pu**y, Der,” Maddie yelled, and everyone began clapping. She turned up the music. “Give us a show.”
Sara’s smile grew, and she placed his hand on her shoulder, shaking her head when he protested. “It’s the traditional pose. You put one hand on my back, the other on my shoulder.”
And while we watched, Sara showed Big Derek how to do a dance across the floor: two quick steps, two slow steps. She demonstrated how he was to quickly spin her counterclockwise around the room. Within one song, they were moving pretty good, and by the middle of the second, they were both cracking up, dancing together like they’d known each other for years.
Maybe that’s what it was about Sara. Anyone who met her wanted to know her. She wasn’t just appealingly sweet to me, with her innocence pushing through even given her basest fantasies. She was irresistible to everyone.
And in that moment, there was nothing I wanted to do more than punch Andy’s smug f**king face. He’d wasted his time with her, wasted her.
I stood, moved to the dance floor, and cut in. “My turn.”
