Pen Pal

He notices me right away. He was about to take a drink, but freezes with his glass of beer halfway to his mouth.

It’s too late to pretend I didn’t see him. So I send him a curt nod and walk over to the bar. I slide onto a stool and look in the opposite direction, examining the décor.

A lighted mirror behind the bar displays shelves of liquor. Red leather booths line one end of the room and the opposite wall. At the other end of the room, a pool table is brightly lit from above with a lamp bearing the Budweiser logo. The rest of the place is dark and smells like stale beer, french fries, and tobacco.

It could be any bar anywhere on the planet.

I find the ordinariness of it oddly comforting.

“What’ll you have?”

The bartender, a bespectacled hipster wearing suspenders with jeans and a knitted black beanie on his head, looks all of eighteen years old. It makes me feel ancient, and I hate him for it.

“Johnnie Walker Blue,” I tell him. “Three fingers. Neat.”

“Nice,” he says, nodding. As if I give a shit about his opinion.

Calm down, Kayla. He’s just doing his job. I send him a weak smile to make up for my unkind thoughts. He gives me a look like he’s worried I might be hitting on him, and quickly spins away, reaching for a bottle.

I prop my elbows on the bar, drop my head into my hands, and sigh.

From beside me, a low voice says, “You okay?”

My heart sinks. I don’t bother looking over. I already know who it is. “That’s the third time you’ve asked me that, Mr. Leighrite.”

“And that’s the fifth time you’ve called me by my father’s name. I didn’t like my father. Which is why I keep asking you to call me Aidan.”

When I lift my head and look at him, he’s leaning on the bar, gazing down at me with those dark eyes. His expression is serious, bordering on intense, but I don’t think it’s about the name thing.

I think he’s worried about me.

That makes two of us.

“I apologize.”

“Accepted,” he says instantly. “What are you doing here?”

The hipster bartender sets my drink in front of me, then walks off to take care of another customer. I pick up the glass and hold it aloft. “Enjoying some exceptional Scottish whisky.”

“Without your husband?”

I freeze. Then I remember how to breathe and take a swig of scotch. “How observant you are.”

He gazes at my profile with such unwavering focus, I want to ask him if he’s trying to memorize it so he can pick me out of a police lineup.

Then he slides onto the stool next to me.

Shit.

“No need to make that face. I don’t bite.”

“I’m not making any face. And the biting thing is debatable.”

“You don’t like me very much, do you?”

I exhale heavily, then take another swig of scotch. “This will sound cliché, but it’s not you. It’s me.”

“You’re right. It does sound cliché.”

“If I told you the reason, you’d understand.”

“So tell me the reason.”

He sits facing me with his thighs spread open so one of his legs is on either side of my stool. I’m not trapped—I can turn the other way on the stool and hop off—but somehow, it feels as if I am.

I look at him from the corner of my eye. He’s in a black T-shirt and black leather jacket tonight, with jeans to match. Even his boots are black. He looks more like the founder of an underground fight club than ever.

“I…I’m going through kind of a rough time.”

“Your house,” he prompts.

I get the feeling he knows my rough time has nothing to do with my house. He just wants me to keep talking. I clear my throat, lick my lips, and debate how much to tell him.

“It’s more personal than that.”

A couple takes the two stools to my left. They’re laughing and talking about the movie they’ve just seen. The man slings an arm casually around the woman’s shoulders, pulling her in for a kiss. Watching them, I’m shot through the heart with an arrow of anguish.

The kiss. The companionship. The simple joy of being with someone you love, sharing a laugh and a drink.

Thinking you have all the time in the world until, out of nowhere, that clock stops ticking.

My throat closes. My eyes sting. I stand abruptly and set down my drink. In a strangled voice, I say, “I have to go.”

Without a word, Aidan picks up my glass, takes me gently by the arm, and steers me away toward the booth he was sitting at in the corner.

Struggling not to cry, I let him lead me over to it. I sit first. Instead of sitting across from me, he slides in beside me.

When I stiffen, he says, “You can cry if you need to. Nobody can see you from here.”

He’s right. His bulk blocks out the rest of the bar. It’s just the two of us, facing the wall with a framed copy of Dogs Playing Poker hanging on it.

I slouch down, lean my head back against the booth, and press my fingertips into my eye sockets.

We sit there like that for what seems like a long time, the jukebox playing in the background and the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses in the air. Eventually, I hear the sound of a glass sliding over the tabletop toward me.

“Whisky will help. For a while, anyway.”

I peek through my fingers. The glass of Johnnie Walker Blue sits on the table in front of me. To my left, Aidan gazes down at me with hooded eyes.

I whisper, “Thank you,” and lift the glass, draining it in one go.

Aidan grunts. I don’t know if it’s in approval or disapproval, and I don’t fucking care either way.

He catches the bartender’s eye, lifts two fingers, and motions for another round. Hipster boy nods, acknowledging him.

We don’t speak again until our drinks have been delivered and the bartender has gone on his way.

Aidan says in a low voice, “He hurting you? Smacking you around?”

I know who he means by “he,” and I almost laugh at that. Michael was the least aggressive person on the planet. He couldn’t even watch a boxing match because the violence would upset him so much.

“No.”

Aidan’s silence seems doubtful.

I know I don’t owe this guy any explanation, but he’s being kind to me, and he’s obviously concerned, so I reluctantly tell him a half truth.

“He…left me.”

“You’re separated?”

That’s one way of putting it. “Yes.”

He takes a long draw of his beer, then swallows and sets the glass down. “Never married, myself. Can’t see the point to it.”

“You’d see the point if you’d ever been in love.”

“You say that like you think I haven’t.”

“Have you?”

He takes another swig of beer. Licking his lips, he gazes at me.

“No.”

“Then you don’t know what you’re missing.”

His gaze grows penetrating. “Yeah, it looks like all kinds of fun.”

That stings. I break eye contact and sip from the new glass of whiskey. “It’s worth it. No matter how bad it can get, no matter if it all falls apart in the end, it’s worth every minute.”

“Even when you wind up crying in a bar next to a stranger?”

“Yes. And I’m not crying. And technically, you’re not a stranger.”

He huffs out a breath through his nose that might be a laugh. “Okay. I’ll take your word for it.”

He throws his head back and drains the rest of his beer. I drink more of my whiskey and fiddle with my wedding band, twisting it around my ring finger with my thumb. Aidan notices.

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

“It would be great if you didn’t.”

Ignoring that, he says, “Do you find me attractive?”

My breath catches. My heartbeat takes off at a gallop. I set the glass down on the table and say carefully, “I’m married.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“Aidan—”

“Because I think you’re beautiful. Sad, a little bitchy, but fucking beautiful. I want you to come home with me tonight.”

Floored, I gape at him. “What?”

He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t respond. He simply stares right into my eyes and waits.

I rip my gaze away from his and fix it on the framed copy of Dogs Playing Poker while I struggle to get my breathing under control. “I don’t sleep with strangers.”

“You just said I wasn’t a stranger.”

“Fine. I don’t sleep with recent acquaintances, either.”

“Look at me.”

“I’d rather not.”

He takes my chin in his hand and turns my head so I’m staring into his eyes.

“Do you find me attractive?”

My body erupts into flames. I swallow nervously, then say, “No.”

“Right. Let’s try that again. And this time, be honest with me. Do you find me attractive?”

I pull my lower lip between my teeth and chew on it. His gaze drops to my mouth, then moves back up to my eyes.

Keeping his hand on my chin, he says gruffly, “That’s what I thought. So come home with me. Let me make love to you. You need it.”

I pull away and cover my eyes with a hand. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

“Nobody’s ever told you they wanted to fuck you before?”

My face is so hot, it feels sunburned. My ears, too. “I should get going.”

“Don’t run away.”

“That’s usually what people do when they’re scared.”

“You’re not scared of me. You’re just surprised. They’re two different things.”

“How would you know if I’m scared or not? You don’t even know me!”

“I know enough.”

I choke out an astonished laugh. “Goddamn, you’re really sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

“Look at me, Kayla.”

“I can’t. I might melt into a flaming puddle of embarrassment.”

“You shouldn’t be embarrassed that you want to fuck me.”

“Oh my God! Will you listen to yourself?”

He pulls my hand from my face and doesn’t let go of it. He cups his other hand around my cheek and gently turns my head toward him.

When I’m looking at him, he says, “You said you were a good BS spotter. So tell me if you think this is BS. I want you. You want me, too. You’re sad. I want to make you feel better, even if that only means for tonight. You’re not afraid of me. You know I won’t hurt you. You’re just a little fucked up right now, you’re not used to people saying exactly what they mean, and you’re not sure how to handle it.”

His gaze drops to my mouth again. His voice comes out husky. “And you want me to kiss you.”

My heart pounding painfully hard, I say faintly, “You’re insane, is that it? You’re a crazy person.”

“You know I’m not.”

“I can honestly say I don’t even know my own name right now.”

“It’s Kayla,” he says softly, then leans in and presses his lips against mine.

It’s barely a kiss. There’s no tongue. There’s hardly any pressure. It’s only the slightest brush of his mouth over mine, then it’s over.

And I’m gasping.

Shaking and gasping for air, because my lungs are being squeezed in a vise and every drop of adrenaline my body can produce has flooded my bloodstream.

That non-kiss was electric.

Staring deep into my eyes, he whispers, “You want another one?”

I pause to take a ragged breath as he watches me from inches away, his eyes feral. “I’m not sure. I’m feeling overwhelmed. My brain isn’t working right, so I can’t really give you an honest yes or no.”

“Okay,” he says, lightly stroking his thumb back and forth over my cheekbone. “You let me know when you decide.”

Then he withdraws and motions to the bartender for another round of drinks.

I almost collapse facedown onto the table, but manage to control myself. I take a gulp of whiskey and let out a heavy, uneven breath. “I won’t be able to drive home if I have any more to drink. Or is that your plan?”

“My plan is to get you naked and find out how you sound when you come.”

“Holy…”

“I don’t want you drunk, though. I want you to remember everything so you come back for more.”

“You sound confident that I would.”

“I am. And you will.”

I shake my head in disbelief. “It must be fantastic to go through life with such self-confidence.”

“It is. I want to kiss you again.”

“Can you please give me a minute to regain my footing? I feel like someone just pushed me off a cliff.”

“You’re fine.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you don’t want to cry anymore.”

I think about that. “You’re right. I don’t.”

“You’re welcome.”

He’s bizarrely self-confident, but I have to admit, he’s not cocky. There’s no arrogance in the way he speaks. It’s as if he’s simply stating facts, then letting me decide how I want to react to them.

I don’t know if his straightforwardness is refreshing or weird.

He’s right about one thing, though. I’m not afraid of him. He’s not what you’d call normal, at least in terms of my experience with men, but he only makes me nervous, not afraid.

I think the nervousness could also be described as turned on, but I’m not ready to think about that yet.

I ask, “Would it be okay if we sat across from each other?”

“Sure. Any particular reason why?”

“I’m finding your presence a little overpowering.”

He chuckles. “I’ll move, but I’m just gonna give you a heads-up that I’ll still be overpowering across the table.”

“That’s probably true.”

“Plus, you’ll be forced to look at me. This way, you can avoid my eyes and stare at that ugly painting all you want.”

That makes me smile. “You’re an interesting guy, Aidan, I’ll give you that.”

“Thank you. I think you’re interesting, too.” His voice drops. “Those eyes of yours are fucking amazing.”

My cheeks and ears grow hot again. The heat burns even hotter when he adds, “I want those eyes open when you come for me.”

My mouth goes dry. I have to take another sip of whiskey before I can speak again. “Not that I’m saying I’m going to sleep with you, because I’m not, but just for the sake of conversation, you should know that I’m a lights-out kind of girl.”

“Not with me, you’re not.”

I shake my head in disbelief. “I really can’t believe this.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because conversations like this don’t happen in real life.”

“Just because you haven’t had them before doesn’t mean they don’t happen.”

He keeps making all these very good points, which is highly irritating. “Are all bachelors nowadays so…”

“What?”

“I’m searching for a word.”

“Blunt?”

“Explicit is closer to what I’m thinking.”

His chuckle is low and dangerous. “You haven’t heard explicit yet, Kayla.”

I finally tear my gaze away from the wall in front of me and turn to look at him. His eyes are warm and so is his expression, but I shiver anyway.

I say firmly, “I’m not having sex with you.”

“Okay.”

“I’m serious, Aidan. I’m not in the right head space to be hooking up with anyone right now.”

“I hear you.”

I narrow my eyes and examine his expression. “Why does that sound like you still think I’m going to sleep with you?”

“Because I do. But I could be wrong. It happens.”

We stare at each other for a moment, until he says softly, “I hope I’m not, though. I really want to make you come.”

I don’t understand how he manages to be completely inappropriate and also ridiculously appealing. Whatever this sorcery is, I need to get away from it before I do something stupid.

“I’m going home now. It’s been an interesting conversation, one I won’t forget for a long time.”

His gaze drops to my mouth. With obvious regret, he says, “I won’t forget it, either.”

He glances back up to meet my gaze. “But if you change your mind, I live right upstairs, over the bar. I’m home every night after six, and I’m up until after midnight. If you come later than that, you might have to knock a little louder, because I sleep like the dead.”

“I’m not going to knock on your door, Aidan.”

“Okay.”

“Please stop saying that. You make the word sound nothing at all like what it means.”

His lips curve upward. His dark eyes dance with a mischievous light. He murmurs, “Whatever you say, boss,” and it sounds like he thinks he knows me better than I do.

Then he stands and gestures toward the door. “Have yourself a good evening.”

I dig in my back pocket for cash, which I set on the table. Aidan looks at me like I just stomped on his big toe.

“Don’t do that,” he says.

“Pay for my drinks?”

“Make it transactional.”

“I’m being fair.”

“You’re being emasculating.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Yeah? You a man?”

I send him a sour look. “Not the last time I checked.”

“Then you don’t know what’s emasculating. Keep your money.”

With perfect timing, hipster boy arrives with our round of drinks. It feels like Aidan ordered them a century ago. Before he can set them down, I stand.

I tell Aidan, “If we were on a date, I’d let you pay for my drinks. But I fired you, and this isn’t a date, so I’m paying. It was nice to see you again.” I pause. “I’m searching for a more accurate word than nice, but nothing comes to mind.”

The hipster sets the drinks on the table and says, “Baffling. Bewildering. Disorienting. Strange.”

He looks back and forth between us, then turns around and leaves again.

Gazing at me with burning intensity, Aidan says, “Always liked that kid.”

“Goodbye, Aidan.”

“Good night, Kayla.”

I know the difference in our farewells is deliberate on his part, but with nothing else to say, I turn and walk out.