Page 5 of Good For Me

Jas

My uncle’s bar is the last place on earth I want to be right now. Hell, I don’t even want to be in our apartment upstairs, where the sounds of music and laughter never quite fade away until well after last call.

But I haven’t updated the deposit book in days and if I don’t do it tonight, the numbers are going to be messed up for next week, too. So even though my head is pounding and my stomach is roiling, I park my ass in my usual seat in the back and get to work.

But first I make the mistake of glancing over at the bar. Stupid, stupid girl.

There’s another reason why I don’t want to be here, and he’s currently walking right in my direction, his icy blue eyes locked on me.

Damn it. I really should ask my uncle for the bartender schedule before I just stop in.

Maybe you would do that if you actually didn’t want to see him,a nasty voice in my head says.

River Ransome is gorgeous. That’s just an objective fact. Those damn blue eyes. I’ve never really had a thing for guys with blond hair, but River’s is unique—so blonde it’s nearly white. And he wears it all messy and longish, like he just rolled out of bed that way and somehow still looks that good. He’s tall and lanky, but surprisingly cut when he lifts his shirt to wipe sweat from his face after hauling kegs back from the loading bay. Not that I’ve ever looked, of course.

Okay, I totally look. But I don’t, like, try to make it a point to be here on delivery days. Not very often, at least.

I’m so ridiculous.

But the worst part isn’t his looks. There are lots of pretty men here in Los Angeles and a lot of them work in places just like this while they wait for their modeling/acting/music career to take off. No, the real draw of River Ransome is the way he looks at me. There’s so much intensity in his eyes whenever I catch them on me—and I always seem to catch them on me. He looks at me like he’s trying to figure out all the secrets of the universe on my face.

And there’s a part of me—the very immature part that apparently never grew out of being a teenage girl—that gets all lit up when the cute boy stares in my direction.

“Here you go,” he says, sliding a shot glass then a pint glass across the table to me.

That’s the other thing. He knows my damn drink order. Maybe that just means I’m boring and predictable, but I know for a fact the majority of the bartenders and waiters working at my uncle’s place have no idea what I like to drink. River knows though. Because River always seems to be paying attention.

And even though this is an interaction that’s happened at least a dozen times before, something about it hits me right in the feels tonight, and my throat gets thick.

Apparently, that’s the kind of thing that happens when you walk in on your boyfriend of two years banging his secretary on his desk. While wearing the tie you bought him for Christmas. On your birthday.

“Hey,” River says, his husky voice softer than usual. “You okay?”

Because of course he notices my sudden display of emotion. Like I said, River pays attention.

“Shitty day,” I tell him, my attention locked firmly on the pint glass in front of me so he won’t see anything else in my eyes. At least my voice doesn’t break. I haven’t cried yet and I’m determined not to. Kurt doesn’t deserve my tears.

“What kind of shitty day are we talking?” River asks. “Is this a one-shot shitty day or do I need to go get you another?”

“Well, I walked in on my boyfriend screwing another woman. How many shots do you recommend?”

Shit, I hadn’t meant to say that. The last thing I want to do is talk to River about this. I imagine those intense blue eyes filling with pity and anger rises up in me. Pity and I have a long and not so pleasant relationship. I’ve had more than my fair share of seeing that emotion reflected from someone’s eyes. It’s not the same as compassion—which I’m also not a huge fan of. But pity is worse. Pity includes traces of judgement and few things piss me off more than that.

River curses loudly, drawing my gaze to his, and I’m surprised. There isn’t a trace of pity on his face. There is, however, the fire of hot anger in his eyes.

“He cheated on you?” he asks, sounding both pissed off and incredulous. “That dorky-ass motherfucker? Cheated onyou?”

“More like horny-ass motherfucker,” I mutter.

“No way,” River says firmly. “That’s way more than horny. That guy was batting so far out of his league with you. You realize that, right? He should have been on the ground thanking the universe he was lucky enough to even get you to look at him.” He shakes his head. “Jesus, what anidiot.”

Something about River’s incredulousness has a warm little glow pulsing in my belly, forcing out some of the hurt and anger and shame that’s been weighing me down since I showed up at Kurt’s office for lunch this afternoon only to be confronted by his bare ass. River’s expression is absolutely aghast, like he literally can’t comprehend that Kurt would cheat on me. It almost makes me want to laugh.

“Hang on,” he says, reaching for my drinks. “We need something else entirely.”

“We do?”

He nods. “Fuck yes. Beer and shots are for drowning your sorrows.”