Page 41 of Palingenesis
Shannon
The good thing about sitting alone at a bar is that I don’t have to use my communication skills if I don’t want to.
And right now, I don’t.
Not after everything faded and the high of an orgasm drained any remaining justifications left in my head for what happened. How it happened. Where the hell the Henry of my fantasies went and why I was left with that thing instead.
After sitting at home, waiting for the next shoe to drop for way too long, I’d gotten in the truck and just… drove. I hadn’t intended on a bar when I got behind the wheel, but it’s about the only thing open and doing the trick to make me forget.
Or maybe that’s the tequila clouding the fact that Henry is just gone and that there was a nightmare-worthy hallucination getting me off. It had to be the booze dulling the sensation of scrapes across my skin–easing the guilt that’s slowly creeping in that I let him touch me.
I’m going to need some fucking therapy after this.
I signal the bartender for another round, and he comes with the bottle already in his grip.
He’s big for a guy, scruff lining his jaw and hair on the longer side, his meaty fist taking up nearly the entire neck of the bottle as he pours my next drink.
“You’re Shannon, right?” I look around instinctively, searching for who he might be talking to on either side of me, but there’s only empty stools and neon signs.
“Uh, yeah,” I mutter, tipping the glass to my lips and ignoring the fact that his voice is a deep enough baritone that I normally have a hard time hearing. His, for some reason, seems to register just fine through the devices in my ears like someone else I know and I suppress another shiver. Am I that desperate for touch? “Wait, how’d you know that?”
He hums—another tone I’m surprised I can hear—and leans against the bar.
Pine and sugar rush my senses and I tip back the rest of my drink.
“Small town. New face.” He lifts a thick finger, pointing in the general vicinity of the side of my head. “Not many people our age with those.”
I roll my eyes. “It's rude to point it out,” I mutter from behind my glass but instead of showing any kind of remorse, this guy leans closer. Strong arms prop himself against the deep mahogany wood so hard that it creaks beneath the pressure. Dark eyes stare right through me. “My husband learned a whole other language for you, but all I see is a sloppy fucking drunk.”
“Sloppy drunk? I’ve done nothing but sit there and—wait. Did you say husband?”
The color drains from my face because of course I’d meet my new friend’s partner on one of the worst days of my life, looking like I’ve been hit by a semi, and seemingly forgetting every social skill I’ve ever learned.
Clearly, I’ve stuck a nerve on top of it all, judging by the way he glowers at me.
“You’re Avery’s husband.”
He flashes his ring, a tattoo peeking out from under it. “Uh-huh.”
“And he told you about meeting me.”
“Yep.”
I swallow hard.
“He said he had a high IQ or something, that’s how he learned sign so fast.”
“My husband’s a genius, yes, but he’s also too fucking kind.” He sniffs the air, tilting his nose in my direction, nostrils flexing slowly and somehow I find that more intimidating than his dominating stare. “And you smell like a problem.”
My spine snaps straighter and I lift my hands in defense. “Whoa, now. I’m just glad to have found a pal that’s queer and sweet, and yeah, he’s cute—” Gods, Shannon, shut up. “—he’s nice! I mean, he’s nice.” Backing up only results in me bumping into the stool, which clatters to the ground, and Morgan rounds the bar. “Morgan! Your name is Morgan.”
I don’t know why that matters or how my brain thinks it might help, but I’m just about ready to make a run for it when my ass hits something solid and I freeze, pinned only by Morgan’s intense stare.
“And you’ve been avoiding meeting me for six months,” he growls.
“What? No.” I shake my head but don’t dare look away as the words tumble out of me. “I’ve only been here a few days. Two weeks tops. To be honest, the days have run together and I’ve lost some time but not that much.”
“Lost time?”
