A Good Man Gone to Waste
Emilio
I throw a quick nod over to the bartender, indicating another pour of bourbon. I’m no stranger to drinking alone, but tonight was supposed to be different. I had actually planned to spend a quiet night in my hotel room, mentally preparing for tomorrow, but Eddie talked me into meeting him here, so we could catch up. I should’ve known better. That jack ass is about as dependable as the soap dispenser in this bar’s restroom.
I reach for the glass a beat after it’s poured and sip the rich copper-colored liquid, wondering if Eddie’s absence has something to do with my father. I hate the fact that he works for him, that he has no vision other than to make money as fast as possible, despite all else. But he’s my oldest friend, and that means a hell of a lot to me. Beyond that endearment, though, I’ll reign hell on him for being a no-show.
By the time my fourth glass is poured, and I’m ready to bail out of here, a delicate olive-colored hand reaches across me, nails painted a shiny wine color with silver accents.
“Getting plastered alone is not a good look.”
Something about the tone of her voice strikes me—too comfortable in her words. I wrap my hand around hers as she holds my glass.
“Neither is being nosy and intrusive,” I snap back without glancing her way, the alcohol allowing me to forget I’m typically more in control of my words.
She slips her hand from beneath mine and starts to pull away. “Whatever. Drown your sorrows, I guess.”
I spin on my seat and grab her wrist before she can retreat, pulling her against my side, her head whipping toward me, dark hazel eyes meeting mine. Something about them makes me hold for long seconds, lost in them, settling into a place where all the shit about to come down on me doesn’t exist. If only…
I feel her tug against my hold, but her expression holds strong. She’s fiery.
“Either you give up too quickly,” I say, panning down to note full red lips, “or you just like fucking with people.”
“Maybe I just don’t like seeing a good man go to waste.”
I’m floored by her response, and shoot my eyes back to hers, a willing captive in her gaze. There’s something so comforting…familiar in the depths there. But then I’m drawn back to her mouth, and I catch the corners bumping up, revealing a single dimple that looks like it doesn’t belong on her face. The wry grin only adds to my confusion. What kind of game is this girl playing?
I nod at the seat next to me, and surprisingly, she slips onto the stool. I notice then she’s not as dressed up as most of the women here, wearing tight black pants that accentuate her thin waist and round ass along with a cropped black top with sheer sleeves that hang off her shoulders.
She tucks a piece of her thick wavy black hair behind her ear. “So, what? You got stood up?”
Back in town one night and already pathetic. “Something like that. You?”
She ticks her head toward the door, where a young woman wearing something that can barely count as a skirt is currently in the arms of a guy in all black leather, who appears to be space-probing her mouth with his tongue. “I give her two more minutes before she bails on me with him.”
I scoff. “Nice friend.”
When the bartender comes over to ask what she wants, she slides my glass in front of her. “I’m good, thanks.”
I can’t help but let out a chuckle as she lifts my drink to her lips, resting it on the bottom one for a moment before she takes a sip. “Not bad,” she says. Setting the glass back down, she pushes it over to me. “But I prefer tequila.” She grins, that dimple on her lower left cheek taking shape and doing things to me. I’m sure men are constantly telling her she’s beautiful, so I refrain, not wanting to add to the negative view she already has of me.
“What’s your name?” I ask instead.
She lifts a dark brow.
“So, you don’t trust any men…” I cock my head to the side and lean in. “Because apparently, I’m a ‘good man’” I say, throwing her words back at her.
“Maybe I was mistaken,” she says, then turns away to get the bartender’s attention.
You were. Thinking she’s no longer listening, I mumble to myself, “Okay, traviesa.”
She turns back, as the bartender comes over, and glares at me with her mouth open. “Who says I’m a troublemaker?”
I shrug and finish my bourbon. The Spanish term is often used on little ones, feisty girls who cause mischief. And I’ve got a bad feeling this one is headed that way.
“I changed my mind,” she tells the bartender. “Can you bring me whatever top shelf tequila you have?”
Just the mention of Tequila makes me think of my father, and there goes my fucking mood. “I should probably head out.” It pains me to say those words, but it’s probably best for both of us, especially since my head is spinning wildly.
She whips her head back to me then, her brows furrowed in confusion, but something more. Maybe it’s the booze, but I’m seeing…pain.
I don’t have time to ask or even contemplate her reaction when a hairy linebacker comes up behind her, holding a pool stick. “There you are, sweet cheeks. It’s your turn.”
With her back still to the guy, she rolls her eyes, sighing before tossing over her shoulder, “Sorry, I’m done.”
He presses up to her back, and my pulse spikes. This fucker better not lay a hand on her.
“Oh, no. You ain’t quittin’ on me, darlin’.” That annoying Texas drawl of wannabe cowboys.
I stand from my stool, and as if she’s reading my mind, my gorgeous trouble maker shoots me wide eyes along with a few quick head shakes as warning.
Not only does this guy have thick slabs of meat on his bones, but he’s probably six foot four, giving him a couple inches on me.
I jut my chin up and say, “She said she’s done… And so am I.” I’m not one to pick a fight, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t had my share. When you grow up a Garza, you don’t just learn to fight, you learn to survive—because trouble always finds you…even if your father tried to shelter you your whole damn life.
Before the linebacker can respond, Traviesa jumps between us. “Hey, let’s not make this into—”
And then that dumb fuck puts his hands on her, and all I see is red.
