“Do you come here often, pretty thing?” I cringe and inwardly roll my eyes hearing this horribly cliché line from somewhere over my left shoulder.
I can barely make out a round, balding guy illuminated by the twinkling lights strung up behind the seedy bar. He’s huffing and has this awkwardly predatory grin on his face. Great, I was at least banking on someone attractive, if not obviously well-off. Which this guy was not.
I’ve been loitering around the bar top for the better part of an hour now, but all I’ve managed to attract are some middle-aged, overweight closet cases. I managed to dismiss most of them without a problem in favor of trying to catch someone a little more… well, rich. I’m going to be frank here.
Whatever. A free meal is a free meal at this point. And maybe even a free drink and a screw if I’m lucky. I cautiously eye the bar tender who knows I’m not actually allowed to be in here, but I don’t think he’s paid enough to care, given he barely bats an eye at this guy crowding my seat. In fact, he quickly moves down the bar when this guy speaks again.
“U-um..” He stammers, quickly losing any confidence he approached me with. Oh right. I should probably start working if I don’t want to starve tonight.
I put on my best flirty smile and swing around to face the mystery guy. He’s clearly nervous. He’s probably been watching me for a while, waiting to see if I was legit or not. Shit, he probably thinks I’m some sort of cop. Ha! As if.
“I come here often enough to know what I want already.” I purr, my voice practically dripping with honey. Come on, meal ticket!
The guy grins slightly, his yellowing teeth prominent on his sweaty face. Ugh. I hate being right. He glances around nervously before moving his pudgy body closer to me. God, he even smells like a mid-life crisis.
“Well,” He begins, hot breath wafting over my face. “I’m sure we can both find something that we can enjoy this evening.” A John. Sweet. Though, this guy is being weirdly formal and still clearly uncomfortable judging by the amount of sweat pouring from him. Sweaty John. My smile doesn’t falter.
“I’m sure we can, but you seem like you need to relax so we can discuss what you’re.. craving.” I say with a wink, and he seems to relax a bit hearing my obvious inuendo.
“I’m craving whatever you’re willing to give me.” He wheezes. Nice. Short and sweet and directly to the point. Sweaty John loses the stiff formality and is bold enough, now, to reach sausage shaped fingers toward my thighs, but his grin falls and his hand soon follows when I swing my legs back toward the bar. I clasp my fingers under my chin and rest my elbows on the bar top, now looking at him from over my shoulder.
“Not so fast,” I tut, “That’ll cost you $100 and something fruity.” His grin fell further.
“Isn’t that a little steep for a kid?” He asks, bluntly. Really Guy?
“Aren’t you a little steep to be complaining about how much you have to pay to screw a kid?” I quip loudly, my smile still firmly in place, albeit now more of a sarcastic smirk to match my tone.
The guy hisses and quickly looks around to make sure no one was within earshot and paying attention enough to hear my outburst. I can practically see the steam rising from his red, sweaty face.
He glares at me for a moment, looking me up and down taking in my grin and my revealing clothes, finally zeroing back in on my thighs. After ogling my legs for a moment, he looks up at me with a renewed, weedy smile.
“Fine,” he says, “But can’t you cut me a break? I doubt you’re able to handle the drink I’m going to pick, anyway.”
I eye him curiously, my grin getting impossibly wider and my voice even more sultry.
“You’ll be surprised to find out what I can handle.”
Sweaty John seems pleased with this answer and we agree to move our conversation to a booth across the lounge area, a little more intimate than the somewhat crowded bar top.
I slide off my barstool, shooting another wink at the John, now exchanging pleasantries with the bartender and putting in our drink orders. I make my way across the dim lounge area, making sure to keep the bar in my peripheral as I navigate the crowd. The last thing I need is another asshole trying to drug me and skip out on his bill.
I’m about halfway to the booth when some guy too absorbed in his phone conversation to watch where he’s going bumps into me. Well, rams into me is more accurate. The guy is easily a foot taller than me and twice as wide, causing his elbow to smack into my shoulder, pushing me back a few inches with the force of it. I regain my footing and scowl at the guy. He looks down at me and apologizes, quickly doing a double take after no doubt noticing my age. Whatever, I’m still riding high on the prospect of money and alcohol from my dear Sweaty John to give this guy any more energy than calling him an asshole and telling him to watch where he’s going. He thankfully doesn’t say anything back and I continue on my way.
I slide into the booth, rude guy quickly forgotten, and turn back toward the bar to see the Sweaty John still speaking with the bartender, who has his back facing the bar, busying himself with our drinks. Sweaty John and the bartender seem familiar. Sucks for him. He must frequent this bar and fail pretty miserably at picking anybody up if his friendship with the bartender is anything to go by.
I plaster my coy smile back onto my face and arch my back, pushing my chest out when I see Sweaty John approaching the table, drinks in hand. He sees this and stumbles, flustered again. Eyes glued to my chest, specifically on the low cut neckline of my worn tank, his eyes practically glaze over and he fumbles onto the cushioned bench beside me. Guys like this are so easy, it’s almost cute.
He doesn’t say a word, still ogling me, as he slides a short glass with purple, fruit scented alcohol in front of me.
He finally looks up at me, a look I can’t quite read hidden in the smile on his pudgy face, and holds his own glass in the air, a few inches away from my own.
“Cheers.”
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