The Pick Up
“Hey,” you replied, your eyes running from the hopeful smile down the leather jacket and perfectly fitted white t-shirt underneath.
Your turned your attention back to the bar, watching the bartender slowly work his way toward you. You crossed your foot behind your ankle, shifting some of the weight to lean on your arms on the bar. Your feet were killing you. It’d been a long day and, as pretty as they were, breaking in your new Choos tonight was a bad idea. The bar was still new and exciting to the neighborhood. The crowd meant a seat at the bar to relax in after dancing was hard to come by. But, damn, those shoes were cute.
“Hm?” you hummed, lips pressed together and brow pulled down in distracted confusion.
“A drink,” he repeated. “I’d like to buy your next drink.”
“Ohh,” you nodded your understanding. You politely declined the offer, and turned back to see the bartender stopping in front of you for your order. Like you hadn’t heard that line before. But he was persistent, you could give him that.
“I’m Sebastian,” he introduced, putting his hand on his chest, so you knew who he meant.
“Ah,” you gave a quick jut of your chin. “[Y/n].” Turning your attention back to the waiting barman, you grinned, “Amaretto sour, please.”
The bartender started to turn to his stock of liquor. "And a whiskey, neat,“ your neighbor piped up.
The bartender nodded and went to work, and you rolled your eyes. “Nice try.”
You shifted, turning on your toe to lean your hip into the bar. Your head lolled tiredly to your shoulder, looking to the innocent grin waiting for you, explaining, “Throwing your order in there, like we’re together, so when he comes back with my drink you can look like the gentleman. Coincidentally,” you emphasized with finger quotation marks, “paying for mine with yours and getting what you want.”
“Oh, yeah? What do I want?” he invited, with a boyish smile tugging back the corner of his mouth.
“I don’t know,” you shrugged. “A phone number, a hook up, whatever.”
“Can’t a guy just buy a girl a drink?”
“He could,” you admitted. “But he never does. There’s always a string attached.”
“You’re married,” he decided, with a knowing nod and a glance at the bartender’s progress.
“What makes you say that?” you couldn’t help but ask, feeling a little challenged by the confidence in his statement.
The bartender set down your drinks in front of you and told you the price. His cash was already on the bar, with a generous tip, before you could open the clutch in your hands, as he told you, “You’re so jaded, you almost have to be.” Your jaw slacked open, in laughing insult, as he picked up his glass and went on, “You’re so bitter, thinking a guy, just trying to start a conversation with an easy enough offer to treat you to a drink, has some kind of ulterior motive and is some kind of reason to be offended, because fifty bucks says that’s how you met your husband, or your boring boyfriend, when he came up to you at a bar and asked to buy you a drink and now you’re stuck with him and the sad truth is, he stopped offering to buy you drinks a long time ago because he didn’t have to try anymore.”
You gave him a long, incredulous blink. “Wow.”
He took a sip off his drink, brow wagged up, as if he were waiting for your to tell him he was wrong. His eyes followed his hand back down to hold his drink on the bar beside you. When you didn’t argue right away, he shrugged, reaffirming, “Married.”
“That’s it?” you scoffed. “You think insulting a girl is the way to get her to like you?”
“Were you insulted?” he checked, with a shrewd wrinkle in his brow.
“I might be,” you suggested, “if any of that were true.”
“So,” he nodded, “boyfriend then?”
“Yeah, boyfriend,” you told him, tasting your drink.
A smirk came to the side of his lips and a discerning squint to one eye. “Neither,” he changed his mind. “You’re single, but you’re too proud. One of those modern women, who doesn’t need a man to buy her things.”
“Or maybe,” you countered, “too tired of clichés.”
“So, now I should be insulted,” he smirked.
“Are you?” you asked, quirking up a cocky brow. “What’s your story?” You gave him a wandering once over. “Wife lost interest years ago and so you slink around bars, buying drinks for girls and wooing them with your poignant assessments of their disappointing love lives to get them into bed with you and feel better about your own sad situation?”
He smiled into his drink, nodding as he swallowed to say, “Now I’m insulted.”
“See how easy it is to make assumptions, hmm?” you hummed, going back to your drink.
“And yet, I still bought you that drink,” he pointed out.
“You cheated,” you noted.
“Or maybe you secretly wanted me to,” he offered.
“Now you’re getting creative,” you snorted.
He smiled proudly. “Single,” he nodded. “No one’s come over to rescue you or defend your honor.” He pointed a finger at you with a knowing gaze. “You don’t want to admit it, but you’re intrigued.”
“You’re terrible at this, buddy,” you swept your head.
“Am I?” he wondered. “You’re still talking to me.”
He had you there and you admitted, “Bored people do boring things.”
“And I thought we were having fun,” he chuckled, taking a drink.
“Was that it?” you playfully checked. “My bad.”
“What?” you shook your head, not catching on.
“Are you bad?” he rephrased.
“Just jumping right to psycho, are you?” you gaped. “Not the best move to make.”
He laughed, shaking his downturned head and putting up a hand to stop you. “No,” he said. “No, I meant, do you know how bad you are this?”
“I’m bad at this?” you scoffed, your fingertips touching at your chest.
“You’re terrible,” he nodded.
“See,” he began, leaning onto his elbow on the edge of the bar to mirror you, “I come over, you let me buy you a drink. We have some witty banter. I compliment your shoes. You tell me how devilishly charming I am, because no one else would bother to notice you wearing new shoes.”
“And worry about you having some kind of fetish,” you added.
But he only smiled and went on, like you’d never interrupted. “I tell you how amazing your smile is. You tell me something nice about the color of my eyes, because you haven’t stopped looking at them since we started talking.”
“Because polite people look people in the eye when they talk,” you coyly corrected, taking a sip of your cocktail to distract yourself from admitting how mesmerizing his blue eyes were.
“I tell you how refreshing it is to have a conversation with someone who’s not a complete airhead,” he said, motioning to you and then to himself. “You tell me how refreshing it is to have a guy respect you for your mind, and not just your beauty.”
“Oh, see, there it is,” you nodded, with a wink. “There’s the pick up.”
“You smile, shied by the compliment, of course,” he endearingly pressed, “because it’s said with such sincerity, you know it’s true and not just a line.”
“I do?” you balked, fighting to keep the smile on your face from doing exactly what he said it would do.
He nodded with his drink. “Mhm,” he hummed. “And then you apologize, because you realize it is possible to let a guy buy you a drink without having any expectations or strings attached.”
“I apologize?” you double checked.
“I accept,” he cheekily grinned.
“You’re crazy,” you assured him.
There was a playfulness to the tilt of his head, as he inched closer and quietly mused, “For wanting to take you home right now and fuck you into the mattress? While you’re wearing those shoes, of course.”
“Is that the plan?” you dared.
His hand found your hip, sliding slowly around your waist to the small of your back, before pulling you close. “It is my birthday…”
“Shut up, Will,” you frowned, giving his arm behind you a backward nudge with your elbow.
“Take your little sex games elsewhere,” Will protested. “This is a respectable establishment.”
“What d'ya say?” Sebastian cocked up a brow, his lidded eyes wandering over your face and stopping to stare at your lips, his fingertips ghosting down the side of your neck.
“It is your birthday,” you seconded, with a lascivious grin. “Let’s go home.”
