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  “Oh yeah, Stan, that’s what we do,” Leah mocked.

  “I told you last week, I’m not digging the ‘Stan’ nickname,” Tristan complained. “You’re making me sound like a 90-year-old man.”

  “That’s the plan, Stan,” Leah said, grabbing the paper and pen. Staring at Tristan for a few seconds, her face lit up, and she knew exactly what she was going to sketch on the small, square napkin.

  Tristan watched her as she drew; she teetered between smiling and sticking out her tongue, but her concentration never faltered. Every so often, she giggled, turning a slight shade of pink as she did so. Leah was a tough, street-smart girl. She wasn’t typically a giggler, so the sound kept surprising him, making him more intrigued by her and the differences art brought out in her. Tristan had never met anyone like Leah. She was strong, bold, confident, but yet quiet, private, and timid at times. She was an anomaly, a puzzle he wanted to solve.

  “Alright Stan, is this what you had in mind?” she asked, flipping over the napkin sliding it face down across the bar. Her face was alight in smiles and mischief.

  Tristan placed his hand over hers. Both of them felt the connection, the metaphorical electric shock instantly. Tristan raised a single eyebrow, indicating he knew the feeling, the jolt, was mutual. Leah’s stomach’s fluttered as a yearning flooded her body.

  Turning the napkin over, Tristan said, “Let’s take a look.” His jaw dropped and his eyes widened as he looked at Leah’s very detailed and descriptive sketch. Trying to speak, he coughed a few times to clear his throat. “Is uh… is… this a…”

  “It’s female genitalia, Tristan. I figured you’d know that. You’ve seen a vagina before, haven’t you?”

  Staring at the napkin, nodding, he covered the artwork with his hand, and said, “Yes, I’ve been… very intimate with puss… vaginas in my day.”

  Continuing to laugh, Tristan said, “But nobody’s ever drawn me such a… a… perfect representation of… um… one before. I’d say it’s… it’s… very lifelike and uh… uh… natural.”

  Leah shrugged him off and batted her eyelashes flirtatiously. “I just figured that you’re always looking to leave here with some pussy to take home, I just thought I’d make sure that you had one tonight,” Leah said, smiling and making a tally mark in the air, indicating her point scored.

  “Alright, I see what you’re doing here, but you really shouldn’t be begging,” Tristan said, running his fingers along the picture, staring at it intently. “If you wanted to put your hooha in the care of my expert hands, then you should’ve just said so.”

  Leah’s jaw dropped, mirroring his look from a few seconds ago. “Trap it, Stan!” she exclaimed, throwing a hand towel at him.

  “Hey Leah,” Mickie said, from the other end of the bar. “Keri just texted me. Kid’s running a fever. I need to stop at the 24-hour drugstore and get some medicine,” he explained, taking off his apron and counting his tips. “It’s dead in here anyway. Think you can close up for me tonight?”

  “Sure Mick, go ahead. Hope Ty feels better,” Leah added.

  “I owe ya one,” he promised, kissing her cheek before heading out.

  “Four! You owe me four, but who’s counting?” Leah called after him. Mickie laughed and gave her an amicable salute.

  Tristan felt an inexplicable surge of envy watching Mickie’s lips touch Leah’s cheek, enough so that he had to look away and clear the vision from his head. It was only a fucking platonic peck on the damn cheek, but yet it bothered him, bothered the shit right out of him. Tristan wasn’t sure what irritated him more—Mickie touching and kissing Leah or the fact that he was even slightly annoyed by it. Either way, he was jealous and that in itself sucked ass.

  Tristan got up to go to the bathroom to relieve himself of the vision and of all the drinks he had at his client dinner earlier and the one he always nursed at the bar. But mostly, he had to gather his thoughts. Splashing water on his face, he asked himself the same question he’d been asking for the past month, “What was it about that petite blonde bartender that kept him coming back night after night?”

  Leah was hot—no doubt about that. Her short, spiky blonde hair gave her an “I don’t give a fuck” edge, but it was her sincere smile and sad eyes that gave her a sense of innocence that he wasn’t sure others appreciated or even noticed. He definitely liked how little she was and how she flitted and climbed around the bar, getting bottles and glasses like a little sprite. Strangely, he often wanted to put her in his pocket, keeping her safe and close. Remembering his pocket, he chuckled, taking the folded up napkin out of his pocket to look at it once again. She had spunk; he’d give her that.

  But the bottom line was she was a bartender, an aspiring artist. That certainly wouldn’t fly in his world. His world didn’t take too kindly to girls—to anyone—from her world. Just the spiky blonde hair and tatted up wrist was enough to make his mother and father gasp and scowl with their disapproving looks of superiority and refinement. Lately, all the chicks he met wanted him for his money, his power, doing everything in their power to get a two-carat ring on their fingers, trapping him for life.

  Leah wasn’t like that. She actually pushed him away so much that he spent his days at work wondering if there was a different way around—a shortcut to get to her. The route he was used to taking was getting him nowhere, except for at home every night, alone, in a big, empty, king-sized bed.

  Returning from the bathroom, Tristan noticed that there were only four people left in the bar, not counting Leah and him. “So, what do you do to close up?” Tristan asked, genuinely curious.

  “The usual,” Leah responded, wiping down the tables. “Stack the chairs, sweep, mop, count the till, fill out the deposit slip, wash the glasses, clean the bathroom, and do a shot after each part of my side work is done.” Laughing, she said, “I don’t really do shots, but sometimes I feel like I should.”

  Leah looked around, checking to see if she covered everything that was expected of the closing manager. Even though she wasn’t a manager, she often closed the joint. “Oh and lock up. But I’m not cleaning the bathroom. No way. I’ll just text Mick and tell him that he has to come in a half an hour early tomorrow before we open to clean it. I’m nice, but I’m no saint.”

  “You’re certainly no saint,” Tristan joked, flashing his prized artistic napkin.

  Leah was leaning over a table, wiping it clean. Tristan walked up behind her, leaned over, trapping her to the table, his hands on either side of her. He heard the unmistakable catch of her breath, the small gasp that told him he caused a reaction in her. The sound sent heat straight to his groin, igniting that age-old feeling of animalistic lust.

  “You missed a spot,” he whispered in her ear, noticing the visible goose bumps on her arms.

  “Rumor on the street is that you couldn’t find any spot—even with a map and a compass,” Leah countered, pressing back against him, letting him know that he was not in control—would never be in control.

  Moving in even closer, pressing his body against hers harder, he wrapped his arms around her and maneuvered the towel from her grasp. “I’ll do the tables; you wash the glasses.”

  “Deal, but it’s not going to get you a map to my… my… napkin,” Leah said, openly.

  ‘To your napkin? Is that what we’re calling it now,” Tristan asked, wiping down the table, giving Leah an incredible view of his backside.

  Tristan was cut. Always sporting a shirt and tie, loosened at the neck, Leah never got a good view of his body. He’d rolled up his sleeves to wipe down the tables, and his forearms were perfectly defined. Admittedly, Leah wanted to see more, see his biceps, check out his chest, and ogle his stomach. It was evident by the way his shirt pulled when he leaned over that his back was muscular and strong. Even his tailored pants fit well, revealing the sculpted ridges of his ass and thighs.

  Tristan was a pretty package; a package Leah wouldn’t mind unwrapping one layer at a time, leaving the big red bow for last. But so
me presents were meant to be admired and unopened, because once they were ripped open and torn through, there was nothing left to admire. Sometimes, the best part of the pretty packages was the wonderment of what was in them.

  “You can call it my ‘napkin.’ Call it all you want,” Leah said, rinsing the wine glasses. “But my ‘napkin’ is never going to answer.”

  “Why do you keep pushing me away?” Tristan asked, bluntly, catching her off guard. The past month the banter had always remained flirtatious, borderline dirty at times, but never straightforward and direct. There were innuendos and references, but never blunt questions with answers expected. “What are you afraid of?”

  Leah decided that she’d just say what she felt and turn this game upside down. “I’m afraid of not pushing you away,” she admitted boldly, challenging him with her words. The remaining patrons gathered their belongings and left the bar, leaving Tristan and Leah alone.

  “Why? What’s so scary about letting me get close?” Tristan asked, circling the bar, walking around to her side. He took a glass out of her hand and hung it on the rack above her, closing the space between them. “Are you afraid of me right now?”

  “Yep,” Leah admitted, staring him head on, never breaking eye contact with him.

  “Why?”

  Leah took his hand and placed it firmly on her chest. His hand was slightly tucked in to her v-neck with her hand holding his tightly in place. “Do you feel that?” Tristan smiled smugly, and nodded, feeling the fast, rhythmic beat of her heart as it thumped wildly against their hands. “That’s why I’m afraid of you,” she confessed, dropping his hand and backing up out of his reach.

  “I still don’t see the problem,” Tristan challenged. “Those things are supposed to do that. I read about it somewhere—like in fourth or fifth grade—something about pumping blood throughout your body. I can’t remember. Arteries away from your heart, veins or capillaries toward. I’m not sure. We can ask Adrian. He’s pre-med—he’ll know.”

  “You’re an ass!” she exclaimed, grabbing the broom.

  Tristan immediately started stacking the chairs on the tables, clearing the way for her to sweep the floor. Truthfully, he was happy as shit that he caused that reaction in her. Knowing that he had that effect on her bought him some time. He could take it slow, if slow and steady got him the girl.

  “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. I’m just saying that what was going on back there is a natural, scientific reaction. Hearts beat, Leah.”

  “Yeah they do—right up until they’re broken,” Leah stated, averting her eyes from his gaze. “Then, they don’t beat at all.”

  Leah and Tristan finished the closing side work in silence; both lost in their own thoughts. Finally to break the quiet solemnity of the atmosphere, Leah turned up the volume on the radio. Tristan danced suggestively and seductively with the mop, making Leah laugh and shake her head at his insane spontaneity.

  Once everything was done and Lucky Chuck’s was ready for lockup, Leah grabbed a bottle of Tequila, a few lemons, and the shaker of salt. “Okay Stan, I suppose I owe you one for helping me tonight. Let’s drink!”

  “You don’t owe me anything—unless you want to let me wipe my mouth on your napkin?” Tristan suggested, waving her artwork in the air.

  “Oh for God’s sake! Is your head always in the gutter? You have one dirty mind Tristan O’Donnell,” Leah said, rolling her eyes.

  “You’re right, it’s very dirty, filthy actually,” Tristan said, nodding in agreement. “Do you think I could borrow your napkin to clean it up?”

  Laughing, Leah sat down at the table and poured two shots of tequila. “Okay, I’ll give you that one. I walked right into that one.”

  Grabbing his shot, Tristan said, “The name of the game is Truth or Dare. You either take truth or you take dare. Based on how honest you are or how well you perform your dare, I decide if you have to drink or not.”

  “I don’t even know what the fuck you just said,” Leah stated. “The game is Drink or Dare. Period.”

  “Alright Leah, Drink or Dare,” Tristan asked, eyeing her intently.

  Without hesitation, Leah said, “Drink.” She picked up the glass and shot it back.

  “What about the salt and lemon?” Tristan asked

  “Those are for pussies.”

  “Then why’d you bring them over here?” Tristan questioned.

  “You tell me. You’re the one walking around with a vagina in your pocket,” Leah laughed, snorting accidentally, which only caused her to laugh harder.

  “Your turn,” Leah said, calming down. “Drink or Dare?”

  “Dare.”

  “Shocking. I dare you to answer my question truthfully,” Leah stated.

  “Lame,” he called. “Okay, hit me.”

  “Are you happy?” she asked quickly, wondering why she wasted her question on something so stupid.

  “Like right now or in general?” Tristan questioned for clarification.

  “Ummm, both.”

  “I thought I was, but lately, I’m not so sure,” he admitted. “Right now? I’m pretty fucking happy.”

  Leah was shocked by his honesty. She thought for sure any questions she would ask him would be answered with sexual undertones and connotations. She felt the shift. There was much more going on here than she originally thought. Suddenly with the knowledge that something could quite possibly be in the making, she felt self-conscious and less assured.

  “Back to you,” he stated. “Drink or Dare.”

  “Drink,” she said again.

  “I call bullshit on this game,” Tristan argued, stopping her from doing another shot. “You can’t keep calling ‘drink.’ We’re not getting anywhere with this.”

  “Where exactly do you want this to go, Tristan?”

  “I want you to stop playing games,” he announced.

  “So, you want me to stop playing games so we can play this game. Oh I see, makes perfect sense,” Leah responded sarcastically.

  “Woman, you’re the one who’s incorrigible—not me,” Tristan remarked. “New rules. Take a shot and then choose Truth or Dare.”

  “Fine,” Leah shot back the tequila, wincing after swallowing. “Dare.”

  “Dare, now we’re playing,” Tristan said, sitting up to unbutton his pants.

  “No damn way! You had to go too far—didn’t you O’Donnell?” Leah said, shaking her head and standing up.

  “Kidding, kidding. I swear. Sit! Lighten up,” Tristan commanded, pulling her back into her seat. “I dare you to draw me something that means something to you.”

  Leah hadn’t expected the game to take that turn. Truthfully, she thought it would stay on the sexual, playful ground—not in the emotional and intimate territory. She nodded, knowing exactly what she’d draw for him this time around. Tristan grabbed a piece of paper out of a notebook behind the bar. When she started to draw, Tristan sat back and watched her as intently as he did before. He felt mesmerized by her focus and concentration as the pen glided quickly over the paper.

  When she finished, Leah felt his eyes still on her, penetrating her. Her hands covered her drawing. “Are you sure you want to see it?” she asked, full of trepidation and fear.

  “I waited 20 minutes. Of course I want to see it,” he answered, lifting her hand from the paper.

  Tristan was surprised and awed all at once. He figured that she’d try to feign seriousness and sketch something else sardonic and satirical. But what he saw was neither sardonic nor satirical, but was sheer artistic beauty and grace.

  “They’re hands, people holding hands,” Leah said, nervously, filling both of their shot glasses.

  “I see that,” Tristan said, downing his shot. “Whose? Why these hands?”

  Leah felt odd, completely out of her zone of comfort. She downed another shot, feeling its warmth envelop her, realizing how easily the liquid was going down now. “Nobody’s, I guess.”

  “Come on Leah, don’t hold back on me now,” Tristan coa
xed. “Tell me the rest of the story that goes with these hands. You drew them, because they meant something to you. That was the rule. So what do they mean?”

  Taking a deep breath, she shook her head and filled another shot glass. “Last shot, or I won’t be able to walk out of here.” She swallowed the drink and went behind the bar to get a glass of water. Tristan watched her movements, waiting for her explanation, the story behind the drawing.

  “When I was in ninth grade, my mom was dying. Cancer,” she clarified, nodding as all remaining family members often do when talking about cancer. “She was an artist—a fucking incredible artist.” Leah smiled, recalling the artwork her mother created.

  “Anyway, one night, my mom asked me to draw ‘strength.’ I told her that I didn’t know how to draw ‘strength.’ She said she wanted to see what I thought of when I heard the word ‘strength.’ So I drew hands.” Tristan sat silently waiting for her to continue.

  Realizing that he wanted more from her, she went on, “I showed her the hands, and my mom cried.” Leah took a deep breath and blew it out heavily. “But she was always crying, so it wasn’t such a shock. Then she said that one time her therapist asked her what image came to mind when she thought about strength… And just like me, people holding hands was the first thing that popped into her head.”

  “Wow, that’s… that’s… a pretty powerful story, Leah,” Tristan said, reaching for her hand. He held her hand in his, stroking the back of it with his fingers. Leah didn’t flinch or pull away, but was acutely aware of the sensations he was sending throughout her.

  Looking down at the paper, he said, “It’s two different hands—two people. Is that you and your mom?”

  Shrugging, Leah said, “Nah, not really. I just think that to be strong, to find strength, you have to find someone to hold onto.”

  “Can I have this?” Tristan asked sincerely.

  “This pen-sketch that I did in like 15 minutes of two people’s hands? Uh yeah, knock yourself out. Add it to my collection. Just keep those hands off my napkin.” Leah joked with a wink. “Oh wait, did I just wink? I’m sorry. That’s your thing.”