“I’ll explain later, but for now, can I throw this frozen margarita in your face and call you a jerk?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“I’ll explain later, but for now, can I throw this frozen margarita in your face and call you a jerk?”
Clint wasn’t a stranger to having drinks thrown in his face, not because he was a jerk or anything, but because it was sort of his thing.
He didn’t have his bartending license yet, so the owner here let him pick up tips as a table runner, and a little side hustle as a first resort to asking for an angel shot.
Clint didn’t mind literally dripping with cocktails if it meant that some woman could make herself look like someone a real-life jerk wouldn’t want anything to do with.
Plus, he got great tips for it.
He didn’t reply, just gave the brunette a subtle nod that she definitely picked up on.
As the drink splashed in his face, he suddenly realized where he’d seen said brunette before. And how many times he’d seen her. And seen her. And seen her. “Darcy?”
Her eyes widened. “Later,” she hissed, turning on her heel and stomping off.
Clint trained his face to a look of surprise, which wasn’t all an act. The drink was super cold.
After the people surrounding him had given him a sufficient amount of dirty looks, he watched Darcy march back over to a booth where she was sitting alone.
Clint made his way back to the restroom, and was about halfway through cleaning the lime cocktail mix out of his shirt when the door banged open, and Darcy moved inside, closing and locking the door behind her.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
“Anytime, babe. You know I---“
“No, I mean it. Clint. Thank you for not... you know...”
“It’s kind of my job, Darce.”
She shot him a look. “No. I mean about the...”
“Oh, that...”
She was referring to the times they’d hooked up. No less than three, but not more than eight. He wasn’t sure if each individual act counted, or if it was just the number of times they booty-called each other. Did anyone still say that? Booty-call? Whichever it was, he knew it wasn’t more than nine times. Maybe ten.
“Why would I do that? You clearly didn’t want anything more. But enough on that, are you okay? Do you need the bartender to call someone for you?”
She looked him up and down. “What time are you off?”
He licked his lips and reached for another paper towel, nervous, but self-aware enough to know he was staring number eleven right down the barrel. Or twelve? Definitely not more than twelve. “Depends”
“On?”
“On what your plans are after leaving here. If you aren’t in the mood for anything, we could always just head back to yours and watch Netflix or something. Or if I’m barking up the wrong tree stop me.”
“You can’t leave Lucky home alone.”
“I mean, no. I’ll have to run by there and feed him and---“
“I’ll come to yours. And take you up on the Netflix. Chill if I feel like it?”
“Perfect. In that case, I’m off.”
“For real? You don’t have to stay for the rest of the night?”
“Nah. I work for tips anyway. The only one who it’s hurting is me. But I mean. I’m definitely not hurting.”
Darcy looked like she didn’t really believe him. “If you’re sure...”
“Never hurting with I’m with you.”
She smiled and stopped, reaching out to take the paper towel out of his hand and wipe a spot on his neck. “You’ll have to tell me all about your job because I am all kinds of intrigued now.”
“Intrigued, huh? That’s a step-up from before, right?”
“Clint.”
“I’m kidding, Darce. See you at mine?”
Her smile stretched into a grin and Clint had to inhale to stop his heart from fluttering. “See you at yours.”
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