Isha, Unscripted, page 3
“I’m serious!” he replied with a smirk. But see, that half smile of his relayed that he was jesting. Did he even know he was doing that? Saying one thing and sending contradicting signals?
I calmed down and planted my face into my hands. I didn’t want to think about my problems and the obvious career decisions that had to be made rather quickly, yet Rohan had a way of easing words out of me. All right, it was more like an undamming, followed by a verbal flood of thoughts and emotions. All he had to do was sit quietly and wait. Darn him and his open, welcoming aura!
Several minutes later, as Rohan and I were getting animated with gesticulations about why I couldn’t tell my parents to leave me alone and how irreparable the consequences would be if the family elders were to get involved, I ended with, “And unless I follow the path they set for me, I’m irredeemable in their eyes! Why is our family like this? Or am I in the wrong? Huh? Tell me, and I’ll accept it.”
“You’re not,” he promised, his tone getting louder to meet mine.
“Push is coming to shove, Rohan! What choice do I have except to sell a script now or throw away my creative dreams!” I swung my hands out on those last words, hitting someone. So hard that my knuckles felt it.
I gasped, taking a second to register exactly how hard I’d hit someone.
“Oh! I’m so sorry!” I jumped, and then immediately felt a hundred times worse realizing that I’d backhanded/knuckle-slapped a guy’s crotch. Eh. Wasn’t the first time that had happened, to be honest, and by far the fastest way I’d ever handled a guy’s package.
He pinched his lips into a thin line and refrained from pushing a hand down to his groin while bowing over.
Rohan clucked his tongue and shook his head, what he always did when I embarrassed him. I was more surprised that he hadn’t covertly pulled out his phone to livestream this entire fiasco of an interaction.
“Oh my god!” I bounced out of the booth and hunched over with him, my hand automatically reaching out to . . . what? Rub his crotch? I mean, that might make him feel better, but . . .
I yelped and pulled my hand back. “Are you all right?”
“Yep,” he wheezed. He pressed his lips together as he clutched the back of the booth beside me, in turn blocking me into place. He glanced up at me with intense green eyes. Like, make-a-woman-want-to-commit-to-having-his-baby kind of eyes. They were remarkably stunning against his light brown skin.
I went to touch his arm but pulled back until I finally, gently, placed my hand on his shoulder. “Can I get you something?”
“I’ll get some ice. It’s fine,” he pushed out.
“You don’t look fine. What can I do?”
“Agh . . . you can tell me what you’d like to drink?” His left brow hiked up.
“What?” I asked, confused.
“The waitress said you wanted a drink.”
“Oh!” I finally understood. The bartender! The one I might’ve had a moment with from across a crowded room upon my entrance but probably not.
Damn, though, he was kind of fine. Thirst-Trap level of fine. The sort of good-looking guy I’d always heard about but never had the fortune to come across in real life.
“Something off-menu,” I finally said, hopeful for a delicious drink but also worried that I’d accidentally assaulted him.
He held up a finger and grunted, “I’ll be right back.”
Rohan commenced to laughing as soon as Thirst-Trap walked away in what was perhaps his best attempt to seem okay when in actuality, his crotch was probably killing him. A backhanded knuckle slap to the balls was probably not what he was expecting to walk into. Literally.
I plopped back into my seat, mortified. My skin flared hot. Poor guy.
“You need to calm down. So! I’m going to put us on the list for karaoke,” Rohan declared.
I groaned, but what a way to get my mind off an attractive guy’s crotch. “No. I am not singing.”
“Even your fave K-pop beats?”
“Even then.” No amount of BTS was going to get me up there. And yet I found myself singing a K-pop song in my head at this very moment. Damn Rohan, he knew me so well!
“Eh. You will be once you get to drinking. I think . . .” He leaned back and studied me for a few seconds. “You’ll be downing your third drink by the end of the hour and might need another two to get over this setback. Nothing wrong with that.”
He eased out of his seat and headed toward the karaoke attendant. There was no stopping him. Worst case, I could just get up and leave when our names were called. The karaoke attendant would only give us a few minutes to claim our spot before he moved on to what was an incomprehensibly packed list of strangers wanting to drunken-tain other strangers.
I was not going to get drunk.
I was not going to have more than two drinks.
I was not going to depend on or lean on alcohol in any way to cope with my lack of success or the anxiety springing up across my thoughts.
I was better than this.
Chapter 3
A shadow fell over my slumped shoulders. I straightened up, fully expecting queso and chips and the infamous spicy jalapeño poppers.
Instead of hot, gooey treats, a delicate martini glass filled to the top with pale yellow liquid and a double cherry on top with a slender twisted lime wedge fitted to the rim appeared. And adjacent to that, what I assumed was Rohan’s Moscow mule in the telltale copper mug glistening with beads of condensation.
“Oh,” I said, mesmerized by the prettiness of my drink. And then equally enamored by the hand that wiped spilt droplets from the base of the glass. Those were definitely not the hands that belonged to our petite waitress.
My gaze followed the wide hand and the broad forearm beneath a rolled-up blue sleeve. My, what a mighty fine-looking piece of muscular flesh, complete with greenish veins. What was it about forearms, this very non-sensual body part, that suddenly exploded with sexiness? My eyes weren’t done wandering, however, no matter the forearm porn urging me to stay put.
My gaze trailed up his tan arm, bulging biceps, and firm-looking shoulders to his face. A . . . sexy half smile with dimples deep enough to fall into. I eventually met those dreamy green eyes again as the bartender retracted his arm, his hand gripping the towel.
Thirst-Trap was making me believe in romance-novel meet-cutes, the way he kept interrupting my night.
“Hello, again,” he said, his voice deep, a rumble out of his chest but loud enough to hear over the new roar of the room as a guy took the karaoke mic.
“Oh! Hi,” I replied. “How’s your, um . . . ya know?” I double-clucked my tongue and jerked my head to the side, somehow meaning this to indicate his groin.
He smirked. “Better. It’ll be fine.”
“You’re going to keep working after being assaulted?”
He chuckled. “I’m taking lots of ice-to-the-crotch breaks.”
I clamped down on my laugh while wishing away the flush at my cheeks from sheer embarrassment. “I feel horrible.”
He grinned. “You know you’re smiling, right?”
“Sorry. It’s not funny . . .” I bit my lip. But it kind of was?
“Well, how about this. Try this drink and tell me I’m the best mix-master in the world. But first, can I see your ID?”
“Oh. Yes, sure.” I fumbled through my small cross-body purse and handed him my driver’s license.
He took the card, looked at it like he was reading more than just my date of birth, and handed it back to me. “A Moscow mule for your . . . friend?”
I clamped down on a smile and said, “My cousin.”
“Ah. Good to know,” he replied, and smiled. “And for you? You said off-menu. I’m usually pretty good at feeling out someone’s choice of drink by a look. I’d say your taste is mild alcohol, fruity rum, tart?” he asked, his eyebrow quirked.
“I usually go for a mix of sweet and tart.” I drew the cold glass toward me. “Let’s see if you missed the mark.”
He raised a hand toward the drink, as if to say Try me, I rarely miss.
I took a tentative sip. I wasn’t prepared for the complexity exploding on my tongue and carving a name for itself by spelling out T-H-I-R-S-T-T-R-A-P. Vibrant flavors of coconut rum and peach schnapps, subtle hints of tart pineapple and orange juices, and a splash of grenadine sweetness, but there was something else in the mix that left my head whirling just a bit. In the best possible way. I took in a sharp breath.
“Is it too strong?” he asked, as if reading my mind.
I shook my head and smiled up at him, refraining from licking the taste off my lips. “Just what I needed. Okay. This was a hit, not a miss. But that might be pure luck.”
He crossed his arms, stretching the fabric of his shirt. “All right. Then let me take another shot and see what else I think you’d enjoy.” He eyed me, as if studying me down to my molecular composition to figure out what I’d like.
“But different from this one because I’m a woman of many facets,” I said.
“Absolutely. Enjoy.”
“Oh! Wait! What’s this drink called anyway? In case I want it again?” I took another sip.
He narrowed his eyes, which glistened the slightest bit between the dim of the establishment and the lights hanging over the booth. A slow, wicked smile spread across his lips. “Crotch punisher.”
I almost spat out my drink and coughed. “No, it’s not!”
“It’s called a cowboy quencher,” he said with a wink, and walked off.
Oh, damn. I might be in love.
“Where did you get that from?” Rohan asked when he returned.
“Thirst-Trap bartender,” I replied matter-of-factly, trying so very hard not to look over my shoulder.
“Are you drooling?” he teased, and pointed at my chin.
“Oh!” I wiped the spat-up drink from my face with a napkin.
Our waitress dropped off our order and I took a bite of stuffed pepper, forgetting to let it cool, and kept Rohan’s amused stare.
Heat exploded at the back of my throat and sweat trickled down my brow. I wheezed, “Not spicy at all.”
He guffawed. “Liar! Your face is red. Drink some water, you weakling.”
I gulped down water and my drink, letting the peppers cool for a bit, and dove into sharing queso with him.
I kept the conversation off my parents and on Rohan’s vague plans for the future that our parents kept prying him for. “How’s work?” I asked per usual.
“Boring,” he replied, as always.
I pushed around another popper with a fork. “Going to stick with this job?”
“I think so. Not too much work and people leave me alone. Paperwork is easy, filing away, finding errors.” He shrugged. “I’m also thinking of a food truck . . . but my mom doesn’t think I have it in me to do business and work unmanaged hours.”
“I think you do. You love to cook, so it’s something you’d enjoy. And with a food truck, you don’t have as much overhead and could work your own hours.”
He gave a smile. “Sounds like a lot of work, though, and expensive.”
I nodded. “Well, let me know if you want to brainstorm. We could list pros and cons of a food truck and figure out expenses and talk to banks about loans and lean into the market to strategize best locations and vendors.”
“I know you love some spreadsheets,” he jested.
“Forget spreadsheets! I’ll give you the other side of my dry-erase board.”
He held a hand to his chest. “How did I deserve such royal treatment?”
I stabbed a popper and pointed it at him. “Better be grateful that I love you.”
“Well, actually, Seth offered me a position here. To make up a new menu with some Rohan originals, and teach the cooks how to make them.”
I lit up. “Rohan! That’s amazing! Are you going to take it?”
He smiled sheepishly. “Don’t get too excited. I’m considering it, but I dunno. Sounds like a lot of work. And I have to get Seth’s approval before he passes me on to his brother, the owner, and he said his brother is hard to impress.”
I clucked my tongue. “Don’t overlook an opportunity when it comes to stepping toward your goals. Besides, this owner is lucky to even get your time when it comes to your cooking.”
He watched me for a moment, his lips pressed together, and nodded. I really hoped he would take Seth up on this offer, which sounded fantastic. I wanted to know details, but the way Rohan turned quiet, I knew not to push him for more.
He kept checking his phone, laughing and grinning and looking a little impish.
“Who’s the girlfriend?” I prodded.
“What? It’s my wife,” he replied.
The way he answered, smirking with a mischievous glint in his eyes, I didn’t quite know if he was joking or telling the truth. Of course, I knew he wasn’t married. Still. The way he said it . . .
I rolled my eyes and groaned, feeling a little heady after one drink. “So it’s Mohinder?”
He clucked his tongue in response.
“Is he back in town?” I bit into the last of the stuffed jalapeño smothered in whatever raspberry jam was left at the bottom of the tiny dipping bowl, bracing for the final high-heat assault.
“Yeah.”
“Why aren’t you hanging out with your bestie, then?”
He placed his phone down and looked me dead in the eye. “Because I’m here for you.”
“That’s very sweet. But you should spend time with him. He’s not in town often.”
Rohan shrugged and dunked a broken chip into a now-tepid puddle of queso. “It’s fine. I like hanging with you.”
I smiled softly. I knew he meant it. He never lied to me, but he would probably sugarcoat it a bit to spare my feelings. Yet a numbing sadness trickled down my insides and settled into the pit of my gut. Pity. And pity was almost always aimed at the pitiful.
“Stop,” he said, reading my face.
“What?”
“You’re thinking bad about yourself and that I’m here because you need someone to go out with. Well, shut your face. I’m here because I want to be here. So stop self-deprecating.”
“Sheesh. Your tough love is hard to swallow.”
“I’m awesome and I know it. And you’re awesome, too. So just do everyone a favor and accept it.” He glanced behind me as our second round of drinks arrived. Delivered by Thirst-Trap and his hot and heavy forearms.
“Thanks,” Rohan told him, exchanging his empty glass for a new one.
“Is this what you came up with?” I said, my gaze lingering with lust on the sultry red drink placed in front of me. Oh. Who could deny such a pretty thing? I dragged my gaze away to look up at the bartender.
“Yeah, we have a thing, don’t we?” Thirst-Trap said, giving a half smile. “How’s this one?”
Rohan eyed us for a second before returning to texting.
I took a tentative sip, expecting and receiving a strong sabotage of liquor and the mellow tang of cranberries and orange. I couldn’t help but laugh. “Okay. All right. Two for two.”
“Wanna try for three?” he asked.
“Sure,” I found myself saying even as the alcohol started hitting my brain cells and my tongue went a little numb with a slur. My alcohol tolerance was laughable, and this drink was about to get me tipsy. At this rate, the next one would get me on the brink of drunk and a fourth would get me karaoke drunk if I wasn’t careful.
After Thirst-Trap made sure Rohan was enjoying his drinks, he walked away. Rohan placed his phone down. I knew he was fake texting!
“Dude,” he said after a sip.
“It’s good?”
“I mean . . .” He cocked his head in Thirst-Trap’s direction.
“What? Can’t I smile at a guy without being judged? You of all people? Not as if he likes me. Just trying to get us to pay for more drinks.” I scoffed. “I’m not ditching you so he can take your innocent motiben home or anything.”
“Bros before hos.”
I laughed. “Who’s a ho?”
“Man-ho,” he stated matter-of-factly. “I know one when I see one.”
“Oh my lord . . .”
Before we knew it, our glasses were down to the last drops and Rohan waved over the waitress for his final round—with a groan, mind you, because it was a lavender drink—and I was indeed tipsy. But tipsy felt good compared to having to deal with my parents. Two drinks would soon turn into three . . . four . . . more?
The room was spinning, and my mother’s warning faded into haunting whispers dying a slow death as the music and conversations around us got louder. Ah, yes. Exactly why I wanted to get out in the first place.
I leaned back against the faux-leather booth-style seat and closed my eyes for a moment. My head was thrumming, my skin getting warmer. Despite it all, I could fall asleep.
Something clinked on the table and a shadow crossed my eyelids. I opened my eyes to find three more drinks. Rohan warily eyed his Moscow mule with a lovely sprig of lavender floating on top. In front of me were not one, but two drinks.
Damn it. How did he know I needed four drinks to get karaoke drunk?
“What’s this?” I asked Thirst-Trap, fawning over my own light purple drink topped with lavender.
Thirst-Trap stood at the edge of the table and smirked. “Lavender lemon martini to see if you’d like dry. I don’t think you usually go dry, but maybe this might persuade you.”
“God. How are you so good at this? Were you born a bartender or something?” I asked, my skin firing up every time a word slurred and tumbled off my tongue.
“At least your drink matches his.”
Rohan huffed, holding up his cup in a toast. “We look good in every shade of purple.”
