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Bringing the glass to my lips, I see him out of the corner of my eye staring at me with amusement.
C’mon, Gabriella, you can do it.
Three.
Two.
One.
And drink.
Five
Oliver
It was a great night until she walked in.
A few blokes sit around me watching an old Manchester United game airing on the flat-screen television located above the bar. We bonded over beers, our frustration over the penalty kick, and despite my initial hunt to get laid tonight, I’m content just drinking a schooner and unwinding with same-minded company.
Jerry, the Irish backpacker with the mouth of a sailor, decides to take a piss leaving the barstool beside me empty. Honestly, I’m beginning to enjoy the break from his profanity until she stumbles into the bar wearing a tight, little black dress and high heels that ride up her lean legs just shy of her knees. Her long, reddish curls bounce as she moves around, making every man and his dog turn their eyes toward where she stands.
She has an infectious laugh, unaware her grand entrance along with her group of friends is causing a scene. None of them seem fazed by the attention, especially the chick with the short, white dress and sash, who practically throws herself at the bar and demands a drink. She turns to face me, flashes her tits to catch my attention, but I don’t waver. It seems to piss her right off.
“You’re hot,” she tells me with an unintentional burp following. Giggling, she covers her mouth. “Oops.”
I don’t do fake tits, sweetheart.
Then, curly pulls up beside me, oblivious she’s standing so dangerously close to me, I can practically smell her skin. It smells fucking good, something girly but oh so fucking sweet.
In the corner of my eye, I can see she’s struggling to compose herself, barely able to stand straight, relying on the bar for support. Judging by her indecisive nature to order a drink, I assume this is common behavior for her. A typical American girl. I bet she’s going to fangirl over my accent and throw herself at me.
Until she doesn’t.
She has a chip on her shoulder, and it’s a large one at that.
I’ve rubbed her up the wrong way, and when it comes to playing the game of cat and mouse, you’re dealing with the master.
I throw down a twenty, paying for her beer until she voices her offense at my rude gesture which then forces me to up the ante. Now, to be clear, I have no idea if she will chug the whole glass to prove a point. I assume she will do that girl-pout thing then call defeat.
Fuck, was I wrong.
I pull out the money I owe her after the bet, reluctantly handing it over which she happily accepts.
“You know, it’s rude to assume my accent is fake. As an Australian, I’m offended,” I retort, watching her lick the remnants of the glass.
“Fine, then, let me test you?” She places the glass on the countertop, flicking her hair away from her face as she gazes at me with curiosity. “Do you put shrimp on the barbie?”
My expression remains flat. A pathetic first attempt. “Firstly, we call them prawns, not shrimp. And secondly, I like to throw a good snag on the barbie.”
“Snag?” She laughs, almost snorting. “What kind of made-up word is that?”
“S.A.U.S.A.G.E.S,” I annunciate. “It’s an abbreviation.”
“Fine, so while you’re eating your ‘snags’…” she uses air quotes, “… do you cuddle with your pet kangaroo?”
I roll my eyes. This girl is a piece of work. “Sure, if I want to get throat punched. Sweetheart, give up now while you still have some dignity.”
Her laughter stops, and she slows until she looks ready to hurl right in front of me. The color of her face drains almost to a pale white.
