Series: Cobalt Empire Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 234
Estimated words: 226965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1135(@200wpm)___ 908(@250wpm)___ 757(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 226965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1135(@200wpm)___ 908(@250wpm)___ 757(@300wpm)
I peek over at Ben.
He’s bending over the bar to hear orders through the commotion. Ben is such a guy’s guy that the group of dudes all laugh at whatever he says. I’d say they recognize his fame status, but they’re not doing the usual “You’re Ben Cobalt! Bro, no way?!” shock-routine.
No one seems to register a Cobalt is behind the bar.
Ben and these dudes casually knuckle-bump like they’re fucking friends. They even bro-pat his shoulder before he goes to grab a bottle of whiskey from the shelf behind me.
He checks on me with a brief glance, and concern twitches his brows.
I give him a waist-high thumbs-up, not wanting him to worry. Do I envy his impressive social skills? Yeah. Do I wish they’ve rubbed off on me? Also yes.
But I’m still a capable bitch-faced individual. I’ve got this.
“Open a tab or close?” I ask the couple after they hand me their credit card.
“Close.”
The gruff beefy dude bellows out an obnoxiously loud laugh with his friends. It puts me on edge since he was disgruntled two seconds ago. They aren’t laughing at you, Harriet. I close out the couple, their beers already in hand.
Beefy Dude and his friends hastily take their spots. Then he motions to me like he’s not right in front of my face. “Hey, we’re next.” He points at his head.
“What can I get you?”
“What’s got you so fucking mad?” he snaps.
What would Ben do? I shrug. “The Yankees just lost.”
“Damn right.” They all start to smile and up-down me like I’m cool. A fellow dejected sports fan and not at all a moody bitch.
“You want a beer?” I ask, hoping to move this drunken train along the tracks. Somewhere far, far away from me.
Beefy Dude appraises me to where my bones instantly rust. He laughs a little to himself, then points to an expensive bourbon. “A double. On the rocks.” The bottle is on the highest shelf.
I grind my teeth, seeing him snicker. Let’s see the five-foot-one girl try to reach the top-shelf bourbon. How hilarious.
I look to Ben for help—it’s an instinct now.
He sees me and up-nods. I point to the bourbon, and he’s quick to come behind me and grab the liquor.
“No, man,” Beefy Dude stops Ben. “Put it back. She’s got it.”
Ben is unamused. His pissed-off glare drills into Beefy Dude. He hands me the liquor bottle, not listening to the asshole.
“Thanks,” I tell him.
Ben remains on my side of the bar. His supreme stare-down is shaking Beefy Dude’s friends. They’re starting to detach from him, but this guy isn’t reading the room. I’m sure the beer goggles aren’t helping, but being drunk doesn’t excuse being a total dick.
I’m about to pour a double, but Beefy Dude exclaims, “Nah, I don’t want that anymore. I’ll take that one.” He jabs a finger toward another top-shelf bourbon. His smug smirk crawls under my skin. Anger smolders in my lungs. I’m sure I’m glowering, but he does not give a shit. He just tells Ben, “She’s got it this time. We have a thing going, me and her.” His drunk eyes fall to me. “Isn’t that right?”
“No,” I deadpan.
“Yeaaah we do. We’re connecting here.” He laughs. “I know you can jump for it. Go on, jump.” He stares at my tits in preparation for me to bounce.
“You can leave,” Ben states firmly. His glare never loses scathing heat.
“Whoa, I have every right to get a fuckin’ drink.”
“We have every right to refuse you service when you’re harassing—”
“Harassing? For fuck’s sake, I’m just trying to get a drink!” Look at that sudden memory loss. He’s puffed up with hostile aggravation, and his friends butt up to the bar, apologizing on his behalf.
“No, he needs to go.” Ben has now pushed his way in front of me, shielding me from the situation.
“I did nothing,” Beefy Dude bemoans. “What kind of fucking place even has high schoolers serving alcohol?”
“We’re in college, and you can get the fuck out.”
Again, they try to reason with Ben, but he’s on a firm line they’re not shoving him off. His bodyguard has risen from his usual table near the entrance.
All I see are the many paying customers being disturbed by Beefy Dude’s outburst, and they’re simply just trying to enjoy Ghostbusters, their pints, their friends, and their Sunday night.
“Ben, it’s fine,” I cut in.
His head swings down to me, confusion hardening his features. “No, Harriet—”
“Just give him a beer and tell them they can sit in the back if they don’t bother anyone.”
He does not like this. So I’m shocked when he listens to me, relays the statement, and pours a beer from a tap and opens them a tab. Tension is all over his face. He returns the credit card to Beefy Dude’s friend with a warning still in his pinpointed gaze.