Page 4 of Bewitching Her Monsters
Left with very few choices this late at night, I’ll go to the bar down the street with a limited after-dinner hours menu. Then I’ll grab a few items at the 24-hour market on the way back for tomorrow’s meals.
Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am, problem solved.
I look down at my outfit and realize I’ll have to put something else on. A dirty and now fur-covered sweatshirt and pajama bottoms won’t cut it, not even this late at night.
I change into yoga pants and a clean sweatshirt. Yeah, I know it’s not a big step up, but I at leastappearcleaner than I did a moment ago.
I grab my e-tablet for notes, hoping the odd characters who often frequent my neighborhood bar might inspire me.
Slipping into my well-loved and aged green ’69 Mustang with my engine purring, I drive the short ride to the bar. Yes, I did buy it because it was a sixty-nine.
From the parking lot, I see that the dive bar is busier than normal. Despite that, I easily find a table with a good vantage point to watch the other patrons.
Jimmy, the old barkeeper, nods to me as I sit down. He’s an odd duck but registers as relatively harmless on my douche-o-meter.
The long bar is filled with regulars. Most of them are guys in their mid-thirties and forties. They don’t bother with me anymore since I’ve turned them all down at some point. They aren’t a bad lot, but I have to have some spark for a potential date. And even though a couple of them are attractive and seem nice enough, I felt nothing for them.
The floor server, Lora, brings me a hot herbal tea set up without needing to ask if I want it. “The usual tonight, Jade?” she asks with a big grin. Lora doesn’t mind me taking up space for hours since it isn’t often busy this late at night, and I always leave a generous tip.
“Sure, thanks,” I say, glancing around the dimly lit room as she walks away.
My attention instantly darts across the sea of tables to the entrance. It’s as if gravity has become a vortex, and I’m falling into its well. I think I may have stopped breathing.
Four men—no, these are notmeremen—file in the door and sit down, mostly facing me in the large, round corner booth. These guys seem to have walked right out of one of my novels. They’re so good-looking that I have to turn away since it’s like staring directly into the sun.
Their sheer hotness has burned my retinas.
My skin flushes. My mouth goes dry as something else gets wet. My clit perks up, begging for attention.
To distract my body from any more inappropriate reactions, I slurp my tea.
Crap!It’s too hot, and I scald my tongue and choke.
I’m waving at my face to stop my freak out. If they look over at me now, I may just die. My obituary will read: “She died horny, survived only by her closest friend, her vibrator, Mr. O’Mygawd.”
I take a deep breath, turning my gaze out my window and do my best to ignore the romance cover models, who are (weirdly) in some neighborhood dive bar in the middle of the night.
Light bulb!
This is perfect for my writer’shump.
An avalanche of questions hit me. But the first one is:whatis the hot squad doinghere?Of all places?
As I sip some water, I casually glance around the room, skimming my eyes over them again.
Damn. Their presence feels like an electric shock to my body every time I look in their direction. I thought that only happened in books. And yes, I confirm my earlier assessment… they are perfection incarnate.
I power up my tablet and take notes on their appearance.
On my third slow perusal, I go deeper with my assessment. It helps that I’m becoming accustomed to their stupidly ridiculous attractiveness.
I need to continue staring to desensitize myself, right?
The first guy sits on the edge of the circular booth, looking as if he’s ready to bolt out the door. His strong jaw is clenched, and his knee is bouncing with frustration.
The wordalphaholepops into my mind. Got to have one of them in the story.
He has short, dark brown hair sticking up as if he’s been running his finger through it in agitation. His golden-brown eyes seem to glow with passion and intensity. Roguish stubble covers his strong jawline. He’s wearing a black t-shirt that strains against his muscular chest and biceps.
