But I don’t.
I close my laptop and finish off my scotch as one of the man-boys spots me and smiles. The groom-to-be. I don’t smile back, but he still walks my way.
“Hey,” he says, with his own glass of scotch. “I know you.”
Shit. “Fantastic,” I say.
“You’re that news lady.”
My shoulders stiffen. News lady? Really? I open up my laptop again, hoping he’ll take the hint, but, no, this one is on a mission.
“You’re hotter in person,” he says with a crooked smile.
“You’re not,” I say.
Behind him, his little friends giggle.
“Easy,” he says. “I’m sensitive.”
“I doubt that.”
“It’s my bachelor party tonight,” he says as if this is some kind of pickup line.
“Great. My condolences.”
He laughs. “I’m still available tonight.”
“No,” I say, looking him in the eye an uncomfortable amount of time. “My condolences to the woman who bought your line of bullshit.”
His face changes. He knows now I’m not playing, and he doesn’t strike me as the type women normally say no to.
“Yikes.” He sips his drink and leans in. My Taser is just on the inside of my tote. One quick move would deliver a jolt between his legs. He lowers his voice and says, “I guess you just like sleeping with your bosses, right? Isn’t that the story I heard about you?”
My jaw hardens, but I keep my face a blank slate and just stare at him. I stare at him until he takes a step back. Good boy. I’m used to this type of assault online. So many cowards commented about how I slept my way to the top that I have to turn off comments when I post. It’s the anchor I drag around with me, and I kind of have to give it to this douchebag for actually having the balls to say it to my face.
“You can go away now,” I say.
Bachelor Boy frowns. “Bitch,” he mumbles as he walks back to the bar.
He doesn’t know I take that as a compliment.
Before I look back at my laptop, another guy at the bar eyes me. He’s not with them, and when I catch him staring, he blushes and looks back at his glass of white wine. The Golden Retriever. He’s following me around more than Uno, Dos, and Tres.
I’m considering walking over to him when the front doors slide open again and Carl hurries in, carrying several black bags and pulling my large suitcase. He’s followed by the very young Erin Stockwell.
Chapter Seventeen
Riverbend, Louisiana
Friday, February 15, 2019
7:06 p.m. CST
Erin Stockwell walks into the lobby of the Kingston with exactly zero swagger, looking like she’s dressed for a business casual barbecue. Khaki pants, sensible shoes, and a white button-up shirt. I have yet to see her on camera, but I hope she tries harder than this on those days.
None of the guys at the bar look her way when she enters, and there’s an uncomfortable, competitive voice in my head that takes note of that.
Carl looks around and spots me.
