Elbows on the bar, Nicole scowled into her empty glass. Shorty's was particularly loud this evening, and she was having none of it. Besides, she'd finished her beer.
"Another one?" someone asked. Nicole flapped her hand absently, and continued to stew while she waited for her next drink to arrive. Why the hell'd she even come to this backwater town? It had seemed like such a good idea at the time. Her last breakup had been a bad one; they'd shared everything - an apartment, the cat, their friends. After months of a dead sex life and increasingly passive-aggressive treatment of one another, they'd finally called it quits, and everyone - all of Nicole's long-term friends, everyone she knew in the city - had to pick sides. Nicole wasn't sure what her ex had said, how she'd been portrayed as the sole villain in the whole scenario, but somehow it'd turned out that she'd lost her home, her furniture, her Vita-Mix, and all her damn friends.
At least the ex let her keep the cat.
"House ale," the bartender said, setting down the pint glass hard enough that beer sloshed over the side.
"Thanks," Nicole mumbled, sullenly drawing on the bar with her fingertips in spilled beer. She'd been vulnerable, that's what'd happened. Alone and lonely, angry and heartbroken, and then Nedley's recruitment offer had come in. She hadn't even taken a minute to look at a map before accepting. A new town, a province over, where she knew no-one and could just do her damn job and not worry about matters of the heart. The idea of cutting and running, building a new life and a new self, was pretty enticing. Maybe she'd become a lone wolf and learn to ride a motorcycle or something.
She'd been top of her class at the Justice Institute, with great exam scores, and a real chance to work her way up on the force in the city where people would take her seriously. Instead, she'd taken this job in the cold-as-hell boonies. Purgatory had to be, she thought, one of the smallest towns in the country that had its own Police Department instead of relying on the RCMP for enforcement. Probably because of the demons.
Her first glimpse of Waverly had been like a promise. She hadn't been here long, but long enough to have learned that the lone wolf lifestyle wasn't for her. A few weeks or a month away from women, and one look at that smile had turned her heart over in her chest. She took a long swig of her beer; a drop or three spilled on to the collar of the sweater she'd hastily pulled over her uniform shirt after a too-long day at the precinct.
It's always easy to be confident when you don't think there's a chance in hell. Just flirt a little with the straight girls to keep yourself entertained, she'd thought. Yeah, sure. Great idea.
Small town, small minds. Waverly had been such a breath of fresh air. Sass, sunshine, and that beautiful brain - not to mention her tight abs. Something to fixate on, just a little. Something other than work to fill her time. The police work was really pretty boring anyway - drunk guys peeing on buildings, neighbours parking in front of each other's driveways out of spite, and the occasional jaywalker just to keep things interesting. Waverly was a break from all that. A little crush to keep her occupied.
Nicole had never expected it to go anywhere. She'd never expected that adorable, hilarious little vixen to question her whole world and commit to dating some redheaded cop from out of town. Hell, they'd still barely known each other when Waverly'd come out to her sister and then they were already in so deep. Sure, Nicole had started it - she'd been too excited about the unlikeliness of this, about the ray of sunshine in her otherwise-grey life. She'd certainly been guilty of getting drawn in to a relationship too quickly before, but she should've guessed that Waverly – the girl who'd spent her whole life trying to be what she thought people wanted – would do the same thing to her.
Draining her beer, Nicole cringed a little, thinking of Waverly's baby talk, her cutesy mannerisms, the way she'd picked up on calling Nicole "baby". Nicole had always hated being called "baby", but hell, Nicole'd said it first.
She pushed her empty pint glass away and looked around for the bartender. It was that cute girl with the long dark hair and the eyes - what was her name? Rosie or something. Rose. Rosita! That was it. Doc was there, behind the bar, chatting with someone else, but Nicole couldn't catch his attention. She wanted another beer and there was no-one available to pour her one. Her scowl deepened.
She'd really tried to make it work with Waverly. The girl was stunning, and athletic, and so magnetic. Utterly lovable in every way. A real girl-next-door prom queen type, with this undeniable sexiness and comfort in her body that, when she could flip the switch, lit Nicole up like a pinball machine. The first time she'd called Nicole "girlfriend", and Nicole'd gotten the feeling that this was really happening, this wasn't just some straight girl experimenting - it'd taken her breath away. She'd been so damn excited. But the cloying sweetness, the cotton-candy cuteness, had become too much. At first it'd been alright - in the way that early on in a relationship, things come across as cute and quirky; but as time wore on it'd become a major turn-off. It hadn't felt... real.
And the frustrating thing was that it wasn't like it was all the time. It ebbed and flowed. Sometimes Waverly was baby-talking and pouting, and then other times she was a bombshell, a femme fatale, swinging her hips in a cheerleading uniform without any panties on, leaving Nicole uncomfortably warm before a long shift.
Nicole had a theory that Waverly had previously only dated moron guys who had never respected her mind, and so she'd just had no other way to relate to people she dated. She had no experience with it. After all, she'd been devastatingly attractive to Nicole - exactly Nicole's type: smart, fit, sexy and so damn aware of it - but then she'd started calling her those cloying pet names. "My best baby". Ugh. Everything about it had just been so awkward… so unnatural and forced. Like Waverly was trying to reconfigure her own identity too fast, with too much else going on in her life, pushing square pegs into round holes and telling everyone it fit just fine.
Or maybe Waverly just didn't know how to relate to another woman.
There she was, finally! The bartender. Rosita. She was lugging a keg from the direction of some storeroom, hauling it behind the bar, her sleeveless shirt revealing muscular arms. Strong as hell, this bartender. She was glistening a little from the exertion. Nicole watched her work for a moment, appreciating the light playing off her skin, and the practiced way she moved behind the bar - no unnecessary movements, everything efficient and confident. Nicole gave her head a shake and waved her down. "Rosita!"
Rosita looked up from where she was tapping the keg, and then over to Doc, who was still engrossed in chatting with some young woman at the bar. She shook her head, annoyed. "Yeah. One sec."
"Another ale, please," Nicole said when the bartender stood, and Rosita gave her a little half smile, wiping her hands on her apron.
"Don't you think you've had enough?"
Nicole let out a big sigh. "I've had three beers—"
"Four," Rosita interjected, raising an eyebrow.
"Okay, four, and I'm having a real shitty day. You have no idea."
"Try me," Rosita said, leaning forward with her elbows on the bar, her gaze warm and direct, her eyes on Nicole's. "I've seen you at my bar nearly every day for the last two weeks." She gestured toward the keg she'd just changed. "All you, I'm pretty sure. What's eating you?"
"Um," Nicole started, uncomfortably aware of Rosita's nearness and warmth. She had suddenly become aware of a slight spicy scent, as well - like cinnamon and clove.
"Let me guess," Rosita offered. "Breakup?"
Nicole sighed again, in that resigned "you got me" way, and threw her hands up. "So sue me if I'm drowning my sorrows a bit. I don't have to work tomorrow. Let me have this one."
Rosita gave a short laugh. "Girl, I get it. Okay, one more, but it's on the house, so it's my choice."
Rosita moved away with a sway of her hips, and reached up to grab a couple of bottles off a shelf behind the bar. She put them down on the bar in front of Nicole - an Irish whiskey and an unlabeled bottle with a cloudy green liquid in it.
Nicole raised her glance to the bartender's. "What's this?"
"It's my trick for a shitty day. I've never had one of these and then gone on to have a bad night. They're a little bit magic." She grabbed four shot glasses and placed them down on the bar beside the bottles, her hands moving over the glassware confidently. Nicole watched her pour them out - two shots from the Irish whiskey bottle, and two from the mystery bottle. As soon as the liquid streamed out from the bottle, Nicole got the distinct scent of pickles.
"Is that pickle juice?" she asked, incredulous. Rosita gave her a little wink and passed two shots over to her - one of each.
"The whiskey first," she said, tapping the shot with her fingertip, "and then the pickle juice. I know it sounds gross, but you've got to trust me."
Nicole grimaced a little, but in good humour, and raised her whiskey shot. Rosita tapped her glass against Nicole's and smiled at her. "Bottoms up!"
The whiskey created a little fire on Nicole's tongue and in her throat - it wasn't good stuff, just the cheap well whiskey. Mirroring Rosita, she followed it immediately with the shot of pickle juice, bracing herself to make a face. Surprisingly, however, it mellowed out the fire of the whiskey, and brought out the caramel notes in the cheap liquor. She must have looked as astonished as she felt.
"It's good, right?" Rosita used her tongue to get the last little bit of pickle juice out of the shot glass and then placed it down on the bar, her fingertips sliding along the glass. Nicole watched it happen, and then looked up, distracted by Rosita's mouth, wet from the drink. "Now," the bartender continued, "the rule is that you can't have a shitty night. No more frowning. Once you've had a pickleback you have to have fun."
Nicole looked around with a short laugh, at the drunk young men playing pool, the group of middle-aged women flailing uncoordinatedly to the music in a little space they'd carved out as a dance floor, the old guys drinking themselves into a stupor in the corner. "Which lucky new friends should I start my excellent night with, do you think?"
Nicole could have sworn Rosita's answering smile was a little devilish. "Are those your only options?"
Nicole laughed and stood, swaying just slightly, and Rosita rounded the bar, making a show of steadying Nicole with a hand on her hip. Suddenly they were very near each other, and Nicole was a little drunk. As sometimes happened in these moments when she thought she didn't have a chance in hell, something slipped out. "Well, if I have to have fun… You seem like fun."
Rosita's hand moved up to the small of her back, and Nicole leaned in, brushing the front of her body against Rosita's. She flicked her eyes between Rosita's dark, rich gaze and her full mouth, and Rosita's breath came a little fast and shallow. It had only been a second or two, but Rosita bit her lip, looked over her shoulder to make sure Doc was still working the bar, and said, "My place is just around the corner."
xxx
They crashed, breathless, through the front door, Rosita blindly groping for the light switch, keys in hand, without coming up for air. They devoured each other, Rosita's teeth pulling Nicole's lip, the kisses hard and hungry. Nicole pushed Rosita's coat off her shoulders and on to the floor, baring her shoulders, her throat, the swell of her breasts above the low cut of her shirt. She wrapped one arm around Rosita's waist, pulling her in; Nicole ran her other hand through Rosita's hair, gripping her at the base of her skull and tilting her head back, grazing her teeth over Rosita's throat and kissing her collarbone, her sternum, grazing her mouth over the exposed flesh of her breasts.
Rosita was moving them backwards, into the apartment, and they tripped over the edges of rugs and discarded shoes, not taking their hands or mouths off of each other. Rosita pulled Nicole's sweater up and over her head, mussing her hair and breaking the contact of their mouths for the smallest moment, and then her hands were busy with Nicole's buttons, impatiently pulling each one open as Nicole's mouth traveled down the front of her body.
Finally shrugging out of the sleeves of her shirt, Nicole slid her hands up Rosita's tank top and over her taut belly, pushing it off of her. She snapped off Rosita's bra in one quick movement - some black demi-cup thing, of course, unerringly sexy - to reveal her breasts, and her mouth found them as her hands kept moving down. Nicole grabbed Rosita by the hips and pushed up her skirt, pulling her in and pushing her own thigh between Rosita's legs, her fingers questing between Rosita's thighs, finding her warmth and wetness. Rosita pulled them backwards to tumble on to her unmade bed.
xxx
Nicole awoke to the prairie winter sun streaming pale yellow and harsh through the window. She raised her hand and blinked sleepily as it blinded her, aware of a pounding headache rattling around in her skull. Her mouth was dry and tasted like a brewery. She groaned and rolled over, her eyes still half-closed, groping for her phone. She nearly fell out of the unfamiliar bed before realizing she wasn't at her own apartment.
Oh. Oh shit. Right. The bartender.
Rosita, with the salty skin, the softly swelling breasts, the tiny waist. Her thighs on Nicole's shoulders, the feel of the knit of her high socks against Nicole's collarbone. Her strong back, the way it arched as Nicole had run fingers down her spine, her hand busy between Rosita's legs. Grinning stupidly at the memory of exceptional sex, Nicole searched the floor and found her phone in the puddle of her work khakis. Two messages.
"Had to work - thx for last night! Leave the key in the mailbox. CU around. xoxo - P.S. You didn't pay for your beers"
Well, shit, looks like she'd at least gotten a phone number.
And then the next message. Her heart rose to her throat and her stomach, already roiling, dropped to her knees. Waverly.
"I miss you. Can we talk?"