Felicity and Oliver are not together in this fic...just friends. Slow burn!
"If you're feeling down, I can feel you up."
Felicity looked up from the tablet screen that had held her undivided attention for the last hour, as she reviewed the alert system she had placed on all of Malcolm Merlyn's offshore bank accounts, one of which had mysteriously become active again. She sighed, turning an exasperated eye towards the man who had just delivered the worst pick-up line she had ever heard. He was half a head taller than her, with sandy blond hair and hazel eyes—certainly attractive enough, but she was not in the mood to be hit on. That, and even if she was, a line like that was never going to cut it. Besides, Malcolm Merlyn was supposed to be dead, but seeing as Starling City seemed to have the most active Lazarus Pit in the world, she was eager to determine who exactly was accessing the accounts, and more importantly, why.
"I'm working, actually," she said, resting her chin on her hand and leaning her elbow on the bar counter, an irritated look plastered on her face. She waved her hand in front of him, channeling her inner Obi Wan Kenobi. "I am not a girl you want to be hitting on." He threw her a confused look, and she resisted the urge to slap her forehead at her brilliant Star Wars reference falling flat. What a moron.
Flashing her a grin that only succeeded in making him seem sleazier, he held his credit card up with two fingers and waved it at the bartender, Nick, who approached cautiously, eyes locked on Felicity. She smiled reassuringly at him as if to say, "I got this. Don't worry." In other words, don't tell Oliver, or Diggle, or Roy...or Sara, for that matter. Nick was her bartender-of-choice on Sara's nights off. He always made sure her coffee cup was at least halfway full with the Free Trade Colombian Dark Roast she had ordered for Verdant after her first sip of the offensive sludge their menu listed as coffee. She never cleared it with Oliver. It wasn't like he would notice—adrenalin was his preferred way of coping with their nighttime activities; caffeine, ice cream, and the occasional Anthropologie shopping spree was hers. Since she spent so much time at the club, changing the coffee bean order and purchasing a ridiculously-priced Clover Brewing Machine both seemed like worthwhile investments. Working for a billionaire had its perks.
"You look like a Sex-on-a-Beach kind of girl," the man leered, throwing her a look that she could only assume was meant to be seductive. She pressed her lips together in a straight line, tilting her head at him, trying to figure out how he possibly thought anyone would fall for this act. "One Sex-on-the-beach, one Scotch." He directed his order to Nick, who nodded tensely in response.
She noted the tan line of a wedding band on his finger as he handed his card over, her eyes darting quickly to the name printed up front. It dawned on her she knew exactly what Calvin Patterson was after: a one-night stand. She was so the wrong girl to deliver that. A divorce, on the other hand...
"Both for him, Nick. I'm not a Sex-on-the-Beach kind of girl." Her tone was dry and even.
"Maybe a Sloppy Pussy then." His eyes darted down, landing on the area just above the hemline of her skirt. She felt her cheeks flush, not in embarrassment but in anger. It didn't escape her attention that she was being mentally undressed, a fact he didn't bother to hide as his eyes scanned her body, lingering on her chest. She officially needed a shower.
Over his shoulder, she noticed Oliver watching. Glaring might be the better word—jaw clenched, lips forming a tight line, corners ticked downwards, eyebrows furrowed. She had forgotten he was meeting with Thea about club business, which meant he would nod once in awhile in agreement as his sister rattled off updates about alcohol shipments, employee shift changes, and musical talent bookings, none of which he would remember the moment they walked into the Foundry. If she didn't do something to get rid of Calvin Patterson soon, he would inevitably end up as the Arrow's warm-up exercise for the night. And while that was definitely appealing, it was also morally questionable; she had promised herself early on not to use her boss's super talent for personal gain. Eyes locked on Oliver's, she moved her head slowly from left to right, giving him a look that told him to stay where he was and resume the charade that he actually cared whether or not Verdant turned a profit. He rolled his eyes in response, his arms now coming up over his chest, but he acquiesced just like she knew he would. For the meantime, anyway.
A glass was set down, dark orange on the bottom, transparent liquid swirling at the top. Nick threw Felicity an apologetic smile. "Actually, Nick, I'm going to need a Painkiller Recipe." She smiled sweetly. "I have a killer headache."
Sara had introduced her to the drink. It was the perfect combination of coconut, orange, pineapple, and rum. It had been months since Felicity had one, due in part to the killer hangover (only the second in her lifetime) that she nursed the last time she went on a drinking binge (if four drinks could count as a binge, but in her defense, she downed them in under an hour on an empty stomach). She cringed as she flashed back to the day after, when she walked into Queen Consolidated cursing the abundance of glass windows that failed to filter the sun, the brightness converting the mild throbbing in her head to full-blown pounding. But Oliver had showed up with a Bloody Mary and a pretzel, which would have made for a sweet memory, except that he also managed to ruin it with a quip about how awesome it was to see her on the opposite end of the sober spectrum, where she usually found him.
"Maybe I could help you with that." Calvin took a sip of his drink, his eyes still glued on her. "My head hurts too…just looking at you." She knew from his tone which head he meant, and it wasn't the one that housed his wandering eyes.
"I'm pretty sure you caused it." She turned her attention down to her tablet and got to work, her fingers gliding deftly over the electronic keyboard. It was time to take Calvin Patterson down.
"Well then it's only right that I help you get rid of it." He reached over, his hand clasping the nape of her neck in an attempt to give her a massage. Her head jerked instinctively when his fingers made contact with her skin. He was oblivious to the fact that he had just waved a red flag in front of a raging bull. From the corner of her eye, she could already make out Oliver's six-foot-one figure making his way towards them, Arrow gameface on, trying his best to squeeze in between the drunk, scantily-clad females and equally drunk opportunistic males gyrating on the dance floor. One girl, dressed in a barely there sheer lace top, literally threw herself at him. Felicity had never been so glad that Oliver had that effect on women; it would buy her the time she needed.
"You almost done with your work? I'd be happy to take you home. All the way home." Calvin winked and then took another sip of his drink.
Gross. He just bought himself a null and void pre-nup, she thought to herself. But first things first.
In a matter of seconds, she had Calvin Patterson booked for the Honeymoon Suite and purchasing a few bottles of some very expensive wine, which happened to add up to the credit limit on the card he had just handed Nick.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Patterson, but your card's been declined," Nick appeared, amusement evident in his tone.
Calvin furrowed his brows in confusion, and then he was scrambling for the phone that was buzzing in his coat pocket. The look of horror that flashed on his face as he answered it let Felicity know that his wife had received the anonymous video she sent. Valerie Patterson's husband apparently spent many a night with some very friendly strippers at The Bottoms Up Gentlemen's Club. Lucky for her, some pretty damning evidence made it into her inbox, effectively rendering the pre-nup that protected his millions useless. Strip Club cameras: yet another thing Felicity didn't think she would ever be grateful for.
She was practically giddy as she watched Calvin Patterson storming away from her, confidence drained from his face and replaced with dread. But just for good measure, she pointed his way and called out to the bartender. "Hey Nick…he didn't pay, did he?" Nick shook his head, grinning at her, and motioned for the bouncers just as Oliver arrived at her side.
He clicked his tongue as he approached. "Not a keeper?"
"Didn't I tell you to stay put? Really, Oliver, dogs can be trained easier than you," she mused.
"He seemed sleazy."
"He was. But seeing as he didn't have a needle full of Vertigo pointed at my neck, I really didn't need you."
He gave her a sharp nod. "I see that."
She picked up her drink with one hand, taking a sip and closing her eyes as the flavors settled on her tongue. Perfection...but she would stop at one this time. A triumphant smile on her lips, Felicity waved her hand slowly in front of him. "This is not a girl who needs saving, Oliver."
He grinned, recognition flashing in his eyes. "The Force is strong with you."
"And here I thought you weren't paying attention."
"Felicity," he said, an amused smile on his lips. "I'm always paying attention."
For those waiting for the sequel of "Normal is Overrated," I still intend to write one but it's been tough to get the story moving. Thank you for your patience. So, in the meantime, I am trying to get some writing practice in with this drabble...which, hopefully, you guys enjoyed. Oh, and Sloppy Pussy and Painkiller Recipes are, apparently, actual drinks. As usual, THANK YOU FOR READING, and if you enjoyed the story, please leave a review. On days when I want to stop doing this, the reviews really help propel me forward.