All Y/n wants to do is drink herself into oblivion, but then she thinks about the last time she went into the office with a hangover. On a good day she couldn't stand to hear the project manager speak. Having to listen to his grating voice while her head throbbed was almost enough to turn her off liquor for the rest of the night. Almost.
Though she'd rather be nursing a bottle of vodka, she settles for a margarita. The buzz is weak and waning, but it's still a better feeling than the anxiety drumming in the pit of her stomach.
"There's quicker ways to get fucked up than that club soda right there," a deep, raspy voice says from behind.
"I'm not trying to get fucked up…" She throws her voice over her shoulder, but her words trail as a tattooed man comes into view and sits beside her on the barstool. "I was, um…just trying to end my day better than it started."
She doesn't mean to be rude, but she can't stop stealing glances. The bartender hands him a shot glass of something dark and he finds her eyes on him. He holds up the shot glass between them, and she looks down at gesture for an embarrassing amount of time before she catches on.
"Oh. Right." Y/n lets out a small laugh before tipping her glass to his own.
Their glasses make an audible clink, spilling some of his drink on the bar top. She watches as he downs his shot quickly and motions to the bartender for another. Her phone suddenly makes an obnoxious beeping noise, and whatever's left of her buzz is snatched away. A text from the project manager flashes across the screen: meeting at 7am.
Y/n groans and flips off her phone which elicits a low chuckle from the man next to her.
"Boyfriend?" The biker questions.
"Worse," she informs him. "My arrogant boss."
"Tell 'em to suck your dick." He shrugs as if it's the most obvious, practical response in the world.
"Ha, yeah, sure. I can't do that." Y/n laughs at the thought daydreaming about how nice it would feel to scream it in Jeff's smug face the next time she's called 'sweetheart' at the office.
"You can. You just won't."
"What do you do for a living?"
"What does it look like I do?"
Y/n snorts, wiping margarita salt from her mouth with the back of her hand. "Honestly? Mercenary work."
He grins but doesn't correct her or offer an alternative answer.
"Would you say that to your boss?"
"Nope, 'cause I respect the person I work for. He respects me."
"Well, you're one of the lucky ones. Normal people usually want to murder the people they work for." She signals to the bartender for another margarita. "Speaking of, I could kill for some food. Do you guys serve wings?"
The bartender points to the short menu above his head. "If you order two plates of wings, you get a free dessert."
Chewing the inside of her cheek, she looks at the menu. "What the hell am I going to do with all those wings?" She mutters quietly to herself, but the biker hears her.
"Never pass up a good deal." He points a finger to her as if his words are sage advice.
It's not a difficult decision, but she thinks about it carefully. Does she really want to order an ungodly amount of buffalo wings just to get a free dessert? Her stomach growls, yes, damnit! the answer is always yes!
She's more buzzed than she thinks because she then asks the biker, "You feel like wings? My treat?"
He grins, holding up his shot to her. She puts in the order for the food before clinking their glasses together again. They're an odd pair. Her in a navy pencil skirt and him with a tattoo of a snake atop his head, but they get their introductions out of the way. He goes on a small tangent on the importance of saving money. He pulls out his fat wallet which she initially believes is filled with money, but he opens a slot to reveal a mass of coupons held together by a paper clip.
"Wait a minute," she interrupts him in the middle of his speech about buying toilet paper in bulk when she catches a glimpse of his license. "Happy's not a cool nickname? That's your government name? Sorry, you must get that a lot."
"From time to time," he admits, and they begin to trade some of the weirdest names they've come across.
The food comes soon after, and she does a little dance in her seat as the wings are placed in front of them. Her phone buzzes on the table, and she sees that it's the project manager sending another text. I need you to confirm the meeting?
She rolls her eyes, breaking open a towelette to wipe the grease off her fingers.
"I dare you to tell him to suck your dick," Happy says with his mouth full.
Lydia squints, contorting her face at his comment. "You dare me? What're you? 9?"
"I'm a grown ass man who's not afraid to tell someone to suck their dick." Happy offers a shit-eating grin that is meant to goad, but she ignores him. After a lull he says, "I double dare you."
She can't help but laugh at the seriousness in his voice. The phone rings, stopping her before she can give a witty remark. Despite the urge to throw her phone in a pitcher of beer, she answers the call. "'Scuse me a second. Hi, Jeff…yes, I saw your messages, and I was actually just about to-" She closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose, as she listens to Jeff go on about the team goals and responsibilities.
It's something that he's been drilling into her mind from the moment the project began. Jeff often spoke to her as if she was another of the wet-behind-the-ears intern rather than someone who has been with the agency for years. Tonight, with liquid courage and her tattooed wingman, she works up the nerve to tell him off.
"You know what, Jeff? Suck my dick."
She sees Happy's eyebrows raise as a childlike grin tugs at the corners of his mouth.
Her own wicked satisfaction is short-lived when her heart starts beating twice as fast. She clears nothing from her throat. "Err, I said, I think I'm getting sick, but I'll be there tomorrow, bright and early. See you then!" She ends the call, clutching her shirt before Jeff can properly say goodbye. Small wing sauce smudges decorate the front of her shirt, but all she can think about is being at the back of the proverbial unemployment line.
"Pussy," he says, shaking his head with a low chuckle.
"Holy crap, why the hell did I do that? Oh, God, what if he heard me? I'm getting fired, I know it-" The rambling is quelled when Happy briefly puts up a hand in front of her face.
"Stop." There's so much authority in a single word as he speaks. Y/n has no question that when Happy tells someone to suck his dick, they immediately drop to their knees in submission. "Are you good at your job? You go in and do more than just the bare minimum?"
"Yes," she answers honestly.
"Then they ain't gonna fire you. I'm around people like that all the time. They just wanna prove how big their stick is. If you're good, then don't be afraid to show them how big yours is sometimes. Wouldn't be blowin' up your goddamn phone if you weren't essential."
Happy goes right back to eating his wings, and she envies his confidence. He's absolutely right, though his delivery could use some work. The conversation shifts when she tells him about the electric razor company her team is taking on. He starts tossing out slogans, and she almost chokes, laughing at how bad they sound.
After the meal, they decide on a slice of apple pie for their free dessert. She cuts the slice in half and they share until Y/n pushes the plate towards him. She can't look at another bite of food, and he is more than willing to accept.
Before either of them knows it, it's nearly one in the morning. The bill comes, and Happy makes no attempt to reach for his wallet.
"You're really going to let a woman pay for your meal?" she asks, signing the receipt.
He nods, "I'm secure enough in my manhood for that."
"Right. Good deals and all that." She takes an awkward breath as they share a lingering look.
His stare is brazen and obvious, letting her know exactly what's on his mind. She considers it at first. Two margaritas in and the idea of this stranger's rough hands tearing at her stockings in the bathroom of the bar is exciting. Her phone suddenly alerts her that her Uber will be there soon, and she snaps back to the reality in which she doesn't have sex in bathrooms with random guys.
She takes another breath, exhaling all the retrospectively regrettable things she wants to do. "Anyway. I should go."
"Thanks for the food." He tips another shot glass up to her, and she bows her head with a smile.
"Thanks for the company."
In the backseat of the Uber, she's already in a group text, telling her friends how she stopped in a bar and had wings with a biker named Happy.
