easy // p.r.

Chapter 3

"Hey," Porter says, seeming closer to me than before. I see that he's gotten off his bar stool and made his way over to me.  

Let me tell you something -- I've never been good at flirting. Evan might've ruined that, but I've always been this awkward little girl that people just don't take an instant liking to. However, I see people on television flirt, and maybe I'll try it like they do.  

"Hi," I cough out. Well, there goes my flirting technique.  

"Amy's told me a lot about you. You seem...nice," he says.  

"I'm not that nice." 

"Oh? Is that so?" He smirks and leans against the bar table. 

I chuckle half-heartedly. "Not my fault if you don't believe it." 

"Oh, trust me, I do," he says. "So why are you here?" 

"My birthday," I say. 

"Really? No way. It's my friend Anton's birthday too."  

"Oh, that's cool," I say.  

We stand in silence for probably the longest two minutes of my life when he says, "Let me buy you a drink."

That's when I start freaking out. Fuck, I think. He doesn't know about me and alcohol...See, every time I take even the slightest bit of liquor down my throat, I start acting like a complete banshee. I rarely ever get out of character, but drinking can change that real quick. 

"Oh, no, Porter, you don't understand--" I start, before he shouts "Bartender!"  

"How can I help you?" The woman says. A small, red-headed girl, she is, with the slightest bit of an Irish accent. 

"Let me get two Kamikazes, on me," he says, turning to me and winking. I can feel my heart fluttering and bouncing about in my chest, and before I can even start, I already know what he's done to me. Ugh.... 

The Irish woman finishes making our drinks and gives them to us, with Porter paying, as promised. I swirl the thin black straw around and around in the glass cup, not wanting to drink anything and act out.  

"So," he starts, taking a sip of his drink, "Where are you from? Your accent...you sound like you're British."

"Welsh," I quickly correct him. I don't want to sound too defensive, so I simply clear my throat and say, "From, uh, from Wales."

"I know what Welsh is," he says, chuckling. "I'm not stupid."

My cheeks flush bright red under the flashing neon lights as I'm overcome with embarrassment. WELL WHAT DO YOU EXPECT? He's hot, but control yourself! I think, giving myself a quick pep talk in my head. I need to just calm down, and relax.  

I see Porter's eyes flash down to my untouched drink and then back to me. "Well, you haven't tasted your drink yet."

"T-that's what I meant to tell you, I-I don't drink at all." I say, stuttering as a result of mixed embarrassment and nervousness. I can already feel myself blushing. 

Porter grasps my hand, as it lay atop of the bar, and I feel an electric shockwave go through my body. My pupils dilate in size and I look straight at him -- I doubt he can see my eyes, though, as this club is entirely too dark. 

"It's fine, Marilyn," he says. "I don't drink much when I'm here either."

"That's good to know," I say, my voice lowered. 

He leans closer to me, which turns me from a shy nuisance into an extremely paranoid and nervous wreck. I back away a little, nearly falling off the stool and keeping my mouth shut. The throbbing music stops and silence hits the floor. The DJ says something on stage, and I can't quite understand over the crowd cheering, yet it sounds like Porter's name.