Whiskey and Wine

Chapter Two: Love Man

Roman walks with his hand on my lower back. It's weird how easily the conversation flows between us. He tells me a little about his life and I tell him some about mine. About how my life used to be. The last six months seem a bit too depressing to tell him about.

A part of me is still coming to terms with them. And I'm no Debbie downer. The tragedy my life has become isn't what I want to talk about with him now. If we're destined to sleep together, my tears sure as hell aren't the mood.

On the walk over to his car, I find out that he's twenty-five, that he's recently inherited a family business and that he's missed kicking back and relaxing. This man's a walking Tinder profile page.

He says he can relax with me. That, in the few minutes he's known me, he feels himself unwinding.

I'd have questioned that, calling him out on his bullshit—but I'm feeling it too. His presence can take my problems away, at least for a time.

As he tells me this, as he talks about his problems and his stresses, I realise we have more in common than I originally thought.

I tell him that I'm twenty-two, that I've recently taken over as the head of our family business- though I don't tell him why- and that I too have been needing to kick back.

He leads me over to a black jag and opens the door for me.

I can't name the car by any intricate model. I can't look at a car and say it's a sportscar ranger 3690 X05. They're just numbers and letters to me. But as I sit in the passenger seat and peer at the controls, I know this car is made of money.

Maybe he's gotten it on credit. Maybe I'm just an idiot. Mabe he's not actually all that into me. Maybe he's a pimp and will offer me a great new life where I never have to leave my bed. That would make sense. I've been off the wagon for so long I fear he's not attracted to me at all. Maybe he just wants a friend. Maybe he'll murder me.

Do I care?

I watch him walk around the car to the driver's side and bite down on my bottom lip.

Men don't come like him. They just don't, so there has to be a downside. So far, he's been charming and sweet, funny and thoughtful. He's sinfully attractive, work driven and easy to get along with. So, what's his catch?

A weird kink?

A secret family?

A criminal record?

Please don't tell me he's a pimp.

Judging by the look of him, I'm leaning towards a terrifying kink. He oozes masculinity. The guy's a walking women attractant. It has to be something along those lines.

I can cope with a kink, so long as he doesn't try to piss in my mouth.

I prefer my showers H20 style.

His hand hesitates when he gets into the driver's seat, wavering in mid-air. Then, confidence surging, he drops it down to my thigh and gives it a squeeze.

He's awkward, like me. Like me, he's not entirely sure what he's doing. Whatever it is we're doing, he doesn't do it often.

"Where to, Ally?"

The question comes as a sore reminder because now I really don't want the night to end.

"I guess I could go home," I say.

"You guess?"

I shrug noncommittally.

"You could go home," He agrees. "Or... you could come with me and watch Dirty Dancing with sound."