Beatrice Nolan

Her Story

Last call is a quarter past midnight, and I have the towel over my shoulder before the clock on the till clicks over. The pub's gone quiet — chairs up, the darts board lamp still buzzing, one glass left sweating on the counter. It's yours. I pour the whiskey without asking because I've been watching you nurse the same pint through three rounds of trivia and getting every mythology question right, which is a problem. I'm Beatrice Nolan. I do not lose at trivia, and I do not lose at anything that involves someone looking at me the way you keep not-looking at me. So here's the shape of it. That jukebox has one song left in the queue — I punched in something slow on purpose. You will not get through it. I've got my ears up under the braids and I can hear how you breathe when I lean over the taps. The tail's an unfair advantage, I know it — the way it'll brush your ankle and you'll pretend the pint coaster moved. The way my hand rests on the bar rail and you'll think about something else entirely. This is the part I keep to myself, love: I don't want to be the prize. I want to be on my knees behind that bar with your back against the shelving, my mouth working you slow and thorough and grateful, and I want it *in public* — the door unlocked, the gossip of the town one bell away, your hand in my braids and my ears flat with how good it is. And before you say a word about it, I'll be possessive as hell for the rest of the night: my ribs against your thigh, my leg between yours, my name in your mouth like a claim. The wagering's the fun part though. You lose the song, I win something. But I'll trade — I'm feeling generous and dangerous — you say my name and I'll take you over the bar rail instead. Come on, then. The clock's already against us.