The Two Week Stand by Samantha Towle

two

West

I notice her the moment she walks in the bar. She’s hard to miss for a few reasons. One, she’s clearly drunk and trying to act like she’s sober. It shows in the rigidness of her walk. Two, she’s wearing a hell of a lot of clothes for this kind of heat. Even at night, it’s hot as balls here, and this chick is wearing black leggings and a long-sleeved black shirt, like we’re in for a cold flash. And three, which probably should have been the first thing I listed … she’s hot as fuck. She reminds me a little of Selena Gomez. Long, dark, wavy hair. She’s tiny, but compared to me, a lot of women are. At a distance, I’d say she’s five-three, max. For a short chick, she has surprisingly longish legs that would fit nicely around my waist. I have a mental flash of her pressed against a wall with me up against her, my cock buried deep inside her, those legs of hers tightly hugging my hips.

My dick twitches. I bat the image aside. Every woman on this island is either married or has a boyfriend, and attached women are not my thing. Neither are drunk ones.

Taking a sip of my cold beer, I watch her navigate her way toward the bar, where I’m perched on a stool. It’s cute, seeing her try to walk in a straight line. She’s already stumbled twice—over thin air.

Reaching the bar a few feet away from me, she leans her stomach against it, and I get a side shot of her chest. She has decent-sized tits.

“Bartender.” She slaps her hand down on the bar top. “Drink me.” She’s English.

There are quite a few Brits on the island. As an American, I’m a rarity here. The flight here from the States is an absolute fucker, so it’s not the first vacation destination on our list, which is exactly why I chose to come here.

And if I didn’t already know that the little Brit over there was drunk, I’d know from that little word fuckup and the slight slur to her voice.

I share an amused look with the bartender, who is already making a drink at my end of the bar for the couple seated outside.

Yes, I’ve been that bored. Even though this was the perfect place to come for some privacy and quiet time, I didn’t take into account the lack of shit to actually do here.

Well, I say I’m bored. But I’m not now that the gorgeous little drunk Brit showed up.

“Pretty sure he’s supposed to serve you, not drink you.” I put my bottle to my lips and tip it back.

The bluest eyes I have ever seen look my way.

I feel this strange tightening sensation in my chest. Weird.

She turns her upper body toward me, places her elbow on the bar, and goes to rest her chin on it but misses. I hide a laugh behind my bottle.

“I meant,” she enunciates the word, “drink me, as in give me a drink. You know, like beer me.”

“Maybe next time, go with beer me. It would’ve sounded way better.”

“But I don’t want beer. That’s why I said drink me. Duh.”

She rolls her eyes, and I can’t stop the laughter that time.

“You’re American.”

I lower my bottle to the bar. “And you’re English.”

“Yep. That’s me. English and all alone. Like that chick who sings that song in that film. You know who I mean?” She snaps her fingers at me.

“I literally have no fucking clue what you’re talking about.”

“You do! It’s … crap. What’s her name? That film from years ago …” She keeps on snapping her fingers at me. “She had shit luck with men … like me … Bridget Jones!”

“Never heard of her.”

“Ugh. You men have no clue.” She gives me a disapproving look. “In the film, she’s drunk and home alone, and she sings ‘All By Myself.’ Which is like me. Except I’m not at home. But I’m drunk and alone. Also, she ends up with that hot guy at the end, and that’s definitely not me. No hot guy waiting for me.”

Okay, so there’s no guy, and she is here alone. Which is a bonus for me. She’s fucking gorgeous, and I would definitely like to get to know her better. Okay, I want to fuck her. When she’s sober, of course.

I decide to ask her. Not to fuck. Not just yet anyway. But for confirmation that there is actually no guy. “So, you’re here alone then?”

“Yep. Alone, alone, alone,” she sings.

The bartender finishes up making the drinks for the couple and puts them on a tray and down at the other end of the bar for the waitstaff to take it over to them.

He comes over to my new drunk friend. “Sorry about your wait. What can I get you to drink?”

“Do you make cocktails?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Ohh, goodie.” She claps her hands together. “I’ll have a Long Island iced tea. That has a lot of alcohol in it, right?”

“Sure does. Gin, vodka, tequila, rum, and triple sec.”

“Perfect. And go light on the mixer. Please and thank you,” she adds as he turns away to start making her drink. “I hate it when people don’t use manners,” she says to me.

“Then, we have that in common.”

My mom instilled good manners into me.

“The prick never said please or thank you to anyone.”

“The prick?”

“My ex.”

“Ah. Gotcha.”

She climbs up onto the stool, two down from mine. It takes her a few attempts to actually get up on it. I’d offer my help, but it’s fun, watching her try.

“Where’s your other half?” she says to me once she’s got her sweet ass on the stool.

“My other half of what?”

“You know, your significant other. Wife. Girlfriend. Husband. Boyfriend.”

“Not gay. Not married. No girlfriend.”

She laughs. “No fucking way you’re single. You’re hot—like super hot—and super-hot guys are never single.”

Good to know she thinks I’m hot. Not that I doubted she would. I mean, I’m a good-looking bastard, and she’s not made of wood.

“Well, you know, sometimes, super-hot guys like me are single.” I put my bottle to my lips and empty the contents.

“You’re really single?”

“Yep.”

The bartender puts down her cocktail, and while he’s there, I ask him for another beer.

I look at the hot Brit, and she’s got her full lips wrapped around the straw, drinking down that cocktail like a champ.

Makes me think of something else I’d like her lips wrapped around and the happy ending I’d like her to swallow down.

Jeez, my thoughts are really straying off into the path of perverted. Which isn’t unusual for me. I love women. I love fucking them.

But this one really has me fired up. Maybe it’s because it’s been a while since I last had sex.

“This drink is really yummy,” she says to me.

“You seem like you’re enjoying it.”

She’s drunk down half of it already. She keeps going at that rate, and she’s gonna be wasted.

Looks like I’m on drunk-person duty tonight. I mean, she’s here alone, and I can’t exactly leave her to her own devices. Sure, we’re on a small island, and I’m guessing it’s safe. But there’s a lot of trouble a drunk person can get themselves into, even on an island.

The bartender puts my beer down, and I thank him. I’m only two beers in, this being my third, so I’ll cut myself off after this one. I can hold my liquor, but something tells me I’m gonna need to be sober for this, and I wasn’t planning on getting drunk tonight anyway. Unlike my new little British friend.

Look at me, thinking of someone else. See, I can be a good guy when I want to be.

She drains her drink and orders another.

“Oh my gosh!” she exclaims out of nowhere, scaring the shit out of me. “I love this song!”

There’s music playing quietly in the background, but I’ve not been paying attention to it. Clearly, she has.

“Can you turn the music up, please?” she asks the bartender, who is more than happy to oblige her request.

She slides off the stool and starts to dance right fucking there.She literally gives zero fucks, and I like it.

“Come dance with me!” She holds a hand out to me.

As hot as she might be, this is when I tap out.

I might move like a motherfucker on the field, but dancing is not my thing. It’s not that I can’t dance. Dance lessons were forced on me by my mom to get me through the many fucking functions my father would drag us to. Mom always wanted me to dance with her, and I would do anything for her.

But in the middle of a quiet bar, that’s where I say no.

“Nope, I’m good. But you carry on.”

And I am more than happy to sit here and watch her gyrate and move her body around. I especially like it when she bounces on the balls of her feet and her tits move in her top. It is the best thing I’ve seen in ages. I haven’t seen tits that actually move of their own accord in a really fucking long time.

God bless the British girl’s surgically untouched tits.

I could honestly sit here all night, sipping on my beer and just watching her dance.

But it’s also a little pervy—okay, a lot pervy now that I think about it. I’m ogling a drunk girl who doesn’t know better. And I’m not the only one. The bartender and the guy sitting outside, whose wife just went to the restroom, are also getting a good look at the British girl here.

“Why don’t you sit down and finish your drink?” Yes, I’m encouraging more alcohol consumption, but it was the only thing I could think of to say to get her to sit her gorgeous ass down, so the menfolk—me included—would stop watching her tits bounce and her tight ass move around.

“I will when the song ends.”

Okay, so that didn’t work.

“What song is this anyway?” I ask, having zero clue about the song that has her so hyped up.

“You don’t know this song?” She looks at me like I’m an idiot.

She’s right too; I am.

“That would be why I asked you what song it was.”

“God, you’re so sarcastic!” She rolls her eyes at me.

Is it weird that the eye-rolling turns me on even more than seeing her tits move?

She finally stops dancing and sits her ass back down on the stool. Well, after a couple of attempts.

She’s sweating, and it’s sexy as fuck because all I can think about is another way she could be sweating with me. Yes, I’m that sexually depraved. Sue me.

“God, it’s hot.” She fans her face with her hand.

“I’ll get you a water.”

“I’ve got a drink.” She wraps those lips around the straw again.

My imagination sends SOS signals to my dick. Down, boy. Not tonight.

“ ‘Cruel Summer,’ ” she says to me after swallowing another good amount of Long Island iced tea.

“What?” is my response.

“The song. You asked what it was called, and it’s called ‘Cruel Summer.’ ”

“Who sings it?”

“Bananarama.”

I laugh. “What?”

“Bananarama,” she repeats.

“That’s actually a real band name?”

“Yep, ’80s British girl band. My aunt Jenny loves them.” She grabs the glass of water the bartender just put down and gulps the full glass down.

“Thirsty?” I deadpan.

“No. I just want another cocktail.” She smirks at me. “Thank you for the water,” she says to the bartender. “Can I have a margarita now, please?”

“Nothing is gonna stop you from drinking tonight, is it?”

“Nope. I want to get drunk.”

“You already are.”

“Then, I want to get drunker. Until I forget.”

“Forget what?”

“That I’m actually unhappy.”

What am I supposed to say to that? A better man would ask why she’s unhappy, but I’m not a good man.

Thankfully, the bartender places her cocktail on the bar in front of her, distracting her.

She thanks him and immediately takes a sip of it. “God, that’s good.”

I decide to stop bugging her about drinking too much and let her get as drunk as she wants. I’ll watch out for her and make sure she gets back to her room safe and sound.

It’s not like I have any other plans for tonight.

“I’m considering changing my name to Eeyore. What do you think?”

“First off, I’ll have to ask what your name actually is before I can offer my thoughts.”

“What’s the second thing?”

“Eh?”

“You said first off, which always means there’s a second off.”

There are so many dirty things I could say to that, but I won’t. Well, at least tonight, I won’t.

“Tell me the answer to my first question, and I’ll tell you what the second thing is.”

“Fine.” She sighs. “My name is Dillon.”

“Like Bob Dylan?”

“Exactly like that. Well, minus the Bob. Would have been a bit shit if I’d been called Bob Dylan.” She laughs. “My dad was a big Bob Dylan fan.”

“Your dad sounds cool.”

“I wouldn’t know. He died when I was a baby.”

Shit.

The normal response for people in this moment is usually to say they’re sorry. But having lost my mom when I was fifteen, I know how much I hate it whenever people say that to me.

So, instead, I say, “That sucks. You never getting to know him.”

“I thought you were gonna say sorry. People always do.”

“Do you want me to say I’m sorry?”

“Nope. I hate it when people say that.”

“That’s what I figured.”

She stares at me for a moment, and I really like her eyes on me. I’d like other parts of her on me, too, but we’ll get to that later. But her eyes, they’re so fucking blue. A stark contrast to her dark hair. So dark that it’s almost black.

“Is your hair naturally that dark?” I hear myself asking her. I blink myself free from her gaze, feeling like a total idiot. I thought I’d upped my game since I was sixteen. Clearly not.

Not that I’m hitting on her right now. But I am laying the groundwork because I definitely want to fuck Dillon when she’s sober.

“You know I’m gonna ask why you’re asking me that before I answer, right?” She smiles.

“Your eyes are really blue, and you don’t see many dark-haired girls with blue eyes. Usually brown.”

“Well, to answer you, my hair is all natural. What about yours?”

“Oh, totally natural too.” I grin at her, and she laughs.

“I like you,” she tells me. “You’re funny.”

“I know.”

She chuckles again, shaking her head. “So, what’s your name? You know mine; it’s only fair that I know yours.”

“West,” I tell her.

“Like north, east, and south?” She grins.

“Exactly like that,” I echo her prior words. “My parents were big fans of the cardinal directions.”

She laughs again, and I really fucking like the sound.

“So, you have siblings called North, East, and South?”

“No. Thank fuck. Only child.” I’m relieved that I didn’t have a sibling who had to deal with Dad’s constant absence or his crappy treatment of Mom or watching her die way too young.

“Only child here too,” Dillon tells me, pulling me out of my thoughts. “And you never did tell me the second thing.”

“Oh yeah.”

“So …” She gestures for me to go on.

“Why Eeyore? There’s a fuck of a lot of better names out there. Like the one you currently have.”

“Because I’m a sad donkey.”

I give her a blank stare.

“You know, Eeyore, the sad donkey.”

“Not a clue what you’re talking about.”

“Please tell me you’ve heard of Winnie the Pooh.”

“Sure I have.”

“Eeyore was his buddy. The purple donkey that’s always sad and depressed.”

I shrug because I don’t remember a purple donkey.

“I can’t believe you don’t know who Eeyore is!” She shakes her head. “So disappointed, and here I was, thinking you were cool.”

“I am. Hence why I have zero clue what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Eeyore is a sad donkey. I’m sad. Ergo the name change.”

“You’re really gonna regret this conversation when you wake up sober tomorrow.”

“Shut up,” she says, but she’s laughing.

“And you don’t seem sad to me.”

She pauses and looks at me. “No, I don’t, do I?”

There’s a brief moment where we lock eyes again. I feel my skin start to prickle with desire, and my dick is definitely paying close attention.

Not tonight. She’s drunk.

“You don’t look like a donkey either,” I add with a grin to take my mind off all the sex I want to have with her.

Laughter bursts from her, breaking our eye contact. “Thank God for that! Be a bit shit if I did look like a donkey. Not that they’re not cute. But I definitely wouldn’t make a cute donkey.”

I’m grinning at her, and she says, “What?” around the straw she’s got in her mouth.

“Nothing. You’re just cute, is all. But not donkey cute.”

“Thanks, I think.” She chuckles.

I watch her as she finishes the rest of her drink, draining the glass. I’ve got to give her props; she sure can drink her liquor. Although she is kind of cheating, as it’s a cocktail.

“So, do you only drink cocktails, or can you handle the hard stuff?” I ask her.

“Asks the man who’s drinking beer.”

“Touché.”

“So, are you only a beer drinker? Or do you fancy joining me in a shot?” There’s a wicked gleam in her eyes. A challenge.

And I know I said I wasn’t drinking anything else after this beer, but I also know that one shot won’t kill me, and I’ve never been one to back down from a challenge.

“What’s your poison?”

A gorgeous smile slides on her lips, and fuck, do I want to kiss her. But I won’t.

Not tonight anyway.

Tomorrow though, all bets are off.

“You choose.”

I turn to the bartender. “Two shots of Fireball, please.”

“Make it four shots,” she says.

Okay, two shots won’t kill me. I won’t get drunk. Well, not before her anyway. She’s already halfway to wasted, and I’m a big guy. She’s fucking tiny. Couple of shots, and she’ll be done.