The Pacifist [COMPLETED]

She Has Something I Don't Have

Rachel

Disobeying Mr. Maxwell was fun, but his wordless praise left Rachel feeling flustered, which she had hidden by making him equally flustered. The bartender placed her drink on the bar in front of her with a smile. The scotch's notes of caramel and oak wafted up to her nose, both tickling and delighting her senses. Rachel's father loved scotch and had taught her how to appreciate it the moment she hit legal drinking age.

It was a cherished memory, going into his study when her mother was out with friends, and watching him pull out his beloved crystal glasses shaped to facilitate sniffing the liquids they held. He would go into great detail about his latest finds, guiding her senses so she could pick up the subtle notes its distillers hoped its drinkers would notice. The scotch in her glass was a far cry from the quality of the ones she drank with her father, but she could tell from the first sniff that it wouldn't offend him.

Rachel took a tentative sip, letting the liquid coat her tongue and prepared for its sting, but it was surprisingly smooth. She swallowed it with a soft hum.

"So you like scotch?"

Rachel nodded, relieved he had said something, but she could tell his curiosity had bested his preference for silence. "My dad taught me all about it. I'm honestly surprised a bar like this serves something this good."

He nodded. "It's a good spot. It's real."

Rachel understood what he meant by that. There were no pretenses or attempts at appealing to a large crowd. The bar wasn't a crowd pleaser, it just was. "I may come back again," she said with a smile.

Another nod, before he flagged down the bartender. "We're moving to the booth over there," he said, jerking his head towards the corner of the bar. The bartender nodded, as if knowing Mr. Maxwell preferred fewer words, and they made their way to the privacy of the booth. Silence ensued once they were settled.

"How do you feel?" he eventually asked.

"Great. I mean, me painting I think is a..."

"About the last time we saw each other?"

Rachel blushed and she could see he liked that. "Um... alive," she said, ducking her head and keeping her voice small. Warmth built up between her legs as the memory of him unleashing himself assaulted her senses.

He licked his lips, the memory all over his face as well. "You're not afraid of me?"

Rachel went to shake her head, but stopped. She realized she was afraid of him, but not in a way that made her want to run. "A little," she whispered. She watched his face carefully, his internal war barely perceptible as he tried to hide it. Rachel knew he wanted her fear but also wanted her trust. How could she tell him he had both? "What if we finish our drinks and go?" she blushed fiercely, but she didn't want to have a date, she wanted him to make her feel again.

A tortured groan came from Mr. Maxwell, his lips poised to say no. So Rachel didn't give him a choice and knocked back her drink, earning a look of awe, and got up to leave.