Dirty Little Bastard

2

I almost dropped my credit card and phone at the sound of a gravelly voice from right behind me.

I glanced back to see the football player I had given a painkiller to yesterday and instructed to rest for two days.

Yet now he was here, at a club.

"You scared me!" I spoke over the loud music with a laugh, not having any room in my brain to find this the least bit weird.

"I am naturally quite terrifying," he shot me a grin, taking a step forward to be able to lean his elbows onto the bar counter, "what are you doing here, Scarlett?"

His eyes moved between the busy bartender and a tipsy me while I turned to lean my front against the side of the counter as well.

"It's Friday and I have this weekend off," I told him, before shaking my head, "what are you doing here? Didn't I tell you to take a few days to rest from the concussion? A club is definitely not a good place for you now, mister..."

He seemed amused as he eyed me with those dark eyes of his. I noticed he had tattoos on his arms, but wasn't in a clear enough state to be able to begin studying them.

"You're not sober, are you?" He then chuckled to himself, motioning for the bartender to come over.

"I'm moderately functional," I shrugged, brows furrowing since I had been waiting here for what felt like ages, and this man had managed to gain the bartender's attention with just a simple nod.

"I'll take that as a no," he shot me a smile while I found myself staring at him.

"What can I get you, Black?" The bartender had just left all the other eagerly awaiting customers for what's-his-name.

"Three Coronas, and keep them coming," he spoke before looking back at me, "what's your poison, Tinker Bell?"

I ran a hand through my hair and extended my other arm further onto the counter, palm down, "four Malibu Cocktails, please."

The bartender nodded and rushed off to prepare them.

I turned to face the man's side while he still leaned his arms on the counter, giving me a very nice side profile. I watched as he took a few notes out of his wallet, and my brows furrowed. He was taking way too much money out just for three Coronas. 

"Oh, no," I quickly shook my head, causing him to look over at me as I began waving my credit card in front of his face, "I'll pay for my drinks."

He chuckled and shook his head, "you saved my life yesterday. I'm paying."

"I gave you a paracetamol," I reasoned, feeling almost uncomfortable with how a few guys at the end of the bar area were eyeing me.

"And now I'm thanking you for it," he gave me a small wink, the sides of his lips tugging up into a small smirk.

I narrowed my eyes at him a little, before simply deciding to give in. I wasn't a very good debater with alcohol in my system.

"You know you shouldn't be drinking alcohol after a brain injury," I then leaned a bit closer so he could hear me over the loud and pumping music, "it can increase the risk of developing depression."

"Not my first concussion, birdie. Now that someone told my teammate I can't play in tonight's practice, coach forced me to take a free night," he explained, a teasing tone in his voice, "you practically forced me to go clubbing."

I snorted, "you could have just stayed home to rest..."

The black tee shirt he was wearing, along with the black skinny jeans, definitely portrayed his well-toned body. I was shamelessly checking him out, and he was very well aware of it.