I saw her before the lads did. Stood at the bar, hair up, curves that said come and have a go, and a look like she knew she’d get it. Right up our street.
We were sat in the corner, tucked away like we always are—me between them, Dave’s hand on my thigh, Ash pretending not to be staring down my top. Subtle as a sledgehammer, that one.
She ordered a cider, pint glass. No straw. That made me smile.
“Oi,” I muttered, nudging Ash, “check out the bar.”
He looked, then leaned in close. “That your type?”
“Could be,” I said, sipping my drink. “She’s got that filthy glint.”
Dave raised an eyebrow, always a step behind when he’s halfway through his second double rum. “You gonna say hello, or just eye-fuck her from here?”
“She clocked us,” I said, smirking. “Let’s see if she makes the first move.”
We didn’t have to wait long. |
