This interaction has been in my head for a while.
Steve Harrington was pissed. Livid, even.
All he had wanted was an adult beverage after a long ass day at work, which he certainly got. The whiskey sours were fucking great actually. That wasn’t the problem.
The problem was the model of a bartender.
Tall as hell, and lean, but his arms boasted enough corded muscle that Steve couldn’t help but wonder what the rest of him looked like.
This guy had a riot of curls stacked on his head in a bun, which had been another nail in the proverbial horny coffin. He had chocolate brown eyes and fucking plush lips that boasted a lip ring. A lip ring.
How was Steve supposed to remain sane under these circumstances.
Robin couldn’t come out tonight so Steve was alone and just—watching this hot ass bartender work. God, he was such a creep. But this guy was so—suave, laughing with patrons, acting like he owns the place—it was some type of dive bar, plastered with tour posters and framed photos and musicians. Guitars hung on the walls.
The guy—Eddie—his name tag read, had on ripped black jeans, tattoos covered his arms and neck—Steve wanted to see where else they were hiding—his nails were painted black and he had on a faded Metallica shirt that sat tight across his lithe frame.
God—he probably did own this place. Steve really just stopped at the first place he could find, on his way back into town from a meeting. Congratulations to him for making a great fucking choice.
Steve was being a creep, watching this guy interact with someone, when he turned his attention on Steve himself. Eddie flashed his a smile—Christ, even his teeth were fucking pretty.
“Can I top you off, sweetheart?” Eddie purrs.
God, you can just top me—Steve thinks. He watches as Eddie quirks an eyes brow, before he schools his expression, flashing Steve a simmering smile.
“Don’t threaten me with a good time, big boy.”
Steve’s eyes go wide. He said that out loud didn’t he.
