The bar is getting really crowded now, thanks to the big group of over a dozen people here to celebrate someone’s birthday. Dean reaches for my hand and I take it, feeling a thrill go right through as soon as our hands touch.
Someone from the birthday crew shouts something about a “twenty-one-shot challenge” and everyone in the group erupts in cheers.
“Good luck,” Dean chuckles.
“He’s going to need it.” I shake my head. “Do people actually follow through with it?”
“Not here,” Dean tells me. We wind our way through another group of people standing around the pool tables. “I might be spilling a Getaway secret, but when people do attempt that twenty-one-shot challenge, they get cut off after just a few and are given club soda instead.”
“That’s pretty funny,” I say. “And a good idea. I had one glass of red wine on my birthday and fell asleep during the joust at Medieval Times.”
“You went to Medieval Times for your twenty-first birthday?” he asks with a glint of amusement in his voice.
“Yes,” I answer, putting my hand on my hip. “You say that like it’s a bad thing?”
He’s still holding my other hand and gives it a squeeze. “It’s not. I didn’t expect it. You look like you’d be one of those girls renting a limo and going to a club or something.”
“And is that a bad thing?” I laugh, and remember when Amber McMillan did exactly that. She invited everyone from our graduation class who was still in Silver Ridge that summer. Well, everyone except for me.
“I don’t know.” His eyes meet mine, searching for something I’m not sure he’s ever found. “I came here for my twenty-first birthday. It’s a rite of passage in Eastwood. This place was around for ages before my brothers bought it.”
“It’s a neat place.” I look at the exposed brick on the exterior wall by the bar. “Is the building original?”
“Parts are. It’s been expanded a lot.”
“It looks like it could be expanded more.” We go around another couple who are heavily making out, and snag a place in front of one of the dart boards. I set my drink down on the table next to us, sliding it against the wall. I pull a napkin from the dispenser and stick it over my drink, punching my straw through it. It’s not foolproof, but makes it just a little harder for someone to slip something in unnoticed.
Dean hands me a dart and I line myself up, swaying a little on my feet. I close my eyes, find my footing, and let out a breath. Then I open my eyes and throw the dart, just missing the bullseye by a hair.
“Dammit,” I mutter and hold out my hand. “Let me try again.” Dean gives me another dart, and this time I hit the bullseye dead on.
“Well, you’ve officially busted my let me show you how it’s done trick,” he laughs. “And I don’t think I want to follow that.”
“I’m kind of competitive when it comes to throwing sharp things.”
“And that’s not something you hear every day.”
I step back and take another small sip of the drink, not really wanting it but not wanting to waste it.
“Archery has been a hobby since I was a kid. And the same range that taught archery had spears and throwing axes and that sort of stuff.” I wave my hand in the air, mentally telling myself to stop now before I go on to say how I used to be part of a LARP group who dressed up like elves and fought battles against targets we tied to bales of straw.
I was one of the few who could ride a horse and use my bow and arrow. It made me a badass in that group. But a nerd at school, though I didn’t let it stop me.
“Your turn.”
“Don’t judge me,” Dean chuckles. “I grew up being told not to throw sharp things. You know, like most normal kids.”
I laugh and dramatically toss my hair over my shoulder. “Being normal is boring.” I take a seat at the tall stool at the table and watch Dean throw the darts. He’s not bad, but I’m better.
We take turns throwing the darts, talking and laughing the whole time. I have no idea how much time passes, but the bar seems to be thinning out a bit.
Is it getting close to closing already?
“You ready to head out of here?” Dean asks, putting the darts back.
“Yeah. I am.”
He takes my arm and leads me outside and into the parking lot. Snow and gravel crunch under my feet, and it feels like the temp dropped ten degrees in the hour or so I was in the bar. I clasp my hands on my elbows and my breath clouds around my face. I fall in step next to Dean, inhaling the intoxicating scent of his cologne mixed with the cold, fresh air.