If I were her, I wouldn’t have given a shit if he ever looked human again, so long as I could lose myself in those stacks.
Approaching the door, I pass the bouncer a five and get my wristband after flashing my ID, then head right for the bar. It’s nice to be twenty-one finally since I’d spent the last year making a list of bars that didn’t check ID at the door and having to settle for the grungiest, loudest sports bars on the strip. I don’t feel old enough to call myself an adult yet, but that’s mostly the fault of my bastard father and his rules.
Sliding onto the last empty stool near the end of the marble counter, I hang my purse on the hook, then try to look like I’m patient so the single bartender on duty doesn’t give me floor limes or spit in my drink. I lose myself in the flow of conversation around me, feeling a little bit achy with loneliness. I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to have the kind of freedom everyone else does.
What would it feel like to grow up with a childhood full of people who love you, then to go out into the world and take those skills to create your own little family? To not have your body on display for men with money? To decide for yourself what you wanted to do and where you wanted to go?
None of these people have to think twice about whether or not the cute guy complimenting them on their outfit is one of his father’s men. None of them have to worry about whether or not it’s some sick test you have no idea how to pass or fail.
It makes me hate them all just a little.
I finally get to order my first drink of the night, but as I’m pulling my wallet out of my purse, it slips out of my fingers and clatters to the ground. With a groan, I start to slip off the stool, but a firm hand stops me, and then a man, all leather and bulk, stoops down. He grabs my wallet with long, pale fingers adorned in silver rings, and he drops it on the bar.
I only catch a quick glimpse of his face—short facial hair and pierced—and he shoots me a wink before he melts into a small group of Delta Kappas who are trying to get a dance floor going. My chest tingles with something hot, and I catch another whiff of his scent—woodsy and rich and nothing like the morons who constantly surround me on campus.
The bartender clears his throat, and my attention whips back to him as I order a seven and seven, then slide cash toward him. It’s got a big enough tip that his irritation melts away, and he grins as he begins the pour.
I try not to be obvious, but I turn my head slightly so I can get a good look around, and I startle a second later when I realize the stranger’s sitting close by in one of the booths. And he’s not alone. I can feel their eyes on me, so there’s no chance in hell I’ll be able to really look without being obvious, but I’m starting to realize I don’t care.
The bartender touches my knuckles with my drink, and I take it without looking up. The liquor burns with my first swallow, but I like it that way. My eyes scan the table and meet theirs, and they don’t bother looking away.
They both look way older than college students—their faces sort of drawn and hardened in ways I’ve only ever seen on the faces of my father’s associates.
The one at the back of the booth has a shock of red hair styled in an undercut that sits slightly wavy on top of his head. He’s pale, freckled, light eyes that look cold as ice, and his lips are set in a smirk. He’s wearing a jean jacket on top of his white T-shirt, and he’s every bit the bad boy girls like me dream of when we want to be a little less good.
The one who picked up my wallet is almost his polar opposite. He has skin that’s slightly less olive than mine and very dark, very curly hair that he has twisted in a bun at the back of his head. He doesn’t have a babyface like the redhead, though. Not with the perfectly trimmed facial hair that makes him look like a kind of rugged biker.
He’s got a drink in his hand, and his eyes catch mine before he tips his glass up, then winks before taking a mouthful. I watch the bob of his throat as he swallows, and the look on his face says he knows what I’m thinking.
My entire body flushes hot, and I finally glance away as I take the last sip of my drink. These are the sort of men I know I should keep away from—but they’re also the kind of men I can’t seem to stop fantasizing about. They’re like every dark, brooding antihero come to life in all the romance books I read when I’m supposed to be studying.
Swallowing thickly, I turn back to the bartender, who has made his way back to me, but before I can even think of what to say, someone elbows me. It isn’t hard or anything, but I let out a noise of surprise and glance up at the man who’s hovering one stool away.
He looks young, though there’s something in his eyes that has me on my guard. He’s dark-haired and pale-skinned, a lot like the people I grew up with. He’s wearing a black sweater and jeans, which seems out of place for a bar, even though it’s cold as hell outside.
He smiles, which is a little disarming, and he rubs the back of his neck before leaning close.
“I’m so sorry. I’m kind of a clumsy idiot.” His voice is a deep rumble, but his tone seems honest.
“It’s fine,” I tell him. “It’s crowded tonight.”
He grins. “At least we know this place will never go out of business, right?”
I laugh because that was one of the first things I said to myself the first time I got a drink here. “Exactly.”
“I’m Mike,” he tells me, then offers his hand.
“Alice.”
“Like from Wonderland?” he asks, and I groan, rolling my eyes, which makes him laugh. “Everyone asks that, right?”
I shrug. “Yeah. It’s a curse I can’t escape.”
He gives me an appraising look, then after a beat, he says, “Let me buy you another drink for being so basic and asking that question?”
I bite my tongue. My first instinct is to say no. One of the lessons my father taught me from a very young age is to never owe people. But that’s just a knee-jerk reaction because it’s a drink. That’s what people do in bars, and he is kind of attractive. He’s got nothing on those men behind me, but they look actually dangerous, so it might be in my best interest to make a friend.
“I’m drinking seven and seven,” I warn him, because it’s not as cheap as the wells, and college boys like to look like they have a lot more spending money than they usually do.