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I lost everything else. Not that I had much to begin with.
I lived with my so-called best friend, and after what she did—I cringe thinking about it—so disgusting. I couldn’t stay there, and there was no way I was moving back home. The literal slap to the face when I confronted my mom left me no choice but to call my brother for help. Two days later, I quit my job at the coffee shop, shoved what I could in a few bags, and got the hell out of town.
And I have absolutely no regrets.
Without realizing how many blocks I’ve wandered, I find myself near the center of town and I’m drawn toward the faint hum of music and laughter in the distance. I drift towards the sounds, walking a few more blocks until I reach a large, brick building with a sign above the door that reads, 80 Proof Bar & Grill. A quick look around tells me that as I suspected, there’s nothing else open at this time of night.
“Why the hell not,” I say to myself as I slip through the door.
A rush of warm air envelops me as I step inside, the chatter of patrons and music from the old school jukebox in the corner create a comforting buzz. It’s a stark contrast to the silence of my brother’s house, the quiet of the streets.
It's nicer than I expected. I guess maybe I thought a bar in a small town like this would be sort of run down. It's definitely not that. It's almost upscale, a mixture of country and class that somehow works. It's more spacious than it appears from the outside, that's for sure. The outer walls are lined with leather booths and high-top tables surround a small stage to the right. Fairy lights wrap around the exposed beams in the ceiling, adding a soft glow that illuminates the wood and stone lining the walls and bar.
The place is busy, but not overly crowded, so I walk across the dark, hardwood floor, find an empty stool at the wooden bar, and scan the array of bottles lining the wall behind it. Knowing this is likely the only time I’ll get away with using it, I pull out my fake ID and ask the handsome, bearded bartender to pour me a shot of silver tequila.
“Actually, make it a double, please,” I tell him, sliding cash across the bar.
My request earns me a raised eyebrow, but he serves me, nonetheless.
Blackwood is a small town where everyone knows everyone. At least, that’s how Ryker described it to me. I’m sure using a fake ID in the town’s only bar will come back to bite me in the ass later, but that’s a problem for future me.
Present me needs tequila.
The double shot goes down smoothly, and I’m tempted to ask for another, but the last thing I need is to get shitfaced and have to call Ryker in the middle of the night to come get me. I snuck out for a reason. With that in mind, I order tequila and pineapple juice instead. The bartender pours the alcohol and juice over ice, adding a couple lime wedges and a sprig of mint. So fancy.
Something about it makes me smile to myself.
The murmur of conversations surrounding me fade into the background as I sip the tart cocktail, replaced by the loud thoughts banging around inside my head. Rather than think about everything I’ve left behind, I try to focus on what I want going forward. Moving to Blackwood gives me a fresh start and I can do whatever I want.
If only I knew what that was.
I feel like I should have some idea of what I want to do with my life. I’m only twenty, so I’m sure no one expects me to have it all figured out, but it’d be nice to have a goal or dream to work toward. One of my own choosing, that is.
It’s something I’ve never been allowed.
A choice.
I swear my mom had my whole life planned out for me. I always thought her keeping me on a tight leash was some type of post traumatic thing after losing my father so unexpectedly. Maybe it was. I did everything she ever asked, only rebelling a little bit, and never enough to get caught. At her insistence, I went to college intending to get a degree in business. She insisted it would open the most doors for my future, but the classes bored me to tears. I stuck it out for as long as I could. I suffered through it until I just couldn’t take it anymore.
Life is too short to waste time on things that make you miserable.
Ugh. I roll my eyes at myself. This is not helping. I came out tonight to escape, to find a way to get out of my head. Clearly, this isn't it.
Taking the last sip of my drink, I set the glass down on the bar and look around, wishing I felt as carefree as the people surrounding me. I envy them. Everyone around me is laughing and having a good time, while I sit here alone practically drowning in my thoughts. Despite everything happening around me, movement from the corner of the bar catches my attention and my eyes lock on a man sitting alone at a table.
Good lord. It should be illegal for a man to be that damn fine.
The dim light in the bar accentuates the contours of his face, revealing an intensity that mirrors the turmoil I feel inside. I can’t bring myself to look away. His attention is on the phone in his large hand, and I use the opportunity to check him out shamelessly, letting my gaze wander over every inch of him I can see. His golden-brown skin and close-cropped hair. The short, neatly trimmed beard and mustache framing his full, downturned lips. Damn. He’s got really kissable lips.
Color me intrigued.
Maybe it’s the skull tattooed across his throat, enclosed on either side by some type of leaves or filigree, the only color in the piece is the red hue of the eyes, nose, and mouth. Or it could be the way his biceps and chest strain against the black t-shirt he’s wearing.
Whatever it is… I can’t look away.
My eyes move back to his face, widening when I realize his attention is no longer on his phone. No, he’s not looking down anymore—he’s looking straight at me.
Our eyes meet, and I swear it feels like the entire bar goes still.
