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Yeah, no.
“You can dance, I’ll save your seat.”
The guy leaned back in the stool, his eyes narrowed to slits. “Really?”
“Yes…?”
“Ugh, I should have listened to Theo. Older guys really are fucking boring.”
He slid off the barstool and left, walking past the trio of high schoolers waving their hands in the air, throwing them all a judgmental glare as he passed.
Wow.
Well.
That really fuckin’ sucks.
The bartender, like a guardian alcohol angel, came over with another shot before I even asked. The Jäger went down smoother this time. I wondered if I should ask to take the entire bottle back to my flat.
No. That young twat didn’t deserve second-hand killing me through alcohol poisoning.
Fuck him. If I didn’t want to dance, I didn’t have to. And I could watch him dance away from the best damn lay of his life.
His loss.
The lights were practically out now. The only reason I could see my hands in front of me was from the rainbow-colored lasers flashing all over the place. The music pounded in my head. I grabbed the envelope in my lap, my fingers still (surprisingly) not catching fire. I moved to get up, done with today. A good bath and a good night’s sleep was what I needed.
Hell, maybe I’d treat myself and leave Love Island on the TV as I went to sleep. That’d be nice.
This had been a mistake. Why had I thought this was a good idea in the first place? Why did I even come back to London? I should have listened to my gut and left the past in the past.
Instead, I was holding the past in my damn hands.
I turned to leave, surprised at how big the crowd was, and how desperate they were to try and snag the barstool I had vacated. It was like I’d left behind a hundred-dollar bill.
This is exactly why I hate going out anymore.
Swimming through the crowd, I made it out unscathed, envelope now safely tucked in my back pocket, legs beginning to feel the effects of the back-to-back shots. I could see the exit right in front of me, like the light at the end of the tunnel. I was sure my bed tonight would feel like a cloud, and I was glad I wouldn’t be sharing it with a dumb chode, too.
Someone bumped into me. It was dark, and I quickly apologized, but the lights had hit in just the right way and bounced off the young man’s face, making his eyes glow like a prism against the sun.
And the smile. God damn, that smile on him. With the force I bumped into him with, he should have been pissed. Instead, he looked at me with a smile reserved for someone who had just won the lottery.
“Are you heaving?”
I arched a brow. “Huh?” The music was so loud. I had to lean in to hear what he said.
“Are you leaving?”
Leaning in had two effects. One, I could now clearly make out his question and no longer thought he was into some weird puke fetish. And two, the stranger’s cologne hit me like a bulldozer wrecking the bones of an abandoned building. It was a strong scent: flowery and fruity and entirely intoxicating.
“I was.”
His blond hair, short and styled, illuminated with colors from the lasers. That smile still holding strong. “Did you have somewhere to be?”
“No.” I grinned, wanting to match the expression on his face. “I just didn’t have a reason to be here.”
“Can I give you one?”
He was smooth. And he was getting closer to me. This was like a bolt of lightning, striking from nowhere and rooting me right to the spot.
“Sure, you can give me whatever you want.”
He cocked his head. Like a game of cat and mouse, except we were two cats—lions—both turned toward their prey, hunger and heat starting to fill me.
“Let’s start with a drink,” he said, nodding toward the packed bar.
Shit. If only you’d come sooner, I wouldn’t have given up my damn spot.
At least he hasn’t asked me to dance.
“What’s your name?” I asked him as we shuffled back toward the hellhole that was the bar.
“My name? It’s, uh, Jame…is…son.”
I gave him a look.
“Jamison!” he shouted over the loud music, a little more sure of himself this time. Maybe I hadn’t heard him right, although I wasn’t a private eye for shits and giggles. I was a good observer, and right then, I observed a whole lot of bullshit.
That was fine. Wasn’t the first time an American crossed oceans to make pretend they were someone completely new.
“Yours?” he asked.
“Beckham.”
“Like bend—”
“Don’t even go there.” I shot him a look with a smirk.
“Gotcha.”
We made it to the bar without losing a limb to the alcohol-ravaged zombie crowd. There wasn’t enough room for both of us, though, so I had to stand behind “Jamison” as he leaned over the sticky bar top to try and get a bartender’s attention.
