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This is so much worse than I could’ve ever imagined.
“No one is going to force you to do anything,” Drake says. “Have you never been?”
I shake my head. “No desire.”
“You’ve been before?” Ugly asks.
Drake doesn’t answer with words, but the sparkle in his eyes says it all.
We slowly walk toward the front door, and I have no idea why I go instead of insisting that Ugly hand over the keys to the SUV.
“Welcome to Hale-ish,” a huge man says from behind a counter to the left when we enter.
The room is dark and edgy, having a sensual appeal to it in a classy sort of way.
“Reservations under Alexander Smith,” Ugly says, forcing my head to snap back in his direction.
“Really?” I hiss.
“Is that your real name?” Drake asks, his smile a little too sexy for how I’m feeling right now. “Alex.”
The shortening of my name is said on a whisper, and I like it a little too damn much.
How in the world am I supposed to resist him in a place meant for giving in to your deepest desires?
How do I bear witness to him with someone else?
“Very good,” the man says after typing something into the computer on the desk in front of him. “What color bands for you?”
My brow draws tight in confusion.
“Black,” Ugly says.
“Black,” Drake mimics.
“And for you?” the man asks.
“I don’t need a band,” I say, having no idea what they’re even for.
“Everyone must wear a band,” the man says, holding out a laminated card.
I hesitate so long to take the thing from him that Ugly pulls it from his fingers and shoves it in my direction. My friend seems eager to get his night started.
I sweep my eyes down the list, knowing my answer before I even get to the second offering.
“White,” I say, shoving the card back in his direction.
Both Ugly and Drake chuckle, a knowing sound as if they could’ve predicted my choice without putting much thought into it.
“You’re able to come back out here and change your band if you like,” the guy says, holding up a solid white band and urging me to step forward. “You may not participate in any activities with this band on. You understand?”
I lock eyes with the man, the warning in his eyes, forcing my body to have some sort of reaction.
I swallow, nodding instead of speaking because I’m certain my voice would fail me right now.
“What do you say?” he asks after placing both Ugly’s and Drake’s bands on their arms.
“I understand,” I mutter.
The man behind the counter frowns in my direction.
“Thank you,” both Ugly and Drake say, making the man cock an eyebrow at me.
“Thank you,” I repeat, watching as his lip twitches in amusement.
“My name is Rosco. If you have any trouble inside, look for the monitors in the bright yellow shirts, and remember no touching unless you change your band color.”
I follow quickly behind Ugly and Drake.
“I almost forgot, Mr. Smith,” Rosco says. “Your stamp.”
He motions me forward, instructing me to hold out my hand.
He presses a stamp to my skin, WELCOME TO HALE-ISH left behind when he pulls it away.
“All first-time visitors have to get stamped,” Rosco explains.
Drake is chuckling as I rejoin them, staring down at the ink on my skin. As if the white band on my wrist, declaring I’m not interested in any of the things offered on the list I glanced at isn’t enough, now I’m marked for all to see as a newbie.
I follow closely behind the two guys, one of whom I used to consider a friend. I’ll have to reevaluate that connection after leaving here tonight. We aren’t teenagers. It’s not okay for him to trick me into showing up at such a place, but at the same time, I didn’t have to enter either. I made a choice, and I can’t blame anyone else for that.
“Long time, no see, handsome.”
I snap my eyes up to see who spoke, only to witness Drake and the man behind the bar shake hands, their grip a little too familiar, a little too long, for mere acquaintances.
“Ugly,” the bartender says. “Looking as fuckable as ever.”
Ugly chuckles, unconcerned with the man flirting with him.
“And who is this guy?” the bartender asks.
“Dylan, this is Alex,” Drake says before Ugly or even myself tell the man who I am.
Drake urges me forward with a hand at my elbow, and for some damn reason, I allow it.
“Jack and Coke,” I say, drawing both Ugly’s and Drake’s eyes in my direction.
“Really?” Drake asks. “You choose now to drink?”
I ignore him. “I’m old enough, if you’d like to see my ID.”
“You wouldn’t be standing at my bar if you weren’t old enough,” Dylan says with a chuckle, his eyes sweeping down the front of me until they lock on the bright white band on my wrist. “I take it you rarely drink?”
