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I grin. “I’m surprised you’re just figuring that out.”
3
Sierra
Age Twenty-One
I walkinto Down Home Pub, a smile filled with confidence and determination on my face.
It feels almost like home—a home I’ve never exactly been welcomed in.
Call me the unwanted stepchild of Down Home Pub.
Except, now, this rejected stepchild has the upper hand.
A group of sorority girls who aren’t excited to spend their night in a hole-in-the-wall bar are behind me. Not only is the pub an hour from the city, but there’s also no expensive DJ, VIP section, or bottle service.
I laugh to myself while picturing the look on Maliki’s face if someone requested a VIP section. He’d probably throw them out faster than he tried me.
I pause to give the bar a once-over. It’s the first time I’ve had the chance to look around since I always ducked and hid before. There’s a long wood bar with beer taps at the rear of the room. Behind the bar is a shelved brick wall. Liquor bottles fill the top shelf, and glasses of various sizes line the bottom. People are huddled around pub tables cluttered with food and drinks. The small space looks near capacity.
Finally.
I’m the winner in this game.
No booting me tonight.
I’m ready for an evening loaded with drinking and smugly throwing my age in Maliki’s face.
The best fucking birthday ever.
I find the pain-in-my-ass bartender in seconds and beeline toward the side of the bar he’s manning, excitement shooting through me. There’s a crowd waiting to be served around him. I ignore the dirty looks I receive when cutting my way to the front of the line.
I mutter, “Birthday girl,” a few times, but their glares don’t lessen.
I need a stiff drink after listening to my friends whine about coming here. I tuned them out, wondering what he’d do when he saw me.
No doubt he’ll ask for my ID. I plan to throw it at him and prove I’m a big girl now. No moreJailbait, Pageant Queen, Teenagermocking.
I admire the sight of him before he notices me, and if I saw myself in the mirror, there’d be lust flickering in my green eyes. I lick my lips. His hair has grown out since I saw him last, and the expanse of his chest looks wider. His olive skin is still as smooth, and I’m tempted to ask him for his skincare routine. A backward baseball hat covers his hair, he’s wearing his signature bar tee, and his cheeks are still sporting light stubble.
He blinks a few times when his attention cuts to me and meanders my way in no rush.
Huh.I expected him to bombard me with an ID demand.
“I’ll have a vodka tonic, please,” I order when he reaches me.
His mood is unreadable. “Sorry, did you say an organic juice box?”
“Fine,give me an organic juicewitha shot of vodka.”
“I’ll need to see alegitID for that. Arealone.”
I crack a smile on my matte red lips and raise my arm, holding the ID between two fingers.
He raises an eyebrow, his lips tilting into a sliver of a smirk, and takes it from me. That smirk grows as he inspects it. “Motherfucking finally.”
Pride rocks through me. I open my mouth to answer but am shoved into the bar.
