“Oh.” Figures my hypothetical rebound also works at Inked Hearts. Not that it matters. Nothing is going to help me get over Dean. Not even the hottest guy in the world.
Dean stands. Places a thin stack of papers on the desk. “You gonna shrug off that chip on your shoulder?”
Hunter meets him there. Half-smiles. “You gonna be serious for five minutes?”
Dean shudders. “Never.”
“There’s your answer.” Hunter’s voice is playful, but there’s an honesty to it too. He knows he’s miserable.
But he’s not like Ryan. Well, pre-Leighton Ryan.
He doesn’t seem okay with it.
They go through the paperwork quietly. Then Dean backs off to let Hunter read.
The broody tattoo artist—he must be an artist if he’s filling in for Brendon—signs on the dotted line.
Dean’s eyes flit to me. “You can head home, sunshine.”
“But…” I want to stay here. I want to eavesdrop on their conversation. To know what Dean is saying about me. If he’s saying anything about me.
Guys talk.
Not the way girls do.
Dean’s not about to pour his heart out.
But maybe he’ll spill some detail I need.
I can’t leave yet.
I can’t be home.
I can’t face tomorrow.
Dean’s blue eyes fix on mine.
"You gonna be okay until then, sunshine?"
Not a chance in hell. But I smile a yes anyway.
Aikido fails to wipe tomorrow from my mind.
It's late enough traffic is clear. But I can't be home yet. I can't sit across from Dad as he asks if I'm ready for tomorrow. I can't listen to that edge in his voice. The one he's trying to hide. The one that screams I'll fall apart if you aren't okay.
I pull out my cell. Tap a text message to Gia. But then it's the same with her. If she knows I'm scared, she'll be scared. Then I'll be pissed at her for being scared. For putting her inability to deal with my mortality on me.
This is a routine test. It's probably okay.
She can tell me that.
But if it's not…?
I leave my backpack in my car, slide my cell into my pocket, and find my way to the bar down the street from Inked Hearts.
It's a dozen blocks from the aikido studio, but the walk feels good. Crisp, clear air, big silver moon, salty ocean breeze.
The pounding house music of the bar. It's packed for a weeknight.
"Vodka and orange juice, please." I slide onto a black stool. Take in the utilitarian decorations. It's like someone crossed a dive bar with an industrial music club. It's weird.
The bartender, a busty woman with long hair, nods. "Well or call?"
"Well." Tonight is a cheap vodka kind of night.
She scoops ice into a glass. Adds a heaping serving of vodka and plenty of orange juice and hands it over. "Close it out or keep it open?"
I hand her a twenty. "Make it two."
Her expression gets knowing. It's not quite understanding, but it's not judgmental either.
It's weird.
I ignore her. Take a long sip of my cocktail. It's not good booze. It burns my throat. Warms my chest. Sends my thoughts swimming.
I finish the thing in three long gulps.
Pound the glass on the bar.
It lands with a thud. It feels good. Purposeful.
Someone nods hello. A guy sitting on the other end of the bar. He's tall. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Business casual outfit. The kind of guy who likes tattooed bad girls.
He probably thinks I'm some kinky alt model.
I nod back anyway. Gia would tell me I'm jumping to conclusions. Maybe the guy likes my eyes. Or my smile. Or my haircut.
Maybe it has nothing to do with my combat boots and tattoos. Maybe he's as desperate for a distraction as I am.
He slides into the seat next to mine. "Can I buy you a drink?"
Right on cue, the bartender drops off my second orange juice and vodka.
I look up at the guy. He's cute. If things were different, if I was a normal girl with a body that responded to cute guys, I'd flirt back. Kiss him. Invite myself to his place.
The glass is cold against my fingers. Then against my lips. I take a long sip. Let the vodka warm me everywhere. "Sure." My face and chest flush. From the drink, not the attraction. But isn't this close enough?
He's here. He wants me. He's not my boss. He doesn't drive me out of my mind. He doesn't grab my heart and refuse to let go.
There's no risk in sleeping with him.
I can get in, come, get out. Dean style. No feelings. No strings. No attachment.
"Give me one second." I set my drink on the bar. Slide out of my stool. Slip between tables full of friends and lovers to make my way to the electronic jukebox.
A dollar per song. It's a crime. But right now, I'm willing to pay to set the mood.
I trade a five for a set. Pick my songs carefully.
Alive by Pearl Jam pours from the speakers as I make my way back to the bar.
But I'm not even thinking about the angsty themes of the song.
I'm imagining Dean chuckling as he tells me that Pearl Jam is a euphemism for semen. Back in eleventh grade, he reveled in my embarrassment at that fun fact.
But now…
It's kind of hilarious.
The guy smiles at me. I'm sure he has a name, but I can't say I care. I guess I'll call him Anti-Dean. With Anti-Dean, my head is screaming yes but my body is apathetic.
This might be our last chance to kiss and make up and the damn thing still refuses to obey my wishes.
It's willing to kill me.
I guess attraction to a guy who isn't off limits is too much to ask.
My fingers curl around my drink. I bring it to my lips. Finish it in two gulps.
The guy looks at me curiously. Like I'm an amusement or an easy lay? I don't know.
It doesn't matter.
He fails to interest me.
"I haven't seen you in here," he says.
"Don't usually go to bars." I hail the bartender, but he's already on it.
He smiles at her. "Another round."
This time, the look she shoots me is judgmental. Like there's something wrong with going to a bar to drink your thoughts into oblivion. Where does she think her business comes from?
"What brings you in today?" he asks.
"Looking for a distraction." I press my lips into my best smile. Will my body to get in gear.
The bartender drops off our drinks.
My body remains apathetic.
Anti-Dean presses his palm into my lower back. Leans in to whisper. "Let's talk somewhere more private."
"Sure."
I rest my head on his shoulder.
Close my eyes.
Block out the world.
But that only sends my thoughts straight to Dean.
To his cocky smile and his bright eyes and his soft touch.
I don't want to be here.
I want to be there.
Anti-Dean's hand brushes my hip as he slides into the booth. I take the spot opposite his. Finish my drink as he introduces himself properly and tells me about his job.
I give myself one more round to let reason overwhelm my senses.
To let my body find a way to find Anti-Dean appealing.
I don't.
It doesn't.
The jukebox belts out a peppy pop song. Two college girls squeal as they lock hands and dance. They're wearing matching designer dresses. One is hot pink. The other is red.
They're the kind of women Dean usually takes home.
Only he doesn't.
He hasn't.
He wants me.
Maybe it's the booze talking, but this is seeming like a better and better idea.
I say goodbye to Anti-Dean. Leave a five for the bartender. Slide my second-hand leather jacket over my shoulders.
His address is still in my cell. It's ten blocks away. Far enough for the cool air to temper the heat racing through me. Too close for logic to find a way into my brain.
There.
I walk the concrete path.
Knock.
"One minute." His voice booms from behind the door.
I shift my weight between my heels. I can't wait. I can't give myself any time to think up excuses.
This is my chance.
One night before everything goes to shit.
One night to soak up every ounce of bliss.
Carpe fucking diem.
Footsteps move closer.
The handle turns.
And there's Dean, standing in front of the door in nothing but a towel, completely nonplussed by me crashing his place.
"Wasn't expecting you, sunshine." He motions for me to come in.
I shut the door behind me.
He stares back at me.
All tall and broad and lickable.
I tell my brain to fuck off.
I wrap my arms around his waist.
I rise to my tiptoes.
And I kiss him like the ship is going down.