Literally, it felt like everyone in this bar was coupled up and grinding on each other. But then again, she supposed that was the point of a bar like Lush, which was crowded tonight, with dim lighting, custom fall-themed cocktails, and music that felt like it was written for sex.
It was the perfect place to get lost in. Iris looked around, looking for anyone who might be looking back. She leaned against the bar, hip out, martini glass half full and held lazily in one hand. All the nonverbal cues for I’m down to fuck.
Only problem was, Astrid was sticking by her side like glue while Jordan and Simon had some serious conversation at the end of the bar. Claire and Delilah were . . . well, they were part of the dry-humping scene on the dance floor, which was a little disturbing and also a complete delight.
“This is . . . interesting,” Astrid said, clutching her bag to her chest with one arm, a glass of white wine in the other. She was very obviously trying not to look at Claire and Delilah.
“Oh, baby’s first queer bar,” Iris said, petting Astrid’s blond hair.
Astrid rolled her eyes and batted Iris’s hand away, but a small smile settled on her mouth before she went back to watching everything with a slightly stunned expression. She’d worn three-inch heels to the bar, pairing them with cuffed jeans and a fitted navy blazer. She was like a queer Ann Taylor.
Iris laughed when Astrid’s mouth dropped open as two men whipped off their shirts and then continued their grinding.
“Well,” Astrid said, sipping her wine.
“Welcome, my darling,” Iris said, and Astrid grinned, clinking her glass with Iris’s. The current song ended, drifting into another, but Claire and Delilah headed toward them at the bar, laughing and holding hands.
“I forgot how much I love dancing!” Claire shouted over the noise.
“I can’t believe I’ve never brought you here before,” Delilah said, her arms wrapping around Claire’s waist from behind. “All those times Iris dragged my ass here, I could’ve been . . .” She trailed off and whispered something in Claire’s ear, something that turned Claire’s face bright red—visible even in the dim light—and made her giggle.
“Jesus, you two,” Iris said.
“Oh, they’re cute, leave them alone,” Astrid said as Jordan came up silently behind her, slipping a hand around her waist. Simon ordered a beer and sat on a stool.
“Okay,” Iris said. “Who do we see?”
Her friends just blinked at her then glanced at one another.
“What?” Iris said.
“Who are you in the mood to see?” Delilah asked slowly.
Iris frowned. “Um, literally anyone.”
“Are you sure you don’t just want to dance with us?” Claire asked. She reached out and took Iris’s hand. “I’ll dance with you.”
“Not in the way I’d prefer,” Iris said. She wanted the press of bodies, sweat and alcohol, someone’s thigh between hers, nearly making her come right here in the middle of Lush.
Her stomach fluttered at the thought, a rare roll of nervousness.
“Honey, are you sure?” Claire asked.
Iris froze, looking at each of her friends. “What do you mean?”
“She means Stevie,” Delilah said, ever straight to the point.
Iris clenched her jaw.
Make your own happily ever after.
She shook her head, trying to dislodge the phrase, but she couldn’t get it out of her mind. Granted, she’d written it about a hundred times tonight. It made sense it would be stuck on a loop.
Total, perfect sense.
“Iris, have you even talked to her?” Astrid asked softly, squeezing her shoulder.
Iris shook her off.
Of course she hadn’t talked to her. She couldn’t. What the hell would she say? Iris didn’t even know how to explain what had happened between her and Stevie to her best friends, to her own heart, how could she offer an apology for it?
If she even wanted to apologize at all.
Which she didn’t.
She and Stevie were over. Stevie had left and Iris hadn’t gone after her and that was that.
Make your own happily ever after.
“I’m going to dance,” she said, pushing off the bar and plunging into the sea of writhing bodies before her friends could stop her. She closed her eyes, lifted her hands and moved. She spun and twirled until everything was a blur.
Until she felt a hand on her shoulder.
She opened her eyes to see a dark-haired woman, all hips and ass, a total goddess, standing in front of her.
“Hi,” the woman said. She had on a dark purple dress, which clung to every curve perfectly.
Iris smiled. “Hi.”
“My name’s—”
“I don’t care,” Iris said, hooking her arms around the woman’s hips and pulling her close.
The woman laughed, revealing lovely white teeth, gold earrings dangling with her movement. “Fair enough.”
Iris pulled her closer, the woman wrapping her arms around Iris’s shoulders, hip-to-hip. She looked Iris in the eyes, smiled. She was so— “Pretty,” Iris said.
“You . . . you too.”
Iris laughed. Fucking. Adorable. “I meant your name, but I’ll take that compliment.”
Iris closed her eyes, felt the curve of the woman’s waist, moving them to the music, a frantic beat that felt like the entire room was building to climax.
This was what Iris needed.
This was what she wanted.
“You’re good at this,” the woman said.
Stefania rubbed her forehead. “God. I’m terrible at this.”
“Maybe,” Iris said. “But it’s working for me.”
Iris said nothing. She pulled the woman closer, grazed her mouth along her bare shoulder, breathed her in. Flowers and vanilla and sweat. Lovely and . . . different.
“Do you live nearby?” the woman asked.
Iris pulled back, met with a pair of ice-blue eyes. “I don’t.”
“I do. Very close, in fact.”
Iris knew her next line. A flirty Interesting. Or maybe just a smirk, followed by a slow lean-in for a kiss. Even a coquettish That’s very good to know.
But she couldn’t get anything off of her tongue. She couldn’t get her face to even move. She simply stared at the woman—this gorgeous person who wanted Iris, wanted to give Iris everything Iris had come here to find.
The woman’s smile faltered. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Iris said. Maybe a name would help. Make it a little more personable. “I’m Iris.”
Her partner smiled. “Beatrice.”
Iris’s heart beat everywhere—her throat, her fingertips, her stomach.
By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me!
Iris shook her head, whispered, “I don’t.”
Beatrice—the real one, the flesh-and-blood one—frowned. “What?”
“I . . .” Iris dropped her hands, backed up. “I’m sorry . . . you’re perfect, but . . . I’m sorry, I just . . .”
She turned and headed back toward the bar without another word, leaving Beatrice behind. Her friends all watched her, parting to make room for her in between them. She rested her hands on the smooth lacquered surface of the bar, knocked back the rest of her martini.
Then she laughed.
It started as a snort, an incredulous, sarcastic sound, but it soon turned into something more. Something bone-deep and raw, so forceful her stomach muscles ached, tears springing into her eyes. She dropped her head into her hands and laughed and laughed until she couldn’t tell if she was actually laughing or crying.
“Um . . . honey?” Claire said.
Iris just shook her head, kept laugh-sobbing. “I’m broken,” she said between hiccups. “I’m fucking broken. She broke me.”
This was what Iris did. She hooked up. She had fun. She flirted and danced and fucked and that was what everyone expected of her.
That’s what she expected of herself.
It was what she wanted, but now, here she was, unable to do any of that. Here she was, crying in her favorite bar, after having walked away from one of the hottest people in this whole place.
She felt a hand on her back, soothing circles. She didn’t shrug off the touch. She didn’t look up to see who it was, she simply stood there, her fingers wet from her tears, her throat raw, and she . . .
She . . .
She wanted to tell Stevie about it. She wanted to laugh-sob with Stevie. She wanted to dance with Stevie, flirt with Stevie, touch and kiss and hold Stevie. She wanted to sleep with Stevie and wake up with Stevie, and goddammit, she didn’t want to write Make your own happily ever after in Stevie’s book.