All the while, my gaze keeps straying over to our knight in shining armor. Or rather, knight in… a pair of jeans and a polo shirt.
The second or third time I glance over, he catches me looking, and moves closer. “Can I give you a ride home?” he asks. “It’ll probably be safer, this area, this time of night.”
“Actually.” I tilt my head. Size him up. It’s still early yet. The club might have to shut down when the cops show up, but he’s right, this area, it’s chock full of night life. Both the good and bad kinds.
Part of me shouts at myself to remember about tomorrow. I have a big important meeting to nail. But it’s in the afternoon. Tonight was meant to be my celebratory night out, to hype myself up for it. Now Becky’s vanished, leaving me all alone to deal with all of this.
I deserve a little fun, too. “Can I buy you a drink?” I ask.
My hero grins.
2
Cassidy
We wind up at a dive bar down the road. It’s much more my scene than the club was to begin with. Don’t get me wrong, I love dancing on occasion, but that place catered to a younger, more tequila-heavy crowd than I normally party with.
In the dimly lit bar, I lean across the counter to catch the bartender’s eye. “Whiskey for me,” I say, “And…?” I glance over my shoulder.
Is it my imagination, or do his eyes lighten with something close to interest? “The same,” he says, and settles onto a stool next to me. “So, Cassidy, was it?”
I nod, watching him as the bartender passes us both well whiskeys.
“Lark.” He smiles. “I’d say it’s nice to meet you, but, well, considering the circumstances…”
“Oh, no.” I slide his drink toward him, then raise my own. “It was very nice to meet you indeed.” We tap glasses. “To your perfect timing, Lark.”
He laughs. “Perfect timing would’ve been if I’d gotten there quickly enough to knock that asshole out before he got anywhere near you,” he admits, and rubs at his cheekbone.
I peer at his bruise. “We should get some ice—”
“No, no. It’ll be fine.” He offers a wry smile. “Trust me, I’ve had worse.”
I settle back onto my seat, watching him curiously from the corner of my eye. “Where did you learn to fight like that?” I ask after a moment. Because I saw him move. That was no basic self-defense class. He’s been in fights before. Real ones.
“Actually…” He smiles, a genuine one this time. “I grew up with five brothers. So, my training started there. And then, you know, perfected it in college. Between playing on the rugby team and going on one too many nights out to even seedier bars than this one…”
“Oi,” the bartender barks, before shaking his head and moving away to the far side of the bar.
We both stifle our laughter, trading amused glances. “Better watch your tongue,” I murmur.
Lark’s gaze shifts to my mouth and then back up again, so quick I wonder if I imagined it. But then… “Oh, I know. It’s always getting me into trouble.” His gaze drops again, and this time I know I’m not imagining things.
My cheeks flush, but luckily it’s dark in this bar. I take a sip of my whiskey, and watch Lark from the corner of my eye as he does the same.
“So where did you learn to change a tire?” Lark asks. “Or, for that matter, to swing a wrench like that.” He tilts his head, sizing me up. “Not sure I’ve ever seen anyone use that technique before.”
I grin. “What can I say? My dad wanted me to be prepared for any challenges the world could throw at a girl.”
“Well.” He raises his glass once more. “To fathers who prepare us properly, then.”
My grin falters. But I lift my glass anyway, tap it to his. What I don’t expect, though, is for him to notice my sudden shift in demeanor, the way I don’t quite meet his eye this time.
“What’s the matter?” he asks, his voice dropping low.
“Just… my dad.” I shrug, blinking back a sudden and unexpected surge of tears. “He passed away a couple years ago.”
Lark lifts a hand to rest on my shoulder. Where his palm touches me, warmth spreads, tingling, all through my arm, up my shoulder and across my body. After a moment of hesitation, I reach up to thread my fingers through his, and squeeze just once, lightly.
He doesn’t say he’s sorry. He doesn’t offer empty platitudes. That’s what makes me ask.
“What about you?” I keep my eyes on the bar, but I can see him in the reflection of the bottles of liquor lined up there. The way his head drops a little, and his eyes darken.
“My youngest brother,” he says, after a long moment of quiet. “He was in a car accident last year. Drunk driver. They say he was killed on impact, never felt anything, but…”
“Shit, Lark.” I tighten my grip on his hand.
He shifts beside me, then picks up his whiskey again, takes a longer sip this time. “Losing someone that young… Really makes you appreciate the time you still have. Makes you want to live life right.” He glances at me again, and this time, I don’t look away. I let my eyes linger, the same way his are.
I lose track of how long we just sit, sizing one another up, before he bends a little closer. There’s barely a foot between us now. He’s close enough I catch his scent, woodsy and smoke-tinted from the whiskey, with a hint of something else underneath, something that reminds me of salt and the ocean.
“Cassidy,” he says, and my name on his lips sends a thrum of electricity through me, all the way to the tips of my fingers.
His hand slides along my body, from my shoulder down to the small of my back, where his fingers spread out, strong and so roughly calloused I can feel them even through my thin clubbing dress.
“Lark?” I manage, and my voice only quivers ever so slightly at the end. I manage to hold his gaze, though, keep my chin raised, and I don’t even let him see the way my breath catches or my stomach tightens at his touch.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” he says, still in that low, thrumming voice. The one that’s impossible to resist.
I tilt my head back, my face toward his, and when he dips down to feather his lips against mine, it feels like static shock, touching a doorknob after shuffling your feet across a carpet.
Then he sinks against me, his free hand drifting up to cup my cheek, pulling me off my stool and toward him. I stumble against him—the whiskey’s hitting harder than I expected after those other drinks earlier at the club. He chuckles, his mouth still pressed to mine, and then his lips part, taking mine with. His tongue traces the edges of my lips, and I arch my back, both my arms sliding up to wrap around his neck.
I’m not sure how we settle our tab. I have a vague memory of Lark tapping on the bar, sliding his wallet out of his back pocket. Then the next thing I know, we’re stumbling outside, his arms around my waist, holding my body against his.
The cold night air wakes me up a little, shoots fresh pulses of energy through my veins.
We part, and in the distant streetlights, Lark’s eyes look greener than ever, pools I could drown in. I realize I’m grinning like an idiot, but I don’t stop, because he’s looking at me with the same expression.