Chapter One
Silas
“Remember that time you switched his mom’s name to his side chick’s in his phone, and he ended up sending her nudes instead?”
Something about listening to conversations in bars is intoxicating.
I absorb it like the mixed drinks I create.
People perch on heavy stools and slur their darkest secrets.
Admit their drunken truths.
It’s different tonight. I’m not listening to an intoxicated soul pour their heart out. It’s three women wedged toward the end of the bar, debating on who had the pettiest ex revenge.
I observe them, pretending to dry a martini glass, and replay the last retaliation in my mind.
He sent nudes to his mom instead of his side chick.
I shudder. I’d jump off a goddamn cliff if I accidentally sexted my mother, let alone sent her a dick selfie.
Yet another reason I steer clear of relationships.
No girlfriend, no revenge.
I learned that lesson in high school when a two-week fling declared her love for me and then keyed my car after I broke up with her. That shit is for the birds.
I set down the glass and grab another. I’ve never seen them in the three weeks I’ve bartended at Luna Bar, but that’s not unusual. It’s a busy bar with different faces coming and going, depending on whatever event the bar is throwing—fight nights, ladies’ nights, or bar crawls.
Luna Bar isn’t a dreary bar with dimmed lights and classic country tunes blaring from a jukebox. The lights are bright, and the music genre falls somewhere between Hank Williams and Imagine Dragons, so I can hear them decently.
The clock hasn’t struck midnight, so plastered coeds aren’t packing the place yet. Being the kick-ass employee I am, I ignore customers waving me over with drink requests. I can’t tear my eyes away from them.
More specifically, I can’t stop staring at her.
There are three of them, but I’ve fastened my focus on the woman who’d swapped the names. We’ll call her Name Swapper. She’s a dark-haired beauty—a nameless, shit-stirring woman who screams trouble.
But me? I live for fucking trouble.
Stroking my jaw, I admire her sitting perfect-postured on her stool while sipping on a cotton candy–colored cocktail. Her tongue wraps around the tip of the red straw—the same color as her lips—with each drink. Every so often, she fiddles with her straight hair that’s as dark as the sky will be when I clock out tonight, and the strands fall to each side of her cleavage. Her skin tone is one people lie out in the sun for hours to achieve, but I’d bet tonight’s tips that it’s natural.
I’ve worked at bars long enough to guess people’s ages. I’m usually right on the money on who’s carrying a fake, who recently hit legal drinking age, and who is decades older than me. My guess is she’s in her early twenties.
When admiring her from afar isn’t pleasing enough, I approach them. Their conversation ceases as they wait for me to explain myself.
I point at Name Swapper and deliver a confident smile. “You win. I’ll be sure to hide my phone when we’re at your place later.”
The strawberry-blonde next to her gasps.
The brunette to her right scoffs.
Name Swapper stares at me, unimpressed, and settles her half-full glass onto the sticky bar. Her voice is bored when she says, “What makes you think I’d be interested in you or your phone?”
I ignore the racket around me, rest my elbow on the bar, and invade her personal space like an asshole. “How about you give me your number? I’ll be sure you’re the only woman receiving my dick pics.”
I should be ashamed of myself for the weak-ass pickup line, but hey, time is limited. The bar will soon grow overcrowded, and my chance to shoot my shot with her will be severed. It’s rare for me to hit on women in the workplace. I very much believe in the phrase don’t shit where you eat. I’ve witnessed too many coworkers hook up with customers, only to deal with the wrath of them showing up to start drama later.
Hard pass on that shit.
But something about this woman is different. A sense that she won’t look for me later or expect anything the next morning.
She stares at me, silent and smirking.
I raise a brow. “You single?”
“No fuckboys with side chicks at the moment.” She plays with her straw, still feigning boredom, but that smirk tells me she’s enjoying this game.
“Good news for me then.” I snap my fingers, pull my phone from my pocket, and shake it in the air. “I do need to put your number in since it seems you can’t be trusted around phones.”
“Cocky.” She squints in concentration and bites the corner of her plump lip. “Cocky is my type, so what the hell?”
Score.
My grin matches the same one I sported the night I lost my virginity to Miranda Smith in the back seat of my dad’s old BMW. Good-slash-embarrassing times. At least now, I last a hell of a lot longer than I did at fifteen.
She recites her number, and I type it into my phone. With her attitude, I predicted she’d put up more of a challenge and not hand her number over like loose change.
“And your name?” I ask when finished.
“Lola.”
“Nice to meet you, Lola.” I slide the phone back into my pocket. “I’m Silas.”
She gestures toward my pocket. “I don’t reply to texts, FYI. Call or don’t bother.”
Weird.
That’s the first time I’ve heard someone say they prefer calls to texts. Hell, I’d rather receive a text than a call any day. You call me, and I’ll let it ring fifty times until it goes to voicemail.
I snap my fingers. “I’ll be sure to call then, sweetheart.”
She rolls her eyes at my sentiment.
This woman is unreadable. One moment, she’s acting as if she wants to jab a straw through my eyes, and the next, she’s giving me her number.
“Yo! Bartender!” A customer pounds his heavy hand on the bar. “Quit trying to get laid! We need drinks!”
Lola shifts in her stool to look at him. The frat boy waves his arms in the air, anxiously seeking my attention.
She points at him. “You’d better go do your job before they fire you.”
“Fuck him.” I shrug with confidence I shouldn’t have about being unemployed. “What can I get you?”
They simultaneously hold up their drinks.
“He already served us.” Lola signals to Cohen, the other bartender on duty. He’s also my boss.
I slightly frown before nodding. “Let me know when you’re ready for your next round.”
I wink and walk away even though I’d prefer to stay and chat with her.
Have to play hard to get and all.
I also need to do my job.
I make the frat douchebag and his friends Long Island iced teas and roll my eyes at their lack of tip before strolling toward Cohen. He hired me after I was fired from my last bartending gig. I’d worked at Club Layla a year before I mistakenly slept with a shot girl … who was also the owner’s niece. We’d agreed it would be a one-time thing and there’d be no commitments, but she didn’t keep her end of the deal.
Again, don’t shit where you eat.