“What part of ‘I’m not drinking tonight’ did you not understand?” I ask, glaring at my brother.
He chuckles, brushing some lint off his acid-washed denim jacket. “If you don’t drink, you’re not gonna be any fun.”
“Very brotherly of you to peer pressure me.”
Daddy’s words from before we left this evening echo in my mind—his insistence I pick one of the men from his list, so he can move on with cleaning up my image—and I wonder if the men in my life are capable of doing anything but pressuring me.
Rolling his eyes, Palmer twirls his phone in his hands. “I’m just saying. You’ve been wound so tight since the party, you’re bound to explode any second if you don’t let loose a little. What better place than here, with your big brother and his lover to watch over you?”
My nose scrunches up at his use of the word lover, but I don’t argue. He’s not wrong, anyway. The events at the party the other night, coupled with Richard Stiles’s postmortem discovery and the whole dating situation, have left me on edge.
And not in a good way.
The bartender comes back and slings our drinks down, leaving a mason jar with pink liquid in front of me. I grab it with both hands and bring it close, if only to keep anyone else from touching it.
“Bottoms up,” Troy cheers, tilting his head back and downing his shot in one gulp.
Palmer mimics the action, pulling Troy in for a sloppy kiss to celebrate. My brother threads his fingers into Troy’s dark, braided hair, grinning into him. When they pull apart, they turn and look at me expectantly.
Chewing on my bottom lip, I scan the crowd again, searching for any semblance of recognition. A phone aimed in our direction, whispers between friends hidden behind hands—something that will not only alert our parents that I’m out being a delinquent, but Preston, too.
Not to mention the fact that we shouldn’t even be in this bar at all; The Flaming Chariot is strictly off-limits to Primrose family members, and after my encounter with its owner the other night, I have double the reason not to patronize.
“What happened to you, swan?” Palmer slides his arm around my shoulders, pulling me into his side. “You used to be fun. When did you become such a dud?”
Eight and a half months ago. “Probably around the same time I broke my ankle.”
“Jeez, Palm. She’s not a dud for wanting to be responsible.” Troy reaches across my brother, patting my hands.
Palmer waves him off, leaning into me. “Whatever. Tell me you’re at least hooking up with someone tonight.”
I just stare at him.
An exasperated sound escapes his throat, and he spins around on his stool. “I might as well have dragged Cash out.”
Like Cash would ever come out the night before he’s due in court.
Offering a sympathetic smile, Troy takes Palmer’s hand and tugs him into a standing position. “I’m gonna take this one to dance and blow off some steam. You okay over here on your own?”
Nodding, I watch over my shoulder as the couple disappears into the smoky atmosphere, blending in with the twisted limbs in the middle of the bar. A country song crackles over the loudspeaker, and I smother a grin when Palmer breaks free from Troy’s grip to begin a line dance.
Bringing the mason jar to my lips, I take a small sip. The acidic, fruity flavor bursts on my tongue, and I swallow it down before it has a chance to settle in.
If I let myself think about how much I enjoy it, I won’t be able to stop after just one drink. Out here, surrounded by people chomping at the bit to sell a story about Lenny Primrose losing control in public, I can’t afford to indulge.
See, Daddy? I can control my urges, after all.
I’m alone for approximately two minutes before I get bored, and the margarita becomes far more enticing than sitting here watching the dance floor.
A year ago, maybe I’d interact with the others sitting at the bar with me, but right now all I want to do is temporarily forget the bad shit in my life. If I talk to other people, the subject of my demise is bound to come up.
Normally I refrain because it makes me feel like Preston, but maybe it wouldn’t hurt to let loose a little. It’s been a long time, and I think after everything I deserve to have a little fun.
Three drinks and two shots later, the bartender comes over to check on me, and I feel him hesitate as he looks me over, maybe just realizing who I am now that I’m by myself.
“Your friends leave?” he asks, and even in the dim lighting I can see the striking blue of his eyes.
Lifting a shoulder, I nod. At least, I’m pretty sure I do. “Not exciting enough for them.”
“Now, I doubt that.” He grins, leaning a deeply tanned forearm on the counter. “You look like you know fun, but it’s probably not the kind they’re into.”
“Oh?” The room spins a little, and my mouth feels impossibly dry, but I want to listen to him talk anyway.
“I can spot a clubgoer a mile away, and you have wallflower written all over you.”
“Could I record you saying that? Because the general public has a completely different opinion.”
Smirking, he shakes his head. “I’m Blue.”
He extends his hand, and I take it with a tentative smile, grateful that my night may not be confined to wallowing while my brother and Troy have the time of their lives.
“Lenny,” I offer.
I can’t even remember the last time I interacted with a stranger of my own will, much less one who didn’t immediately want to talk about rumors or Preston or Primrose Realty.
His head tilts to the side. “Let me guess. You’re an artist.”
My tongue feels heavy as I let out a little laugh. “Something like that.”
“So, you’d probably rather be out painting a sidewalk or vandalizing the side of a building right now. Like that Banksy guy.”
“Well, not really.” I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear and take another sip of my drink. “My parents would murder me if I ever defaced public property. Wouldn’t look good for their brand.”
“Ah, yes. Your brand of criminal activity looks a bit different, doesn’t it, love?”
Surprise seizes my throat as the British accent that’s haunted my dreams since the party rumbles in my ear. Liquid catches in my esophagus and I sputter trying to clear an airway.
I knew this was a terrible idea.
“Oh, my.” A hand finds my back, barely touching as it smooths a circular pattern that seems to scorch me through my clothes. “Jumpy little bird, isn’t she?”
The question is clearly directed at Blue, who plasters a tight smile on his face. “Boss. Didn’t know you were in tonight.”
“Clearly. Otherwise, maybe you’d be doing your job instead of flirting with drunk customers.”
My fingers squeeze the mason jar glass until they’re numb, and goose bumps prick the back of my neck like a million little needles.
“I’m… not drunk,” I insist, spinning around on the stool to prove it to him.
Except I misjudge his proximity, and my knees knock into his side as I turn. The impact throws me off-kilter, and my hands lurch out, grabbing his hips to keep from falling.
The room continues spinning. I stick my tongue to the roof of my mouth, concentrating on getting it to stop.