“GOT YOUR GIRL,” Colt says, barging into my bedroom late on Saturday. “She’s heading to The Ramshack. We’re going out.”
“The Ramshack? Where’s that?”
“You know that rundown building two streets over from the arcades? The one with boarded-up windows, green paint, and a plastic mermaid hanging over the door?”
“That’s a bar?”
“Apparently so. Live music every weekend. Some local band is playing tonight. Get moving. We’re leaving in half an hour.”
I sit up, slinging the PS controller aside. “I don’t need a wingman, bro. I’m going solo.”
“She already said no twice, and I’ve not seen it once. If she shoots you down again, I want to fucking watch. You’re not taking this away from me. Get. Dressed.” With one last pointed look, he retreats, closing the door behind him.
Of course the idea of witnessing Vivienne delivering another low blow to my stomach is too entertaining to pass on.
Having little choice in the matter, it takes me less than twenty minutes to grab a shower and meet them in the kitchen, buzzing like a fly on a hot day.
This can’t be normal.
I’ve seen Vivienne twice, kissed her once, and I’m already acting like a stray dog that found a new owner.
“Heading out?” Nico asks, peeling his eyes from the screen of his laptop. “You need a ride?”
“Yeah, that’d be good. I was going to drive, but since you’re offering, I won’t mind a few beers,” Cody admits, taking three bottles from the fridge. “Mia’s out?”
“Yeah,” he grinds out, clearly on edge, though it’s not half as prominent as six months ago. He came a long way in taming his unbearable personality traits for Mia. “Dinner with Aisha.”
“So you’re not drinking,” Cody states, popping the caps off.
It’s not a question. Never is while Mia’s out with her sister, father, or even us. Nico drives her wherever necessary and back, keeping off alcohol if his girl is the passenger.
“Where are you going?” he asks, pushing his laptop aside. “Club or another frat party?”
“The Ramshack,” Colt supplies, grabbing the keys to Nico’s G Wagon from a bowl in the hallway. “It’s round the corner from the arcades.”
“New bar?”
“Old one. Just not our scene,” Cody says, making a beeline for the garage. “Shotgun!”
Yeah, no shit. He calls shotgun every time, like Colt or I would argue. Not a chance. Cody gets motion sick in the back, and neither of us enjoys stopping every five minutes, so it’s a given he rides up front.
“Why the change?” Nico asks once we’re all buckled up and he’s reversing out of the garage. “You prefer your usual spots.”
Cody looks over his shoulder, eyeing me with a questioning eyebrow raised, checking how much—if anything—he can divulge. Satisfied by my lack of head shaking, he looks straight ahead. “Conor’s hunting. Remember Rose’s sister?”
“Vivienne?” Nico’s inquisitive stare shifts to the rearview mirror. “You like her?”
“Understatement,” Colt cuts in. “She shot him down twice and he’s still chasing.”
Having brothers is fun.
They have a way of digging under my skin, knowing exactly where their pokes and prods will hurt most and piss me off to my back fucking teeth.
So much fun…
“She told him he’s too rich for her,” Cody adds, his tone brimming with amusement.
I don’t need to see his face to know it’s split in a Joker grin.
“She thinks I’m a spoilt asshole,” I grunt, my foot bouncing against the car floor.
“Way off the mark.” Nico turns left at the traffic lights, speedometer racing over the speed limit. Another thing he never does if Mia’s in the car. “The rich part, I mean. You are a touch spoilt. Look at yourself. You’re going after a girl who thinks you’ve got too much money, and that’s what you’re wearing?”
I scrutinize my tee and jeans. Granted, they’re both designer, but no huge labels are plastered anywhere, so I fail to spot a problem.
It always makes me laugh whenever I see anyone strut the streets with huge Dolce&Gabbana prints covering their tees. Look at me! I can afford this!
Yeah… no. You can’t. You saved up and bought the most obscene tee with the biggest logo to rub in your friend’s face.
All for show.
People who have money don’t buy ostentatious clothes. Take Nico. He’s got more cash than he could spend during three lifetimes, but he doesn’t own any look at me! clothes. He doesn’t feel the need to prove anything to anyone.
“What’s wrong with my clothes?”
“Not your clothes, Conor,” Nico clarifies like he’s talking to my five-years-younger version. “Watch, bling, belt. You’ll walk into that bar and stand out like a sore thumb. Lose the watch.”
“So I’m supposed to change who I am?”
“You’re looking at this the wrong way. I’m not saying never wear a watch again but show her you don’t need it and you’re no different without it. Know your audience, bro. If she didn’t like spiders, would you bring one? You wouldn’t, so don’t wear things that immediately remind her you’re… rich.” He chuckles at the last word.
I don’t like when he does that. After years of not hearing him laugh, hearing it now reminds me of psychopaths for some unknown reason.
I don’t see how losing my watch will work, but fine. I hand it over to Nico for safekeeping. “She won’t magically forget who I am just because I’m not wearing a watch,” I say, massaging my wrist. “Fuck, I feel naked without it.”
“Of course she won’t forget, but you won’t be flashing it in her face all evening. If you want her to get to know you better, keep her focused on you, not your bling. Got it?”
“Makes sense,” Cody says, unbuckling his seat belt once Nico parks by the curb.
There’s a line outside the bar. Immediately everyone turns, staring at the two-hundred-thousand-dollar car my brother drives.
Good job not sticking out like a sore thumb.
Thankfully, a quick crowd scan tells me Vee’s either inside or not here yet.
“Thanks for the ride,” Colt says, his elbows landing on the driver’s side door the second Nico rolls the window down. “You gonna stay up late?”
“Call me and check. I might pick you up.”
“Alright.” He taps the roof twice, sending him on his way.
Normally, we’d aim straight for the door, pat the bouncer’s shoulder, and enter without spending a single second waiting in line, but it won’t fly here. A, the bouncer watches us like he’s thinking up an excuse not to let us enter at all, and B, we’re supposed to lay low.
I light a cigarette, deeming the occasion social enough.
“This sucks,” Cody mumbles, leaning against the building at the back of the line. “Can’t we slip him a hundred and get in already? How long will this take?”
“About ten minutes,” a girl in front of us says, spinning on her heel. Big, blue eyes roam the three of us, not a hint of timidity marring her expression. “I’m Ana. You guys clearly don’t belong here.”
“What makes you say that?” Colt grumbles, equally unhappy about the wait as Cody.
Ana’s redhead friend turns around, every bit of her exposed skin shimmering with glitter lotion. “The car, your clothes… your surname,” she lists, tongue flicking round her lips. “You’re the Hayes brothers, correct?”
Cody theatrically grips the back of his tee, circling round to look over his shoulder, unnaturally craning his neck. “Do I have a label on my back?”
Ana giggles, running her hand down his arm as the line moves. So do we, three whole steps.
“You don’t, but your surname might as well be tattooed on Nico’s forehead,” Ana admits. “Everyone who pays attention knows who he is.” She trades a glance with the redhead. “So? What brings you here of all places? Cocktail bars don’t do it for you anymore, or are you looking for fresh pussy to tap tonight?”
I almost choke on the smoke, hacking my goddamn lungs out, but Colt’s stoic expression hardly changes as he looks her over, ever so casual. “That an offer?”
She grins, taking a step closer, every move designed to stiffen his dick. “Maybe. Buy me a drink. We’ll see what happens.”
He grabs her by the arm, nothing tender about that touch or the look he sends me as he motions his chin at the door.
I guess sixty-seven seconds is enough time wasted in line. Cody urges the other girl along with a motion of his hand. By the time we reach the door, Colt’s already dealt with the bouncer.
From the smirk stretching across the guy’s face as he retracts the tape to let us pass, it’s clear he got more cash than he’d typically ask for.
The first thing that hits me is how heavy the air feels compared to outside. The room is dimly lit, walls decorated with photos of bands that must’ve played here over the years. The space is packed beyond capacity, the crowd thicker than molasses, air saturated with artificial smoke, the stench of spilled beer, dampness, and sweat.
“C’mon.” Cody nudges me under the ribs, pointing at a round bar at the center. “Let’s grab a beer,” he adds, arm casually draped across Ana’s friend’s—whatever her name might be—shoulders.
Never takes him long to scout a girl ready for a bit of fun.
We snake our way through the swarming crowd, passing the stage where the local rock band plays. They’re good. Rock guitar riffs raise the hairs on the back of my neck, music raw, pulsing in the air with a gritty energy that infects everyone in the room.
This isn’t what I’m used to. We go clubbing often, but our usual spots, with their sleek decor and flashing lights, seem almost sterile compared to this grungy chaos. The dancefloors there are either white, glass areas that blink in time to the DJ’s music or clearly segregated wooden parquets.
Here, the dancefloor spreads every which way in a wave of bodies dancing to the rhythm dictated by the band. Even the metal staircase is alive with people swaying and jumping. There’s no sitting area. No tables or plush couches for VIPs to lounge on.
Instead, a few retro booths line the walls, like in an old-school diner. The owner clearly didn’t care about impressing anyone with luxury or exclusivity; they tried to create a space where people could come together and lose themselves in the music.
The lack of a dress code is another striking difference. In our favorite clubs, one wrong outfit choice is enough to get turned away at the door. But here, people wear whatever they want, from shorts and hoodies to bikini tops paired with tiny skirts.
Despite losing the watch, I’m still overdressed. My shoes are too clean, my t-shirt too crisply pressed, my jeans not showing enough signs of excessive wear.
The weight of people’s gazes follows me to the bar. It’s unnerving. The scrutiny, side-eyes, and behind-the-hand whispers. Weird. New. Unexpected.
“Three Coronas, and two appletinis,” Colt tells the bartender, raising his voice above the music.
She taps her index finger at the drink menu taped to the counter. It’s pretty short. Mostly beer and cheap wine, with three cocktails that hardly live up to the definition. Vodka with Red Bull, Greyhound, which is just a fancy name for vodka and grapefruit juice, and Cape Coddler, which—again—is just vodka with cranberry juice.
I’m starting to see a theme.
“Just get beer,” Ana tells him. “Any.”
A moment later, five bottles of Corona are pushed across the counter. No condensation on the bottles, meaning we’ll be drinking it at room temperature. Awesome.
The barmaid frowns at the hundred-dollar bill Colt’s holding out. “I don’t think I’ve got enough change,” she says, opening the till. “You got a twenty?”
“No, but you can open me a tab.”
She cocks an amused eyebrow. “A tab? First time in The Ramshack, I take it? We don’t do tabs, handsome.” She grabs the bill with a cheeky smile. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll hold onto that.” She slips the hundred down her cleavage. “I’ll note what you’re ordering, then give you the change at the end of the night.”
“I plan on having more than two drinks,” Colt says, pulling another three bills out. “Keep this. It should cover the bill by the time we’re done.”
“Sweetie, I know you’re used to paying ten dollars a bottle, but it’s five here, so a hundred bucks covers four rounds. You think you’ll be ordering sixteen?”
“Probably no more than ten. Get me a booth, don’t make me wait in line when I come back, and you’ll keep the change.”
A glowing smile is the only answer she gives before hailing a bouncer. She says something in his ear, gesturing at Colt, and the guy nods, no facial expression whatsoever.
“Follow me,” he says, leading Colt and Ana—his girl for the night—toward the few booths left of the stage.
“So? What’s the game plan, bro?” Cody asks, sitting his girl for the night—the redhead—on his lap once the bouncer has shooed the previous occupiers of the booth away, clearing a few empty glasses in the process. “You see her anywhere?” He slides his hand down to the girl’s hip, then lower, slowly, making her squirm.
Good. He’s into her, and that means he’ll be otherwise occupied. Better than him getting in my way, trying to help and doing the exact opposite. I tug from my bottle, scanning the crowd, not counting on much. Vee’s short, so spotting her among the party-goers might be mission impossible.
But luck’s on my side.
She just arrived, hair back into a high ponytail. Hips dressed in a denim skirt sway from left as she aims for the bar, arm-in-arm with another girl.
Must be Abby, judging by her pink birthday sash.
“Bingo,” Cody whisper-cheers, nudging me to get moving. “Don’t blow this. We’ll be here if you need us.”
“What would I need you for?”
“Good point.”
I down another mouthful of beer, shifting closer to the edge of the seat, but suddenly everything goes to shit. A group of guys catches up with the girls, and one winds his hand around Vee’s waist, yanking her away from Abby.
Every muscle in my body seizes painfully. Violent, zestful energy sweeps me from head to toe, growing incendiary at the puzzled, frightened look crossing her face.
It doesn’t last long.
A second later, her beautiful smile lights up, replacing my violent twinge with jealousy ringing in my mind like a school bell.
The guy whose grubby hands grope Vee’s waist has the demeanor of a labradoodle. His unrelenting smile so dazzling it’s blinding and if he had a tail it’d be wagging all over the place.
“Fuck,” I hum, the word nullified by the surrounding noise.
If that’s her type, then she was right… I’m not it.
But I can’t let this girl go without a fight to save my fucking life.
