GOD, I am so fucked.
An unseasonably cold wind whips at the stray pieces of paper peeking out from my chemistry textbook, mocking me mercilessly as it sends the pages fluttering to the ground. With a frustrated groan, I drop to my knees and grab at them frantically, barely resisting the urge to stick out my tongue at the invisible, elemental prankster trying to make me more fucked than I already am.
The one time I needed it not to, class ran later than usual. Some fool decided today was the day for him to attempt to juggle test tubes. Test tubes that happened to contain some not-so-fun chemicals.
Needless to say, it did not end well.
A pile of broken glass, some mild chemical burns, and a rather impressive ass-chewing from my chemistry professor later, we were finally released—a mere twenty minutes late. Which is how I’ve ended up sprinting across campus, cursing at the wind, and praying my boss won’t fire me. Punctuality is one of his ‘lines,’ as he likes to call them. Cross one and you’re done, and I’ve crossed more than a couple lately.
Stuffing the hopefully not important runaway loose sheets into my coat pocket, I haul ass across the courtyard, ignoring my legs as they scream in protest and hoping my grossly heavy backpack doesn’t do permanent damage.
Taking a shift that gives me barely thirty minutes of breathing room after my last class is my own fault but I couldn’t resist. The lucrative Friday night shift is too good to pass up, with students practically teleporting from class to the bar, ready to blow their meager budgets on copious amounts of alcohol to drown out an undoubtedly shitty week. It’s what I would be doing, if not for work.
By some grace of God, I slip in the back door of The Green Dragon with a whole three minutes to spare, only slightly breathless but so red in the face, I practically blend in with my hair. Flopping down on the lumpy couch decorating the minuscule staff room, I waste a precious minute regaining my breath, eyes shut and pants heavy as my head hits the wall.
“You’re late.”
I groan as I crack open an eye and lift my head, pouting at the pretty blonde suddenly looming in the doorway. “My class ran late.”
Luna Evans pouts right back as she crosses the room to flop down beside me, blowing out a heavy breath of her own. “I’ve had to deal with the masses on my own.”
Patting her thigh in apology, I assure her, “I’ll be out in two minutes.”
Pale blue eyes flick downwards to survey my outfit, a brow crooking. “You’re not dressed.”
“In two minutes, I will be.”
With a roll of her eyes, Luna reluctantly clambers to her feet, making sure to tap the watch adorning her wrist pointedly before leaving the room, leaving me chuckling in her wake. Anyone who knows my best friend knows damn well ‘dealing with the masses’ is something she could do in her sleep. Especially if the masses are men, considering her uncanny ability to bend them to her will. It’s the being alone thing she’s not so great at. Or, more specifically, the being without a gossip buddy for any length of time longer than twenty minutes.
I’ll admit it; it takes me marginally longer than two minutes to shuck off my outfit and slip into my uniform, but barely. Like a fraction of a second. Not long enough for my needy friend to come looking for me again, so I call that a win.
As I try to tame my curls—the wind combined with the rush has left the neat braid I fashioned this morning in a state of disarray—I sigh deeply at my reflection in the shitty mirror hanging on the staff room wall. Little lion, I can practically hear my dad quipping at the sight of the red mane framing my face wildly.
“Mils, come on. Your section is overflowing.” A head peeks around the door, and I sigh again at Luna’s sleek ponytail, the polar opposite of my disastrous one, not a hair out of place. Even in our work uniform—jeans a tank top adorned with Greenies’ logo—the girl looks like a runway model. Honestly, she could wear a trash bag and still look photo-shoot ready.
If I didn’t love her so much, I would hate her.
Catching the apron and notepad she tosses my way, I follow Luna out the door, internally cringing at the wave of noise and heat that immediately hits me. As I suspected and as Luna complained, the bar is packed. Not that it takes much for it to get full, with it being roughly the size of a matchbox, but we’re truly at full capacity tonight. I have to shove my way past a horde of already drunk students to get to the back, where the bar suddenly becomes a restaurant. Of sorts. A diner, really, but God forbid anyone calls it what it is. “Diners are tacky,” Tim, my boss, says a million times a day. Looking around the small space, I swallow a laugh.
Yeah. Because nothing says ‘classy’ like underage college students doing sneaky shots under the table.
“Is Tim here?” I ask Luna as she leads me through the throng
“He left already.” She casts me a pointed look over her shoulder. “I told him you had a doctor’s appointment.”
Earlier statement amended; I am no longer fucked. “You’re an angel.”
Perfectly manicured fingers pinch my bare arm. “Do some work, suck up.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I blow my friend a dramatic kiss before parting ways, heading towards my section of the definitely-not-a-diner.
Luna wasn’t lying; my section is overflowing. It’s only four tables and a small outdoor area but, jeez, do they manage to squeeze themselves in. One of the booths has eight people crammed into it; granted, two of them are girls perched on the laps of the guys they’re with, but still. Quite the feat.
Spotting the myriad of empty glasses decorating their table, I walk, no, slide over to them, courtesy of the alcohol-slick floors. With my customer-friendly smile slapped in place, I poise my pen and notepad to take what I can guess is an order consisting of beer, beer, and more beer. “What can I get you?”
Eight pairs of glassy eyes slide towards me, and I shift under the sudden onslaught of attention. Specifically, the male attention. Two of them are smiling politely, clearly the poster-children nice guys of the group. Another few are finding the v-shaped dip in my tank a hell of a lot more interesting than my face, and I’m resisting the urge to snap my fingers and pull a ‘my eyes are up here, buddy’ move. And one is… unnerving.
No expression graces his face as he stares at me, eyes cutting through to my freaking soul with their intensity. Pretty eyes, a golden color, almost glittering in the shitty diner lighting. Those eyes bore into me like he knows me, which is weird because he definitely doesn’t. God knows I’d remember if I befriended this man because, Jesus Christ, is he hot. Really fucking hot.
Most notably, someone in my life would probably have an issue with me being friends with someone I instantly label as really fucking hot, and that person would not quietly endorse said friendship.
I’m still—completely objectively and not at all lustfully—marveling at the stranger’s hotness when he plants his elbows on the table. Dark, curly hair falling over his forehead as he leans towards me, eyes the color of honey scanning me slowly, the smirking tilt to full lips screaming trouble. When he speaks in a low, raspy voice, his words are slightly slurred, a tell-tale sign he’s been here way longer than I have. “Are you even old enough to be here?”
And just like that, his hotness is forgotten.
God dammit. It’s always the hot ones.
“Are you?” I retort, cocking my head. “I’m afraid I’ll need to see some ID.”
That smirk vanishes quicker than free alcohol at a kegger. The chuckles that had begun to ring out around the table die down too, quickly replaced by the sounds of protesting grumbles and the rummaging through pockets and purses. I’m rocking a Cheshire Cat grin as almost all of them hand over slivers of plastic for me to inspect, including Mr. Smart Ass, who does so with less scowling than expected. <More of an intrigued sneer.
I barely look at the coughed-up IDs—likely fake—before handing them back. I’m more focus on the three unlucky, empty-handed souls. “Sorry guys.”
The girls glare at me with narrowed eyes, presumably plotting my death since I’ve effectively ruined their chances with their delightful companions. Smiling innocently, I shrug my shoulders in a ‘hey, what can you do?’ kind of manner. My third victim, a baby-faced kid who barely looks old enough to drive, pleads with wide eyes, “Come on, I swear I’m twenty-one. Aren’t you in one of my classes?”
I bite my lip to stop a burgeoning smile. “Nice try, kid.”
Blame your big-mouthed buddy. Maybe now he’ll learn not to be rude to waiters.
Impatiently tapping my pen against my notepad, I wait for the trio to reluctantly slide from the booth. As they slope off, tossing daggers over their shoulders, I wave them off and my smile up a notch until I’m practically glowing.
When I turn back to the remnants of the group, I don’t even care that I might’ve robbed myself of a tip because ha ha. “Now, what can I get you?”
The upside of a disgustingly busy night shift; time flies.
In the blink of an eye, the clock strikes midnight, and most of the students clear out in favor of whatever frat party is wreaking havoc. Only a few stragglers remain—unfortunately, those stragglers include Mr. Smart Ass and his very drunk, obnoxiously loud possé.
As I sit with my back to them, tiredly marrying ketchup bottles and wishing I had headphones to block out their grating voices, I swear I feel a gaze burning a hole in the back of my head.
“I am never working on a Friday again,” Luna swears as she slips onto the stool beside me, her forehead hitting the sticky counter for a split second before she remedies that mistake. Straightening up with a grimace, she soothes herself by stroking the thick wad of tips clutched in her hand. I grunt in agreement even though I know damn well I’ll be back here next week; the cash she holds is incentive enough.
We groan in unison when the bell hanging above the front door chimes, signalling an unwanted, late arrival. Opening her mouth to curse out whoever dares enter at this time of night, Luna trails off with a disappointed sigh when she recognizes the newest arrival.
A tall figure strides towards us, his hands fixing wind-blown, dirty blond hair, his cheeks bright from the nippy October air. “Hello, gorgeous,” he all but yells as he stops in front of me, pressing a harsh kiss to my lips without warning. Despite my face being numb from hours of smiling at strangers, I fix one in place once more.
Dylan Wells caught my eye the very first day of freshman year when he accidentally almost knocked me out with a heavy lecture hall door. A very convincing apology and a ‘please forgive me’ cappuccino later, we were dating. Two weeks after that, he was all mine. And now, a year on, he still is.
Not quite the same, but still mine.
“Hey, Lu,” he murmurs a half-hearted greeting at the girl perched beside me as he winds his arms around my waist, nuzzling his face against my hair in a way I hate because it always smushes the curls.
Luna grunts a greeting without looking his way. She’s never liked Dylan. Not at the beginning and even less so when, a couple of weeks ago, I stumbled into our apartment with tear-streaked cheeks and unexplainable bruises.
“You ready to go, babe?” Dylan’s nuzzling shifts from my hair to my neck, and I shy from the affection.
Pushing him away gently, I nod towards the lone table of customers very pointedly not watching us. “I’ve still got a table.”
My boyfriend huffs his disapproval. Lips pepper kisses too wet, sloppy and suggestive for public along my jaw. “Lu can take it.”
The woman in question snorts. Angling my head towards her, I cast my friend an apologetic glance before nodding in the direction of the staff room, a silent plea and permission for her to escape what is quickly becoming a very awkward situation. Luna hesitates for a moment before sighing, hopping off the stool, and disappearing into the back.
“I’ll be done soon,” I attempt to placate the impatient man pawing at me, my smile strained as I try to push him away using more force than I’d prefer yet still, he doesn’t budge.
“You’re coming to the Halloween thing next week, right?”
My nose crinkles at his question. Spending my night in a sweaty house filled with even sweatier strangers is not exactly my ideal night. “I don’t know,” I answer carefully. “I’ve got an early class the next day.”
Instantly, Dylan goes from loving to tense. Slowly, he pulls back, a frown creasing his face, his voice a decibel louder than it was before as he asks, “Are you serious?”
I chew on my lip as I glance over his shoulder nervously at the table of guys who are all very invested in studying the dregs of their drinks. All but one of them. Slightly narrowed honey eyes watch me carefully, a dark brow raised in question or concern, I can’t tell, a hard set to that annoyingly handsome face. Only for a split second do I let my gaze linger on him before returning my attention to my more-irritated-by-the-second boyfriend. “Dylan-”
“Come on, Mils. I feel like I never see you anymore.”
Not true. He saw me last night, the night before, and the night before that. What he means is he never sees me in public where he can show me off to his friends like a living trophy. “I’ll try, I promise,” I blatantly lie, praying he believes me.
He doesn’t.
The arms holding me tightly drop, a muttered ‘whatever’ lingering in the air as he backs up and moves towards the door.
My brow furrows in confusion. “You’re not taking me home?”
The son of a bitch ignores me, actually ignores me, his only response is the slamming of Greenies’ front door as he storms outside.
God, I wish I could say it’s the first time he’s done that.
I’m gaping after him in a state of shock when a throat clears behind me, and I whip around to find my favorite customer leaning against the bar.
Ordinarily, I’d be embarrassed because I’m assuming he heard every last word of my boyfriend’s temper tantrum. However, I’m distracted right now, momentarily arrested by how goddamn good-looking this man is. The epitome of tall, dark, and handsome, with dark hair and bronzed skin and those pretty freaking eyes and a lilt to his voice suggesting a hidden accent. An internal sigh echoes in my brain because, seriously, what a shame. Damn whatever cosmic force decided the prettiest men must always be the biggest assholes.
Collecting myself, I quirk a brow. “You need something?”
“You need a ride?” The words flow off his tongue easily, everything in his cocky stance and his sure tone indicating he genuinely thinks I’ll say to hell with the rest of my shift, with the boyfriend who was here mere moments prior, and run off with him. He has the ease of a man who’s not told ‘no’ very often, and I’m so damn sick of cocksure men, so I do the very opposite.
Scoffing a laugh, I turn on my heel and saunter away from him, glancing over my shoulder before I dart into the staff room. “I’d rather walk.”
