"Jensen. He’s into men. It’s obvious. Especially with the way his cheeks go pink every time he talks to you."
His brows draw together, and he subtly glances back towards James.
"They do?"
"Yes!" I shake my head. "Now grow some balls and go talk to the guy."
Jensen shoots me a look before sinking even lower in his chair.
"I’ll think about it," he sighs.
I roll my eyes. He won’t. He’ll sit here all night, nursing his drinks, letting his hopeless longing simmer. Then, after he’s had one too many, he’ll start flirting with other men at the bar, trying to make James jealous, even though he swears James isn’t gay. It doesn’t make sense. Same routine. Every time.
"Anyway," Jensen says, abruptly changing the subject as he checks his watch. "Why were you late?"
"I’m not late."
He shoves his wrist in my face.
I laugh.
"It’s quarter past eight, Jens. I’d hardly say that’s late."
About to argue back, his eyes snag on the door and his mouth parts slightly. I follow his line of sight, and curse under my breath. Missy.
She steps inside; arm linked with another woman. A woman with golden hair cascading over her shoulders, smoky blue eyes, and, though I can’t see them from here, I know they’re there. Freckles.
Stormy wears another floaty dress, short, light blue, showcasing soft, pale legs. The neckline dips low enough to reveal just enough of her chest to drive a man insane. My stomach does a sharp, unwelcome flip and I immediately drop my eyes to the drink in front of me, fixating on the way the amber liquid swirls in my glass.
"Who isthatwith your sister?" Jensen asks, sounding genuinely rattled. "I’m gay, but she’s damn cute, man, cute enough for me to question my life choices, that’s for sure."
I pick up my whiskey and knock it back, welcoming the burn.
She just had to be here, didn’t she?
11
Stormy
Missy leads me through the doors of the bar—Hideout, I think she called it.
She had insisted on getting ready at mine earlier, and when I opened the door to her, I’d nearly lost it. Half-ready, hair still in rollers, makeup unfinished, and a mountain of clothes in her arms, she’d looked half-crazed, a total whirlwind of chaos. She practically stumbled into the place, her clothes spilling across the sofa as she threw herself onto it with an exhausted sigh.
"I couldn’t decide what to wear," Missy had said, gesturing vaguely at the fabric explosion around her.
I was already dressed in a simple pair of jeans and a nice top, but Missy had shaken her head in immediate disapproval.
"Nope, its nice. But not special enough for your first proper night out."
She’d raided my wardrobe—which I’d only just finished filling that day—but there wasn’t much to choose from. I was rarely allowed to go ‘out’, I had no friends to go anywhere with anyway, and Sam hardly evertook me on dates. Still, eventually she landed on a pale blue, floaty dress. Holding it up like a rare treasure, she grinned. “Perfect. This is so cute!”
I had helped her choose an outfit too—a tight-fitting red dress that hugged her curves and hit mid-thigh, accentuating every part of her beautifully.
For shoes, I stuck with my white Converse—comfort over fashion any day. Missy, however, opted for a pair of strappy black heels that wrapped around her ankles and calves like something straight out of a designer catalogue. I don’t think I’ve ever worn shoes that nice before. I don’t even own any. She had helped curl my hair, given me a few makeup tips, and before I knew it, we were ready to go.
It was nice, having a girlfriend to get ready with, to chat nonsense with. Just the kind of fun I hadn’t realised I was missing.
Now, as I step into the bar, I smile. The atmosphere hits me immediately. The lighting is dim, but neon signs are scattered across the walls, giving off a warm, colourful glow. The interior is all dark wood, with classic deep red booths lining one side of the room and clusters of tables tucked neatly around them.
