Rett checks his watch. “We have two hours to get ready and get there. I suggest we use them wisely.”
As my brothers disperse to prepare, I stay on the couch, staring at the ceiling. Something changed. Something happened after I left the gallery. Something that made Zoe go from agreeing to dinner tomorrow to demanding it tonight, in a loud, crowded dive bar where serious conversation will be nearly impossible.
What are you up to, Zoe Clarke?
Whatever it is, I have a feeling we’re walking into a stormwith no umbrella. But as the static builds to a crescendo in my head, I can’t bring myself to care. The promise of seeing her again, of experiencing that blessed silence, even for a few hours, is worth any amount of discomfort.
Even if it means wearing something uncomfortable to a bar that probably hasn’t changed its fryer oil since 2019.
The things we do for love.
Or, well, not love. Not yet. But whatever this is, it’s powerful enough to make four alphas scramble to a dive bar on short notice.
And that’s saying something.
CHAPTER TEN
Diego
Itug at the collar of my plain white shirt, already regretting the choice. It’s not even the fanciest thing I own, but based on Zoe’s text, I have a feeling I’m still overdressed.
“Wear something uncomfortable,” she’d said. As if we needed help with that. The static alone is enough to make any outfit feel like a straitjacket.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” I ask as Rett pulls up to the curb.
Through the window, I can see a weathered wooden sign swinging in the evening breeze. THE ANCHOR, it proclaims in faded blue letters. Below it, a neon sign flickers: LIVE MUSIC! $2 OYSTERS! ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK!
That last part doesn’t seem like a joke.
“This is it,” Rett confirms, checking his phone. “The address matches.”
Tristan peers out the window, his nose wrinkling slightly. “Looks... charming.”
“It looks like a tetanus shot waiting to happen,” Rett mutters.
I take a deep breath, catching the scent of salt water, friedfood, and beer that wafts from the open door as a group of laughing people stumble out. “At least it’s popular.”
“So is the plague,” Tristan quips, but he’s already opening the door, straightening his shirt as he steps onto the sidewalk.
We follow, a procession of overdressed alphas approaching what looks like a pirate ship that ran aground and decided to serve beer. Rett leads the way, of course, his perfectly tailored coffee blazer looking ridiculously out of place against the bar’s peeling paint. Tristan is right behind him, wearing an unbuttoned silk shirt over a crisp white tee. His look might scream ‘effortlessly cool’ on a rooftop bar, but just looks ‘effortlessly lost’ down here. And me? My plain shirt feels like a starched billboard advertising my own poor judgment. Only Dane looks remotely prepared for this. He’s in a cream colored, sleeveless muscle tee, his arms on full display. He doesn’t look like he’s here for a fight, but he definitely looks like he’d finish one.
We must look ridiculous. Which, I’m starting to suspect, is exactly what Zoe intended.
As we approach the entrance, a burly beta with more tattoos than visible skin gives us a once-over and snorts. “Bachelor party take a wrong turn?”
“We’re meeting someone,” Rett says, his voice clipped.
The bouncer shrugs and waves us in. “Your funeral, rich boys.”
The moment we step inside, my senses are assaulted from all directions. The smell hits first. A potent mixture of stale beer, fried seafood, sweat, and something musty that might be decades of spilled drinks soaked into the wooden floors. It’s not entirely unpleasant, just... intense. Overwhelmingly so.
Then comes the noise. A jukebox in the corner blares what sounds like Arctic Monkeys competing with the shouts of patrons trying to be heard over it. Glasses clink, chairs scrape, and somewhere, someone is laughing so hard they’re wheezing.
“Dios mío,” I mutter, fighting the urge to cover my ears.
The static in my head, which had been a persistent butmanageable hum on the drive over, suddenly cranks up to eleven. It’s like someone flipped a switch, turning a background buzz into a full-blown symphony of chaos. Based on the wincing from my brothers, they’re experiencing the same thing.
“Sensory overload,” Dane murmurs, his jaw tight.
