1
MY TATTOOED NIGHTMARE
BRIAR
Then…
A little over four years ago…
“He’s not going to be there.”
“He’sgoingto be there.” I eye the bar across the street as if it’s enemy territory.
Lily sighs, quick to recognize a losing battle when she sees one.
“Fine,” she huffs out, throwing up her hands. “Let’s go worst-case scenario. So what if he is? Get in there, find a guy, and make him regret ever letting you go. Show thatidiotthe fucking prize he fumbled.”
I never should have left the house tonight. Never should have let Lily talk me into a borrowed crop top and tight-as-fuck mini skirt, and drag me out to a bar—that’s looking suspiciously like a club—that the very ex-boyfriend I’ve been avoiding for weeks, would love.
No.
I should be at home, nursing my recent breakup with a pint of ice cream and a good book.
“Maybe I can catch a ride back and you can?—”
“Briar Elizabeth Ralston.” My best friend’s hands go to her hips, and that sharp no-nonsense tone has my mouth snapping shut. “If you go home, I go home,”she warns, hazel eyes flashing, daring me to try her.
Ah, hell.
“Fine,” I concede. “But if Ben shows his lying, cheating face tonight, I reserve the right to bail. Or throw a drink in his face…”
“Fair enough. The refill’s on me!” Seizing the opportunity, she drags me across the street, nearly killing the two of us in traffic before practically shoving me through the club doors before I can change my mind.Again.
I peer around at the dark, moody decor of Last Call, the newest sports bar to grace the streets of Boston. It just opened a few weeks ago, and Lily, an avid sports fan, has been dying to check it out. And unlike me, Lily thrives on social interaction, an extrovert through and through, and since she’s been stuck in post-breakup hibernation in solidarity with me for the past three weeks, I figure I owe her one.
It’s time.
Or at least, I thought it was. But now that I’m here, surrounded by a crowd of loud, obnoxious club goers, I’m second-guessing everything. Especially considering that Last Call is right up my ex’s alley. Ben isobsessedwith baseball and the Renegades, and judging by the amount of Renegades jerseys I see everywhere, this is the place to be tonight if you’re a Boston fan. So unless Ben somehow scored tickets to tonight’s game—which I’m really,reallyhoping he did—there’s a good chance he’s here.
You’re a good friend, I remind myself as the urge to bail resurfaces.Be a good friend.
Last Call is packed, so I scan the crowded club—or bar. It’s some sort of bar/club hybrid. I’m not quite sure how to describe it. But, admittedly, for downtown Boston, it’s pretty nice.
The baseball game has in fact drawn quite a crowd. You can’t go two feet without encountering someone in a Boston Renegades jersey or colors. Lily and I almost stand out, seeing as we’re not dressed in the designated green and white for the baseball team.
“Cassie and Mia are at the back bar.” Lily wiggles her phone at me, shouting to be heard over the loud music.I follow closely, keeping a light hand on her arm so we don’t get separated in the crowd. As we make our way through the thick throng of people, a second, larger bar in the middle of the club comes into view. It separates the lounge area from the even busier dance floor full of people.
A rush of excitement shoots through me at the sight of the dance floor.Maybe tonight won’t be so bad.We’re halfway there when someone barrels into my shoulder hard enough that I lose my grip on Lily’s arm, spinning me half around.
“Ow—watch it!” Rubbing my shoulder, I glare at the person responsible, my gaze traveling skyward.Up a lean, hard chest with broad shoulders straining against a black t-shirt, dark ink covers almost the entirety of one arm. I could almost appreciate the intricate sleeve design if I was looking at it under any other circumstances. I have to tilt my chin to find his face, because he’s so tall. He easily has a foot or more on me. Though that’s not saying much;my five-foot-two isn’t making anyone look twice.
Equally dark eyes glare down at me, unreadable under the club lights. He offers no apology, no flicker of surprise. Just cold, intense eyes watching me like a hawk does its prey. Even with the loud music, the silence is heavy.
“Well?” I bite out, breaking our staring contest, heat creeping up my neck. “Nothing to say?” I eye him up and down like I couldeven stand a chance in this argument. “Manners, ever heard of ‘em?” Anger that I’ve been ignoring—burying for weeks, flares violently under my skin given its first opportunity, primed and ready to explode all over this unsuspecting asshole.
His jaw ticks, barely, like he’s fighting the urge to either smirk or strangle me. And by the look in his eye, I’m fairly certain it could go either way…
Doubling down, I cross my arms and lift my chin, tilting my ear in his direction to show him I’m not hearing his still non-existent apology, refusing to be the first to look away. I’m so tired of fucking asshole men who think they can walk all over me and do whatever the hell they want without having to apologize for it.
