A dull ping sounded overhead as we passed another floor. Adam shifted beside me, tugging at his collar, trying to smooth out an invisible crease.
I caught my reflection in the mirrored wall. The lighting here was unkind, harsh and artificial, flattening out my face and draining what little color I had. I looked… tired. Not the kind that sleep could fix, but one that settled under the skin—a slow, creeping thing that dug its claws in and never let go.
Adam adjusted his shirt again. It had been perfectly pressed when we entered, but by now, he’d probably wrinkled it himself with all the fidgeting.
“So…” he said, clearing his throat. “Got any plans for tonight?”
I hummed noncommittally. “Absolutely. Extremely classified, highly important, officialbusiness.”
The business of getting as hammered as humanly possible before the bartender cut me off.
Probably not the wisest choice on a work night, but fuck it. After having to deal with Donovan, I figured I deserved a break.
Now, with a few drinks warming my veins, I could see I’d made the right call.
My go-to spot had a lived-in sort of charm, with warm wood paneling that glowed honey-gold under soft amber lights, and a layout that hadn’t changed in decades. Music played at a forgettable volume: some indie track that was all velvet bass and breathy vocals, easy to tune out. While it couldn’t be called a dive bar exactly, it wasn’t the type of place you went for craft cocktails, either.
I liked it, though. The alcohol was decent, and everyone minded their own business. It was the perfect place for a person to unwind after a long day at work.
I knocked back a shot, feeling the burn claw its way down my throat before settling into a slow, comfortable warmth. I signaled for another.
Beside me, Naomi rested her cheek against her palm, skin tinted with the telltale flush of one too many drinks. She’d been shredding a cocktail napkin for the last fifteen minutes, reducing it to a small mountain of paper confetti that she absently pushed around the bar top.
“How the hell are you still standing right now?”
“Please,” I said, flicking my hand dismissively. “It takes more than a couple of shots to put me down.”
Naomi gave a thoughtful hum, then shrugged and tossed back the rest of her drink. She set the glass down and her phone lit up beside it a second later.
“It’s Tommy,” she told me, eyes squinting as she glanced at the screen. “He says he’ll be running a little late.”
“You invited Hayes?”
It was a simple question, but something in my tone made her frown, her expression shifting from tipsy contentment to mild reproach.
“Seriously, what do you have against Tom?”
“Me?” I asked. “Nothing.”
Naomi’s disapproving look didn’t clear. “You should be nicer to him, you know. He’s a really sweet guy.”
“What the hell are you talking about? I’m always nice.”
“You’re really not. It’s painfully obvious that you don’t like him.”
“I don’t dislike him,” I countered. “That’s basically the same thing.”
Naomi crossed her arms, unimpressed. “Come on. You never smile at him, you never laugh at his jokes—”
“Because they’re not funny.”
“—and every time he so much as enters the same room, you glare at him so hard I’m surprised he hasn’t burst into flames yet.”
“Hey, now,” I argued, feigning offense. “That’s just my face. You know I’m self-conscious about that.”
“Shay, I’m being serious here.” Naomi tried to be stern, but the way she kept giggling didn’t exactly help her case. “You act like he ran over your dog in a past life or something.”
To be fair, this was entirely on me. I really should’ve known better than to argue with a drunk person, especially if that person was Naomi once she got fixated on something.
