CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Savina
I’M SITTINGAT Darby’s bar, The Nightshade Tavern, on a Thursday evening. The two-story bar is situated on the corner of two busy streets in downtown Manhattan. It’s still early, so the place isn’t overly crowded yet. I’m perched on a padded stool at the main bar, leaning against the black granite countertop, tucked away from everyone else.
Above me is a purple neon sign with the tavern’s name, along with the tagline under it that says “sip in the shadows”. The whole place is spooky, dark and gothic with intricate details and numerous oddities, which Darby has collected over the years from various antique shops, placed sporadically throughout. If someone could open Darby up, I feel like this is exactly what she would look like on the inside.
Dollar bills with lipstick kisses adorn the back of the bar. Darby started the tradition after earning her very firstdollar, and that is front and center above the cash register. Multiple patrons over the years have added to the collection, and it looks cool as hell with how many are pinned back there now.
“It’s the calm before the storm,” Darby says as she passes by me with a dark gray tote full of clean glassware.
She’s not wrong. The bar always gets extremely packed at night. New Yorkers love the dark, gothic feel of the bar. Moreover, everyone just loves to be in Darby’s company. She’s an enigmatic and incredible bartender, making everyone feel welcome the moment they walk in. She not only owns the place but keeps it running in tiptop shape. She’s proud of her hard work, and it shows. And I’m just glad a lot of people can appreciate that and her.
I watch as Darby methodically stacks glasses behind the bar before mixing up a new drink. She’s in her element, and it’s truly a sight to behold.
“What’s up, buttercup?” Darby asks as she slides a fresh drink in front of me.
The cocktail is dark purple with edible glitter swirling around a lime and blackberry garnish. “Oh, nothing,” I say quietly.
“Bullshit,” she says, calling me out on the lie. “Tell me what’s wrong or I’ll stop giving you free drinks,” she threatens.
“First of all, I’m paying for these,” I tell her even as she vehemently shakes her head.
“No, you’re not,” she interrupts.
“And second of all, it’s the problem I’ve been having for the past freaking decade of my life.”
“Dimitri,” she says with a dramatic sigh.
“Yeah,” I tell her with a sigh of my own.
“Damn that hot, sexy Romanian bastard who is obsessed with you and looks like a Greek god and probably fucks like a stallion,” she curses while holding her fist up to the ceiling.
I put my face in my hands, because she’s right. Heishot and sexy and charming, when he wants to be. But he’s also a domineering, possessive asshole. I’ve been avoiding him like the plague ever sincehe interrupted my ballet class and gave me the single most mind-blowing orgasm of the century. I just wish I could stop thinking about him…andit.
“So, you haven’t spoken to him since the ballet class thing?” Darby asks, breaking through my thoughts.
“No,” I mutter miserably. I told Darby all the dirty details, because she wanted to know and because, well, I trust her with my life and, thus, tell her everything.
“But you want to, don’t you?” she asks, her dark brows raising high on her forehead before dropping low. “Ooh, you want him to interrupt another one of your classes. I can see it on your face.”
“Oh, stop it,” I tell her, swiping a hand down my face and hating that there’s a half smile lingering there.
“You know what I always say, the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else,” she explains. “But in your case, you can’t really do that.” Darby then leans over the bar to whisper, “You know, since you’re hymenally challenged.”
I laugh out loud. “I can’t believe you just said that.”
Darby grins. “So, maybe you need to take matters into your…own hands,” she says, stressing the last two words before giving me a wink.
“What are you saying? You want me to…” I start, my voice trailing off.
“Maybe you just need a big O to clear your head,” Darby suggests with a small shrug.
“Ugh,” I groan.
“Listen, right now your mind is just filled with sexual tension and thoughts about a hot Romanian. Trust me, go home, get your best vibrator out and go to town. I swear, you’ll feel a million times better and have a much clearer head after it,” she explains.
“Shit, maybe you’re right,” I agree.
