I’ll come to you. Do you know a good place to meet?
Owen
Yeah, for sure. I’ll send you the address.
“It’s just for a drink,” I tell myself as I gather my things. If I don’t like him, we don’thaveto have sex.
I need to lower my standards, not dismiss them entirely.
The name of the bar is eerily familiar, but I can’t quite place it. I rarely ever come to Brooklyn, and this is definitely not the kind of establishment I would frequent. It looks popular, so maybe an article mentioned it.
Ultimately, it’s a good thing that I didn’t go home to change because I’m already overdressed as it is. Everyone’s in jeans, T-shirts, or plaid shirts, and most also wear leather jackets. This is what happens when I don’t take charge and decide where to go—I end up in weird places. Next time, I’ll stick to The Plaza.
While I wait for Owen to arrive, standing by the side of the entrance, I watch the patrons come in and out. It sounds like there’s live music in there, some rock band playing. I haven’t listened to rock since high school, so this feels like a step back in time.
“Jessica?” someone calls to my right.
It takes me a second to remember that’s me, and I twist to meet Owen’s warm brown eyes. “Hi,” I say with a polite smile. He looks even younger in real life, but the scarce stubble on his jaw helps. He’s certainly not 6’2” like he said in his profile, because I’m 5’7” in four-inch heels, and he’s exactly my height. While I dislike the deception, it doesn’t matter.
“Wow, you’re gorgeous,” he says, looking me up and down.
“Uh, thank you.”
“You definitely don’t look your age.”
My eyebrows come together, unsure if the comment is warranted. I’m four years older than him, not an entire decade.
“Shall we?” he offers, gesturing at the door.
I nod, and we head inside. A hallway leads further in, and the music grows louder with each step we take. “Do you come here often?” I ask.
“Never, but I pass it all the time and wanted to check it out.”
“Oh.” I definitely should have been in charge then. We don’t even know if it’s a good place.
When we reach the crowded room, I worriedly glance at the people. It’s not a bikers’ bar, but it also isn’tnota bikers’ bar.
One drink, and then I’m on my way home.
Owen puts his hand in the middle of my back, pushing me slightly, and when I follow his gaze, I see a free booth. It’s close to the bar and far from the stage, where four musicians are skillfully interpreting “Welcome to the Jungle” by Guns and Roses—a rather apt choice of song. A couple of coasters are on the table, and I frown at the slogan printed on them—Good whisky, good rock, bad company. That isn’t a good sign.
“I’ll go get us drinks,” Owen offers while I remove my blazer. “Is a beer okay?”
“I would rather have a lemon drop martini. And if they don’t have it, just a vodka martini with lime.”
“On it!”
I sit in the booth, watching him elbow his way through the crowd. Strategically, this place wasn’t the right choice for him. He looks terribly uninteresting compared to the eclectic patrons.
The numerous tattoos and other body modifications inevitably make me think ofhim.
Annoyed that Jake yet again bursts into my mind, I pull my phone out of my Dolce & Gabbana purse to distract myself. In the search bar, I write the name of this place, curious to see its ratings. Oh, it’s a solid 4.6 stars, with over five thousand reviews. Maybe I misjudged it after all. I’m going through the pictures when someone smoothly sits on the bench opposite mine.
Before I can even look up from my screen, a deep voice says, “Look what the cat dragged in.”
If it wasn’t terribly familiar, the accent would be enough to recognize its bearer. My whole body tenses, the hairs on the back of my neck rising. Slowly, I force my gaze up, only to meet two light green irises.
This is why the name sounds so familiar.The Devil’s Court.Jake mentioned it during our night together, but I was too sexed up to remember.
