The bartender slid two more shots in front of me. I threw one back immediately, welcoming the burn. At this point, it barely registered.
“Cam’s at the house with Kaia,” Jax said, shrugging on his jacket. “You guys can crash in the spare room if you want.”
I shook my head and reached for the second shot. “Nah. Not ready to leave yet.”
“Well.” Syn crossed her arms. “Your designated driver is abandoning you, so unless you’re planning to sleep on this bar…”
“I can take him home later.”
Harlow appeared at my elbow.
“Okay,” Syn said slowly, gaze bouncing between us. “I’ll see if Trystan needs a ride.”
“Trystan’s fine.” Harlow’s response came fast. “He left a few minutes ago.”
He was headed home. The same home where Cam was.
I should care. But the alcohol had dulled everything except this stupid, territorial instinct I couldn’t seem to shake. I didn’t want her. I also couldn’t stomach the thought of losing to him.
What the hell was wrong with me?
I signaled for another round, the world softening further at the edges. The music had shifted to something slower, bass thudding through the floorboards and up through my bones.
Harlow slid onto the stool Jax had vacated, crossing her legs and fixing me with a look. “What’s your problem tonight?”
“What makes you think something’s wrong?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” She gestured at the bar. “Maybe the seventeen empty shot glasses arranged in front of you.”
I snorted. “It’s not seventeen.”
“You’re right. I miscounted.” She leaned closer, made a show of counting under her breath. “Eighteen.”
“Hilarious.”
“I’m a delight.” She propped her chin on her hand. “Seriously, though. You want to talk about it?”
“You want me to pour out all my problems to you?”
She glanced around the bar before turning back to me, eyebrow raised. “You see someone better?”
My shoulders sank. She was right. Jax was busy being disgustingly happy. I couldn’t talk to Cam. She was the problem. Or I was the problem. Probably both of us were the problem.
Harlow wasn’t a bad option. We didn’t usually have deep conversations or share feelings. Our relationship existed primarily in group settings and mutual sarcasm.
“Take a shot with me first.” I slid one of the glasses toward her, the liquid sloshing.
Her head jerked back. “I’m twenty. I’m not drinking here.” She pushed it back with the heel of her hand, the glass scraping across the wood.
The corner of my mouth lifted. Right. Harlow, who followed the rules. Mostly. She would drink at someone’s house where there was no risk of getting caught, but not in public, where consequences existed.
I turned on my stool to face her fully, knee bumping against hers. “You know what? It’s really hard to believe you and Syn are best friends.”
She mirrored me, spinning to face me head-on. The movement brought her closer. “Why’s that?”
I leaned forward, not quite invading her space but testing the border. A smirk tugged at my lips. “Because you’re such agood girland she’s...”
“She’s what?” Harlow’s eyes narrowed, but there was a spark in them. A dare.
