ONE
Wren
The bass thrumsthrough my chest like a second heartbeat, and I let it take over, drowning out the voice in my head that keeps asking what the hell I think I’m doing here.
The Ridgeline Tavern isn’t my scene—never has been. Exposed beams, neon beer signs, sawdust on the floors, locals who’ve been coming here since before I was born. The kind of place where everyone knows everyone, and a stranger sticks out like a lit match.
But that’s exactly why I chose it. I live in San Francisco. The Ridgeline is a two-hour mountain drive—a place my grandmother used to bring me as a kid. Her apartment is a few blocks away. Perfect for a night of debauchery.
I have one goal tonight, and it’snotto spend the night alone.
No one here knows my face or my name. That’s the whole point.
Tonight, I don’t want to be Wren Calloway, freelance UX designer who spent the last seventy-two hours debugging code for a client who won’t remember my name by Friday. Tonight, I want to be someone else. Someone who takes up space. Someone who gets noticed.
Someone who gets laid.
I’ve been running on caffeine and client deadlines for three months straight. Tonight I want someone’s hands on me. I want friction and heat and a man who knows how to use his body—someone who won’t ask permission to push, who won’t be careful, who will not treat me like I might break.
The dress I chose makes the intention clear. Black, short, the kind that clings to every curve and leaves the tops of my thighs bare when I move. I’d stood in front of the bathroom mirror before leaving and thought:this is either brave or stupid.
I’ve decided it’s both.
The whiskey burns warm in my belly—my second, maybe third. I’ve lost count, which should worry me more than it does. The music is good, some rock cover band, all grinding guitar and gravelly vocals, and my body remembers how to move even if my brain’s forgotten how to shut off.
The dance floor is packed, bodies pressed together with the kind of physical intimacy that only happens when alcohol and rhythm collide. I weave through the crowd, finding a pocket of space near the edge, and the band launches into something slower, dirtier. I close my eyes and let it take me.
My hips find the beat first, then my shoulders. The thin fabric of the dress clings to my skin, already warm, and my carefully straightened hair curls at the temples. I probably look like a mess. I definitely don’t care.
This is what I need. To exist in the physical instead of the digital. To be present, visible, real—skin and heat instead of backlit screens and keyboard clicks.
I’m so caught up in the rhythm that I almost miss him. Just another body edging closer with each song. Then that prickle hits—awareness sharpening at the back of my neck. Someone’s watching. Not the casual sweep of a man taking inventory of the room. This is focused. Intent.
I open my eyes.
He stands maybe five feet away. Flannel shirt, beer gut, the kind of aggressively mediocre who mistakes persistence for confidence. Our eyes meet half a second before I look away. The signal couldn’t be clearer.
He ignores it.
The next song starts—a throbbing beat that presses the crowd inward—and suddenly he’s right there. Close enough that the stale beer on his breath turns my stomach.
“Hey there, beautiful.” He shouts over the music. “Looking lonely out here.”
“I’m good, thanks.” I step back, still moving but building distance.
He follows.
“Come on, don’t be like that.” His hand snags my waist, thick fingers pressing through the thin fabric. “Just trying to be friendly.”
I twist away. “I appreciate it, but I’m not interested.”
Clear. Direct. A boundary that should need no explanation.
His grip tightens instead.
“Don’t be such a bitch about it.” The friendly mask drops, showing something meaner underneath. His other hand clamps my arm. Suddenly, I’m pinned between his bulk and the press of the crowd, no room to shift my feet. “Just one dance.”
My pulse spikes. I can’t fight—he has six inches and seventy pounds on me. I can’t run. The crowd that felt liberating a moment ago is a cage now.
