The condo is my first real home. Three years there, and it was finally starting to feel like mine…or at least it had.Don’t cry again, not here.
“Hey, sport,” Boone says, his hand squeezing my shoulder. “I don’t know if anyone told you, but it’s actually illegal to be sad after I fight Bright to set up the karaoke machine, so if you could like…” I tilt my head up to see him standing behind the booth, and he smiles at me, digging his tattooed fingers into his dimples, “turn that frown upside down?”
“You’re a dork,” I say, shaking my head.
“It worked, though,” he winks, turning his attention across the table, “now go scare some of these drunks out of the Hollow with your beautiful singing voice, Kaia.”
“You’re an asshole,” she purrs and flips him off, but slides from the booth and pulls a reluctant Cosy with her. Boone forces Sunday up and out, and I watch as they disappear throughthe crowd.
The speaker squeaks as Kaia gets her hands on a mic, and the entire crowd at the Hollow flinches until it rights itself. She wastes no time finding her favorite Nelly Furtado song, no doubt just to piss Boone off, who’s watching from a spot behind the bar with a smile on his face. It doesn’t matter what she does; it will never make him love her less.
“Here.” A tall glass slides across the table; vibrant pink and slushy. I look up as my hand wraps around it and my mouth finds the straw. Brighton leans against the booth with his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the stage in the corner of the bar with an annoyed expression that’s forced because the corner of his mouth curls up and his right foot twitches like he wants to tap along to the beat.
“I thought you didn’t bring out the blender on hockey nights,” I say quietly, enjoying the perfectly mixed drink. There’s even a poorly drawn sign behind the main bar that says “No blended drinks when the Huskies are on.” A rule laid down after Sunday exploded watermelon daiquiris all over the bar one night; it smelled like rum in the cracks of the nearby booths for months after.
“It was already out,” he lies.
I take another sip, my eyes never leaving him.
Brighton is handsome, and even though they’re twins, it’s not in the same way Boone is. All rugged and scruffy. Like a goofy, tattooed grizzly bear. No, Brighton is a black bear. Sleek, sharp edges and quiet anger. He still cuts his hair like he’s on active duty, but it’s a little longer on top now and lends to soft, loose curls he fights to keep back out of his stormy blue eyes.He’s hardened muscle, old sun burns, and scars from years of service, softened around the edges from being home. What little I do know about him all comes from Sunday or Boone. Unlike his siblings,he’s reserved and barely speaks to anyone.
The Hollow is as busy as it is because of Boone’s friendly, border-collie energy and nothing else. He finally looks over his shoulder at me, and I quickly adjust my stare to Kaia, but out of the corner of my eye, I can still feel his gaze on my skin.
Looking down at the slushie margarita, I smile sadly and try to enjoy the sweet taste of it before I collect myself and join Sunday for a tipsy rendition of Hand in My Pocket by Alanis Morissette that has the front row of the crowd cheering for us. For a second, I actually forget that my entire life has been disrupted, sinking into the energy that the girls were putting out. I do my best to completely forget until I’m another three drinks down, belting slurred lines of a Queen song.
“You know, despite not having a house to go home to, today wasn’t so bad,” I say, leaning over the booth to take a glass of water from between Kaia and Cosy. Sunday is a few tables over, flirting with a paramedics loudly just to rile up her brothers, but the crowd is finally starting to die down, leaving mostly the regulars and a few drunks. I’m sweaty, tired, and too tipsy to drive home, but I’m not so sad anymore—and that’s what matters.
“We got a lurker,” Kaia says, her eyes trailing a booth over.
“Fuck, I hate that guy,” I groan, seeing who she’s talking about. Derek Trysen, one of the meathead firefighters who frequents the bar, is circling Sunday.Again. It’s a game he likes to play. He's well past thirty, with a greasy curly blonde mullet, beady dark eyes, and still thinks that pulling a girl's hair is flirting.
“I can’t hit another man in this bar for not doing anything. Thing One will flip.” Kaia sighs, looking over her shoulder to Brighton, who’s surprisingly also watching Derek circle like a shark.
“I could use the outlet,” I say, and Kaia’s eyes flicker to mine with excitement, “he feels bad for me, I can probably get away with it.”
I could take Brighton Black one-on-one.
Sober…
Maybe…
“I like sad Rhea, she’s a wild card.” She slaps the table a couple of times with her hands, and every ring across her ten fingers clangs loudly.
“Give me some of those.” I hold out my palm, flat.
“God, that’s hot,” she moans and starts to shuck them off so I can slip them on. I keep my eye on Derek, who’s getting suspiciously close toSunday, and like clockwork, his hand comes up her back and her head snaps to see who’s touching her. She looks him over, the dirty look on her face dark enough to kill. Both Kaia and Cosy snort at her expression.
“Oh, that’s going to start shit,” Margie leans over the booth to watch.
“Stay here,” I say, moving through the crowd. Luckily, I’m taller and can see over most of the heads bobbing around, keeping my gaze fixated on them. The guys they're sitting with are aiming to get restless, shifting in their seats as Derek puts his hand on Sunday again.
She shoves him back, and two of the guys at the table are up and out of their seats. Sunday waves them off, but the distraction leaves a split second for Derek to get handsy, and his palm grips her ass hard enough for her to yelp and shove him again, but she’s so little against his large frame that he doesn’t even budge.
By the time I get to her, the paramedic dude-bro behind her is jostling her around to get to Derek, and Sunday is in the middle of a full-blown fight.
“Let go,” I snap at the paramedic who doesn’t listen at first until I reach out and yank on his hair hard.
“Ow! What the fuck?” he says before turning to see who did it. “Sorry, Drake, I didn’t…” he clams up and releases Derek’s shirt, giving Sunday room to slip out of the chaos and back against the booth.
