“Are you sure you should be drinking?” Everett asks. “You’ve been sober since you moved in with August, right? Do you think maybe it would be better if you stayed that way?”
I close my eyes, jaw tightening with the urge to snap at him.
I know I’m getting defensive, and I know his concern is warranted. He’s right—I’ve been sober since moving in with August just under two months ago. I’ve replaced alcohol with other vices—green eyes, soft hands, and harsh words. I know my mind seeks distraction to quell the storms raging inside my head at all times, to hold me back from slipping into that darkness that tears me limb from limb.
I’m still not convinced that I have a real drinking problem, or that I need to remain sober for my entire life, though. Alcohol is used by thousands of people every day to cope with their anxieties, their fears, their trauma. I’m no different.
“If I order a Diet Coke, will you stop treating me like a fucking child?”
My twin’s nostrils flare, agitation simmering in his eyes. “I’ll stop treating you like a child when you mature beyond the level of the eleven-year-old I have at home.”
I scoff, but he says nothing, bristling as he walks away from me. My gaze flitters to Leo, who remains at my side. “You two are too alike sometimes. Stubborn as fuck.” He smiles softly before kissing my cheek. “We just love you, okay? We’re happy you’re here.” He nods back toward Darby. “I’ll be rubbing my wife’s feetif you need me. And don’t take another fuckin’ Uber. Get a ride from someone.”
I snort, turning back to the counter just as the bartender steps in front of me. He smiles, and it’s somewhat mischievous, certainly going beyond basic customer service. I glance down—my nipples are clearly visible through the thin fabric of my dress. The way his eyes won’t stop bouncing, I know he sees it too. Figures.
He’s cute but in a bland way. Nothing about him stands out. He has no edge. He seems like the type of guy who goes down on a woman for all of five minutes—zero percent chance of finding her clit—and then comes up for air, asking if it’s his turn yet. He probably grunts “Who’s fucking you like this?” while delivering backshots so shallow you can’t help but wonder if he even has it in.
Hard pass.
“Has anyone told you that you’re the best-dressed person at this event tonight?”
I drop my chin into my hands as my elbows rest on the bar, batting my lashes at him. “No, but you’re about to.”
His brows rise, but he covers it with a laugh. “Yeah. I was.”
He licks his bottom lip, opening his mouth like he’s going to continue, but I don’t allow it. “I’ll have a vodka soda with lime and a splash of grenadine. Oh, and two cherries.”
The bartender stares. I stare back, impatiently tapping my nails against the bar top.
“Do you have a tab you’d like me to add that to?” he asks.
“Yeah, you can put it under the last name Graham.”
“That your boyfriend?”
I smirk, grabbing my glass. “Brother.”
He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip. “Good.”
As I move to lift my drink to my lips, pressure clamps around my wrist, holding me in place, forcing my fingers to uncurl frommy glass. The scent of rain and pine invades my senses, and I know it’s him before I see him. Long, olive-toned fingers push my drink back toward the bartender.
“She won’t be needing that.” His voice is gruff, raking along my bones and putting all of my molecules on alert, causing a hum beneath my skin. “I know you’re not about to start drinking, Little Vice,” he whispers low enough that only I can hear.
“I’m not sure why you’d think that’s any of your fucking concern,” I rasp, tilting my head so that our mouths nearly brush, faces close enough to share breath.
His green eyes are a panic-inducing kind of beautiful, causing my heart to thrash inside my chest as they focus on my lips.
“Everything about you is a concern to me,” he rasps but not with affection.
“That doesn’t mean you can tell me what to do.”
I turn back to the bar, but his breath follows, tickling my ear as he whispers, “Oh? But you like it so much.”
I shiver as his words skate down my spine, the caress of a wicked promise. Still standing behind me, August rises to his full height, nudging my drink even closer to the bartender. Part of me wants to continue pushing him—snatch it back and down it in one gulp. Another part of me feels drunk enough off his touch and his skin to deem the alcohol unnecessary, and a third—my sanity, I presume—thinks it’s better to not drink at all, knows I shouldn’t have ordered it to begin with.
“Is he your boyfriend?” the bartender asks, giving August a wary assessment.
August smiles down at me, like he’s expecting an answer to the question.
