***
Roxy is picking up the wristbands from will call, and I’m people-watching, making up stories in my head. My phone vibrates. I pull it out to make sure she doesn’t need anything. But it’s not her. Instead, it’s a social media story notification from Jackson. Before I realize what I’m doing, I click on it.
The post opens to a photo of him with a pretty woman in a fancy dress, toasting a drink. It’s captioned: Cheers to the woman who taught me how to love again. It times out and flashes to another story. I quickly exit out of the app and stash my phone, schooling my features so Roxy doesn’t realize anything’s wrong. I manage to keep it together until we get inside and find our seats.
“Hey, grab me a drink, please. I have to run to the bathroom really quick.” I give her a pouty look.
“Are you sure you can’t hold it? We’ll walk back to Aarika’s?” Roxy asks.
“Oh. No. I just want to check my makeup, and the lighting in here is terrible,” I laugh.
“Okay, babe,” she says, waving me off.
I glide through the dark concert venue in search of a bathroom, but I have yet to see a sign. Eventually, I end up at the bar. It’s stashed away toward the back of the venue, off to the side of the stage. I walk up and wait for the cute—but far too young for me—bartender to walk over.
“Hey, what can I get for you? I also need to see your wristband and ID,” he says.
“Oh, no, thank you. I was just wondering where the bathroom is.” I realize once I’ve asked the question how embarrassing this actually feels, asking a boy without any facial hair where to find a bathroom.
“No problem, ma’am. I’ll let you in on a secret. There’s a bathroom down that hallway right there with the exit sign at the end. When you get to the door, hang a left, and then you’ll see the signs.”
Ma’am?! Do I really look like a ma’am in this outfit?
Oh dear god. This is so embarrassing. I fight the urge to slink away shamefully. “Thanks so much,” I manage to squeak out. I pull a five from my clutch, but he waves me off.
“How about you give me your number instead, and when I get off work tonight we can grab dessert or something?”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! Is this really happening right now? I smile at him, trying to decide how to let him down easy. “I wish I could, but I’m here with a friend I’m responsible for getting home. We could grab dessert some other night though.” I bite my bottom lip.
“That’s okay, sweetheart. Another time.” He winks, walking over to the next customer.
I try not to feel too guilty. I need a guy much closer to my age, not some young bartender fresh out of college. The hallway is dimly lit, so I end up following the glow of the exit sign. When I make it to the door, I turn left just like he told me to. There’s a bit more light down this hallway, and I see the bathroom signs. This is the perfect place to have a quick mental breakdown. I look at the time and give myself a five-minute limit, then step into the bathroom.
Looking in the mirror, I assess myself. Do I look as old as the baby-faced bartender made me feel? Twenty-eight doesn’t feel that old, but then again, I do feel a bit on edge about crossing into my thirties. How did that movie line go? “Flirty, thirty,thriving?” It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters if I don’t drag my ass out there and find a good time to help me get over this breakup. Digging in my small bag, I search for my lip-plumping gloss, then swipe it on over my super stain.The uglier you go to bed, the prettier you wake up,I repeat from all the social media ads I consumed before finally breaking down to buy the damn thing.
The gloss tingles a little, but nothing unbearable, just all those natural ingredients and collagen going to work. I pull away from my thoughts to check my phone. My five minutes are up. The only logical solution to ease the pain of my hurt feelings is to get petty. So we’re conveniently still connected on social media. If I start posting like I don’t give a fuck about him—starting to act like I’m over him—then maybe I’ll finally get over Jackson.
Before I can chicken out, I swipe open my app and add some text.Girls’ Night Out. Looking for a new man.I save the draft so I can take a cute picture with Roxy later. Determined, I leave the bathroom to head back to the table where I left my bestie. We’re about to have an unforgettable time.
The hallway is just as dark as before, and I don’t entirely remember which way I came from. I take a step to the right, then turn. Or no, fuck it. I slink off to the left, hoping I went the right way. I can hear what sounds like voices up ahead. Relieved, my body relaxes, but I can’t help myself. I take one last look over my shoulder to make sure no one is behind me, and that’s when I crash into a solid, yet soft, very human-y feeling wall of muscle.
I scream.
A skull mask floats in the darkness. I blink, my body tense. Am I in shock? I blink a few more times and my eyes adjust. Upon further inspection, the mask is in fact not floating. No, this is far worse. The mask is attached to the most ripped set of abs I’ve ever seen in my life. Even the abs in the movies don’t compare to the tattooed goodness I’m staring at.
Thank fuck it’s dark because my cheeks are heated with arousal. I swallow a few big gulps of air, trying to compose myself.
“Oh. I’m sorry,” he says, ripping the mask off.
It takes an extraordinary amount of control not to let my jaw fall open. This man. This perfect specimen of a man is standing in front of me, flashing the brightest smile with the most adorable dimples. Why is he walking around with his shirt off? Do I mind? Am I hallucinating?
“Hey, you can’t be back here,” someone shouts from behind him.
“Ahem,” he clears his throat. “It’s all good. I’ve got it.”
“You sure, man?” the voice asks, sounding much closer this time.
A tall blond guy wearing a black dress shirt appears next to the man I can’t stop eye-fucking. I think he knows it too because he continues to smile at me.
