Page 6 of Unruly

“Because I’m not interested in anyone,” I correct. “Plus, even if I were, I’ve watched you walk ten different girls out that door this month alone. I’m not in line for a number.”

I expect the smirk. I don’t expect the half-second where it actually drops. “I just can’t seem to find the one, I guess.”

“I know.” I pick up his empty glass. “That’s almost the problem.”

I try not to think about how he always accepts my turning him down so fast and what that means. I have a feeling that it’s not over, but it’s not happening with anyone.

I move on before he can say anything else.

Because I don’t have the patience for that version of nostalgia. Not after spending years being looked at and barely seen.

That’s the thing these men don’t get; I’m not looking for anything. Not closure. Not a rebound. Not some “fun distraction” to prove I’ve still got it.

I don’t need to prove shit.

I just got out of something that took pieces of me I’m still trying to find again.

The last thing I want is another man thinking he gets access to me just because I exist in front of him.

So, yeah, I’m good.

More than good. I’m done.

Which is exactly what makes Cash Thornwood a problem. The boy is handsome—I’ll give him that. With that wild red hair like a warning sign for him. And he’s got that boyish smile that could melt the panties off a nun.

He doesn’t act like the guys from high school, like I owe him something. Doesn’t act like the older regulars, either. He just ... shows up every single night, reminding me I’m pretty, maybe flirting, tips well—as long as he’s not too fucked up to pay—and watches me far too much.

But he’s ten years younger than me. A fuckboy that I’ve watched take home girls like it’s his job. He does it with confidence, too, like he’s not trying to prove anything to anyone.

Then he steals glances at me like I’m not just part of the background noise of this place. But like I’m...something else.

Which is annoying and confusing, and absolutely not something I’m dealing with right now.

I notice him, but I wish I didn’t.

The night moves the way it always does—orders blurring together, names called, glasses clinking, and the sound of pool balls bouncing off each other.

Boyd tells the same story he told last week like it’s brand new.

Tyler and his friend get progressively louder until Matt gives them a look that shuts them up real quick.

Aria hums along to a song that’s been on the jukebox longer than I’ve been alive.

And me? I’m on autopilot, floating between conversations, expectations, and flashing fake smiles.

I joke. I deflect. I flirt just enough to keep tips high and boundaries intact.

Because that’s the line, right?

Give them just enough to feel seen, but not enough to think they actually know you.

I’ve gotten really good at that.

Too good, maybe.

By the time last call rolls around, my feet are killing me and my brain is finally quiet. The good kind of quiet. The kind that comes from being too busy to overthink every decision you’ve ever made.

I make my rounds, cleaning up the high-tops and booths that are empty. When I come to grab his empty glass, Cash stands. “You heading out soon?” he asks.