by Quinn Nolan
“Ash, this is Katelyn! We used to work together until she got too good for us and left.” Reagan sniffles for effect.
Katelyn gives Reagan a playful shove. “I haven’t seen you in forever. You’ll never guess who I’m here with. Emilee!”
I don’t know who Emilee is, but judging from the shriek the name elicits, Reagan does. She rushes off toward the bar where the famous Emilee stands and all three girls embrace enthusiastically. I follow but stand at a distance. The band starts its second set and I focus on the music. I try to avoid staring at Graham, but it’s hard.
I shouldn’t feel jealous. I have no claim on him. Still, his interaction with the groupie hits me like a personal attack.
What does she have that I don’t?
I finish my second Guinness without noticing and do two rounds of shots with the girls. By the time my third beer arrives, Katelyn is adamant we all hit the dance floor. Reagan and Emilee quickly agree, but I hang back.
“Let me finish my beer,” I say when Reagan tries to drag me. She appraises me for a moment before shaking her head and following the girls.
I should go out with them. I know I should. If I could just let myself go, I’d have fun. But the draw of melancholy is too strong and I stare morosely into my glass as the band starts the next song.
I sigh. “Mischief Chain” by Toxicity. Graham has done an acoustic version at the bar and killed it. Although I’m not usually one who follows popular music, it’s hard not to know this song: It’s played at every store, on every radio station—it’s even the theme of a movie premiering later this summer. The first time I heard it, I didn’t know what to think. It’s not catchy in the traditional sense. But after that, it started to grow on me, and now I can’t help singing along.
“Another wink, another drink / All links in the mischief chain / I’ll shed a tear to quell my fears / ’Cause every story ends the same...”
“You should really be out there dancing.”
I jump as a guy slides into the seat across from me, the one Reagan was occupying just a couple minutes ago. He wears a gray beanie, but his brown hair is just visible curling out from beneath it. His clothes—a long sleeve tee and jeans—are nondescript, but they cling to his body in just the right places to suggest a lithe, well-sculpted body underneath. There’s something familiar in the way his lips curl into a smile and I squint, trying to focus through my alcohol-induced haze. Is he a regular at the brewpub? Or do I know him from somewhere else?
He tilts his head to the side and I realize I haven’t responded. “I... uh... I’m not a good dancer.”
He nods toward the dance floor, toward the exuberantly dancing knot I noticed earlier. As the night’s progressed, their movements have gotten more wild and outlandish, and I’m actually a little afraid for Reagan’s safety as she’s just yards away from them. “That doesn’t seem to be a prerequisite. Nah, there’s something else keeping you back here. What is it? You seem to be enjoying the music.”
I purse my lips, not really wanting to discuss my epic failure at flirting with a complete stranger. “What do you care?”
He offers another easy grin. “What can I say? I’m a sucker for a hot chick in distress.”
Heat rises in my cheeks at his words, even though I’m more than a little offended by them. But should I be? He just paid me a compliment—of sorts. I wouldn’t typically categorize myself as a hot anything, but this guy—with dazzling green eyes and a mischievous dimple in his cheek—seems to think I am.
Take that, Graham Jordan.
The guy’s eyebrows cinch. “Who’s Graham?”
Shit. I said that out loud? My cheeks are positively on fire now and I press my hands to them. “No one. He’s no one.”
But now he’s nodding like I’ve revealed the last piece of the puzzle. “He’s in the band, isn’t he? Lead singer, I’m betting.” He’s grinning, like I just told him an amusing story. He rubs his hands together eagerly. “Well, then, this is your lucky night, because I happen to know a thing or two about how guys in bands think. If you want this Graham guy to notice you, you need to give him something to notice.”
He stands and I’m sure I’ve done something to offend him, but he doesn’t walk away. He holds a hand out, nodding encouragingly.
I don’t take it. I’m not sure if my brain’s just a little fuzzy around the edges right now or if he’s actually not making sense. “Where do you wanna take me?”
“To the dance floor.”
I eye his hand suspiciously. It’s strong without being meaty. His fingers are long and his nails appear to be professionally manicured. What guy has professionally manicured fingernails? “I don’t even know your name.”
His face tightens and I wonder if I’ve messed something up. But how can asking for a name be enough to offend someone? After a beat, he relaxes, smiling again. “Everett. And you are?”
“Ashlyn.”
I don’t remember slipping my hand into his, but suddenly I’m standing, shuffling toward the dance floor. Although the song is a faster tempo, Everett pulls me close to his chest, resting his hands low on my back. I stiffen, not sure how to respond, and he releases a breathy laugh.
“Relax. You want this Graham guy to notice you, right? Well, let’s give him something to notice.”
Everett starts moving again—swaying not quite in time with the music—and I follow his lead. Maybe he’s got a point. Sitting at my table sulking isn’t going to accomplish anything. Honestly, dancing with this stranger might not, either, but it’s been so long since I’ve been this close to a guy I find I’m powerless to pull away. Everett’s body presses against mine, nearly from shoulder to knee. When’s the last time I even danced with a guy? College, probably—at one of the house parties Scott Gatlin managed to drag me to. Scott Gatlin, my one serious boyfriend. Ever. But I don’t want to think about that right now. Instead, I allow my body to move in time with Everett’s, snaking my arms around his shoulders.
This isn’t like me at all. But being me isn’t getting me what I want, so maybe it’s time to be someone else for a while.
I catch Reagan’s eye. She stops dancing and stares, open-mouthed. I offer a shrug. It’s the best explanation I have.
Everett’s lips are close to my ear as he sings along with the chorus of the song. “Another wink, another drink / All links in the mischief chain / I’ll shed a tear to quell my fears / ’Cause every story ends the same...”
I shiver. There’s something about Everett’s voice that cuts through me. I like Graham’s voice—I could listen to him sing all day—but somehow Everett’s is almost more familiar. But that’s crazy—I just met the guy.
The song ends, but Everett doesn’t release me. We continue swaying until the band starts up the next tune. About halfway through, Everett turns his head toward me. “Check out the stage.”
His lips brush my ear, sending sparks and fireworks shooting through my system. It takes a moment for his words to register and another before I cast my eyes toward Graham. I’ve watched him perform countless times, and he’s a good showman—staring out into the audience as he sings, even when people are regarding him as nothing more than background noise. But now he’s not singing to the crowd—his eyes keep flickering in my direction.
It’s working.
“How did you know?” The words come out louder than I anticipate, but Everett doesn’t pull away.
“I told you—I know a thing or two about guys in bands. And guys in general. And sometimes the best way to make a guy notice you is to show him what he’s missing.” He pulls back a few inches so he can look at my face, his eyes flickering downward for an instant. “Tonight, I’m your wingman. If you trust me, I promise, that guy will ask you out before the night’s over.”
I can’t help smiling. “Okay. I’ll follow your lead.”
Everett offers a wicked grin before pulling me tight again. I lose myself in the sensation of his body against mine. His shoulders are broad and firm, with corded muscles b
eneath the thin fabric of his shirt. His back is taught and lithe. And his rear end...
I stiffen. My hands are on this guy’s ass. How am I gonna apologize for that?
To my relief, he chuckles. “Find something you like?”
I can’t form words to respond. After a second he pulls away, flagging down a waitress passing with a tray of shots. He hands her a bill and grabs two, handing one to me.
“To loosening inhibitions,” he says, clinking my glass.
I gulp down my shot, not sure what else to do.
On stage, Graham announces that the band will be taking another break but that they’ll be back shortly for another set.
Everett stretches, his eyes following Graham as he heads out the door. “I need some air.” He catches my eye, grinning. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back for the next set.” He raises an eyebrow before heading off toward the door.
I let out a heavy breath. The shot spreads through my belly, sending fire outward. I shouldn’t’ve had more to drink. I shouldn’t’ve grabbed a stranger’s ass, either. Apparently this is a night to do things I ordinarily wouldn’t.
Reagan rushes to my side, hooking her arm through mine and pulling me toward the bathroom. I don’t even make an effort to fight her. Once we’re safely inside the crowded, fluorescent-lit room, she rounds on me, eyes wide, mouth agape.
“Who is that hot guy? Did you seriously grab his ass? Do you know him? You guys are dancing like you’re glued together!”
I wait for her to stop before even trying to get in a word edgewise. “Never met him.”
Her grin widens and she wraps her arms around me in a tight hug. “This is gonna be so good for you! This is what you need—a no-strings-attached liaison to get your juices flowing!”
I bite my lower lip. “Liaison?”
She shoves my shoulder before pressing past a group of girls waiting for an empty stall. I follow her to the mirrors. “Don’t sound so scandalized. Are you telling me you can’t read the road signs telling you where tonight’s headed?”
My stomach flutters. Is that really what this guy wants? I’d ask the question, but I know what Reagan’s response will be: Yes. Every guy is looking for sex.
Maybe it’s the shots, but, for the first time ever, the idea doesn’t scare me.
“Okay.” I turn to the mirror, tucking a few loose strands of blond hair behind my ears, ignoring the fact that although I spent half an hour straightening it, it’s back to being wavy.
Reagan gapes at me. “Okay? Like, you’re prepared to go home with this guy, okay?”
I shrug, forcing down the surge of nerves as the eyes of the girl at the next sink flick to me in the mirror. “I tried flirting with the guy I came to flirt with, and it didn’t work. Maybe I need to switch gears.”
Reagan wraps an arm around my shoulder, squeezing. “I’m so proud! My little girl is growing up!”
I shove her and head back out toward the dance floor. I’m not sure what’s more embarrassing—that complete strangers just heard me planning a one-night stand or how very pleased Reagan is about the idea. I don’t see Everett and my heartbeat kicks up a notch. Was he lying earlier when he said he’d be back? Or has he found another hot girl to flirt with? I fight the urge to go out the front door in search of him, instead standing with Reagan and her friends, trying to follow the thread of their conversation. They’re chatting about people I don’t know, so it takes a lot of concentration to figure out what they’re talking about.
Graham and his bandmates are on the stage now, and my body flushes. That’s it, then. Everett left. I tamp down a swell of disappointment. Oh, well. It’s probably for the best, anyway. I don’t know if I could actually go through with going home with him. One-night stands are completely foreign territory to me.
Reagan and her friends are too involved in their conversation to notice when I slip away, heading for a table in the shadowy back corner of the bar. I’ll wait through this set before taking off.
Hands slip over my stomach, tugging me backward. A yelp rises to my lips but doesn’t escape: I know this body. Relief wells as I turn. Everett squints, his head cocked to the side. “Walking out on me?”
I shake my head. “Nope.”
He takes my hand a leads me onto the dance floor. “Good news,” he murmurs once we’re locked together again.
“Yeah?”
“Your boy, Graham? Totally curious. Asked me how I knew you.” He pulls back to study my face. “Well, I assume he was talking about you. You said your name’s Ashlyn, right?”
I nod, stomach dropping. “He called me Ashley?”
Everett presses close again. “I told him it was none of his business and to fuck off.”
My skin tingles. “You did?”
“Yeah. Help sell the bit. He ate it up.” He traces a finger up and down my back. “The trick is to get him jealous. You never want something as much as when you think you can’t have it.”
My heartbeat picks up. Little jolts of electricity spark along the path his fingers trace. It’s been so long since a guy’s touched me like this. I’ve watched dozens of times when it’s been Reagan or my friend Teresa in this position, and I’ve wondered how they could let a guy they barely know put his hands all over them. But now I understand it’s not about who the guy is, it’s about what he is: warm, inviting, interested. And, for the moment, mine.
I allow my fingers to explore the curls of hair poking out from the bottom of his beanie. Maybe it’s the alcohol, or the anonymity, or the desire to make Graham notice me. Or maybe it’s just because everything about this moment feels so good I lose myself for an instant. His earlobe is so close to my lips I can’t help myself: I take it into my mouth and rake my teeth along the flesh.
He pulls back and I’m afraid I’ve crossed a line. Maybe I misread him. But his hands remain around my waist and his expression is amused. “Next level, huh? Game on.”
And then his mouth is on mine.
His lips are soft, tentative. It’s been so long since I’ve been kissed that it takes me a second to remember what to do. When I finally open my mouth, his tongue darts forward, exploring.
I’m making out with a near-complete stranger on a dance floor in the middle of a bar. This fact should creep me out a bit, should cause me to stop, to collect my bearings, to go take a walk outside to cool off. But it doesn’t. The people around us fade to black and it’s just me and him, kissing like our lives depend on it. We stop swaying with the music—or maybe we don’t—as he kisses his way down my neck, gently. Sparks erupt on my skin wherever his lips touch, and although the air around us is heavy and hot, I shiver as his hands skim across my back. When he makes it back to my mouth, my stomach swoops as our lips reconnect. I’ve never been kissed like this before, and I don’t ever want it to end.
I don’t do things like this. Ever. It was four dates before I let my college boyfriend kiss me. This isn’t at all like me. But I can’t stop it. My whole body aches with desire in a way I’ve never experienced before.
His hands move up and down the small of my back in slow circles and my fingers inch their way under the gray beanie. His hair is soft. I want to pull off his hat, run my hands through his hair, pull him so close there is no air between us.
I’m not sure how long we kiss for, but when he finally pulls away, the music has stopped and voices buzz around us. He offers a grin, stroking my chin with his finger. “That should do it.”
I nod, even though I’m not sure what he means. My head is fuzzy and my body tingles. He murmurs something about the bathroom and heads off toward the back of the bar. I take a couple steps toward the nearest table, hands clutching the back of a chair.
Reagan descends on me at once. “Oh. My. God. Ohmigod. Oh my god.” Her hands clasp my shoulders and she gives me a tiny shake. “Ash. Ohmigod.”
I push her hands off me. “We’ve established that. Could you make a coherent statement?”
She presses her palms to either side of my face, forcing me
to look into her eyes. She’s grinning like a maniac. “I have never been more proud of you.”
I shove her, turning so she can’t see the blush rising in my cheeks. I’m not sure whether the heat is from her compliment or from what it refers to. “Reagan, I can’t gush with you right now, okay?”
Her eyes go wide, incredulous. “Okay, clearly you’ve still got a lot to learn. Hot boy’s in the bathroom. This is the perfect time to gush.”
My cheeks are on fire now. I need some water. I scan the vicinity for a waitress but see none, so I start toward the bar.
Reagan is at my heels. “The whole time you were making out with Hottie McHotterton? Lead singer boy was giving you the eye.”
I press my lips together and hazard a glance at her. “The eye?”
“The eye. Like he wanted to come pee on you to mark his territory.”
I stick out my tongue. “Rae, that’s gross.”
She shrugs. “I just call it like I see it.”
I’m at the bar now and I wedge myself between a girl wearing a tube top that shows off her lithe stomach and a guy in a light green button-down who smells like too much cologne. Both bar tenders are at the other end of the bar and I sigh.
“I think the band’s doing one more set, but I’m gonna take off soon.”
I raise an eyebrow. Reagan isn’t typically one to throw in the towel early.
She sighs dramatically. “Katelyn and Emilee are heading out, and I won’t exactly have you to hang out with, will I?” She waggles her eyebrows. “Speaking of which...” She casts a loaded glance to her right, toward the bathrooms. “I’m gonna go walk out with Katelyn and Emilee. Call me tomorrow with all the gory details, slut.” She wraps me in a tight hug before I can hit her and takes off, waving.
Everett’s wearing an amused smile when he makes his way to my side. One of the bartenders is finally heading in my direction, but I ignore him in favor of returning Everett’s smile.
“Your friend taking off?” He’s standing a bit too close to me—although what, really, is too close when you spent the last however long making out in public?
I nod. “It’s getting late and her other friends are going too. The band’s still got another set, though.”