Honestly, I can’t even remember doing anything like that with Jett. Ever. He’s more of a Netflix and chill kinda guy. Doesn’t put much effort into it.
Life's a bitch, then you die. Or in my case, get murdered by obnoxious fumes from Griffin's lactose-intolerant colon.
Why am I here again?
It’s not like I expected things to be any different in Europe. Jett Vice is still the same jerk no matter the continent.
As I round the corner, a red burst of neon to my right catches my eye. It’s one of the bigger tents in the area, buzzing with somewhat more relaxed activity and no security guard. Its sign readsBar.
Screw it.
I deserve a drink after the day I've had. The world's shittiest boyfriend, handsy investors, looming flatulence—time to drown my sorrows in some overpriced booze.
I hitch my gym bag higher on my shoulder and march forward, determined to salvage something from this flaming dumpster fire of a day.
I elbow my way to the front through a group of men discussing someone’s latest album. At the bar, I signal the handsome bartender with a no-bullshit glare and the flick of a wrist. When you’re a small girl, you really gotta know how to make yourself seen in a crowd of giants.
"What's it gonna be, miss?"
"Cosmo, please." I mean, if I'm gonna suffer through this weekend, I'm gonna do it thoroughly buzzed. And on my own terms.
"Coming right up."
As he slides the drink my way a moment later, my mother's voice echoes in my head.
Find a man who'll treat you right, Wendy. Someone who'll take care of you. Someone who’s got a fat wallet and a place of his own.
Oh, the irony. Jett was supposed to be that man, but instead, he's just another disappointment in a long line of letdowns.
Settling on an empty stool, I take a swig and let the sweetness warm my throat a little before taking another one.
"Rough night?" a male voice asks from somewhere.
I turn, ready to verbally eviscerate whatever drunken douche is trying his luck, but the wrong words come out. "When is it not after an international flight?"
"Not a frequent traveler to Europe, I take it." The man offers a small smile, and I swear to God, he looks familiar. I’ve met himbefore. But that can probably be said about half the people here tonight. It’s the scene.
"No, honestly, it’s my first time," I reply. I don’t know why I don’t tell him to fuck off. Maybe because—contrary to my expectation—he appears to be the only sober person in the entire VIP area.
He's tall and muscular, with clear obsidian eyes that seem to pierce right through the night. His hair is dark and long, and his ears have small black tunnels in them. Makes him look like he has just enough edge without being too flashy.
Recognition sparks in my brain again, but I can't quite place him. And now it feels like a personal challenge—to remember where we’ve crossed paths before.
"You get used to it eventually," the man says.
He gestures to my nearly empty glass. "Can I buy you another?"
"Oh." I hesitate, the urge to drown my sorrows warring with the instinct to keep my guard up. But there's something calming about this man. Fuck it. "Sure, why not?" I shrug, aiming for nonchalance.
As he steps closer and signals the bartender, I study him from the corner of my eye. The tattoos snaking up his arms, the way he carries himself with quiet confidence.
"I’m Wendy," I say while we wait for my cosmo and his beer.
"Cruz," he offers.
And then it hits me.
"Wait." I lean a little bit closer to him as if saying what I’m about to say is supposed to remain top secret. "You're Cruz? From The Deviant?"
