MY ONE NIGHT DON

Chapter 2: Drowning in whiskey

I don’t know how I ended up at that bar, spiraling in whiskey and pain. One minute I was driving through the city’s veins, no destination, just a desperate need to outrun the images seared into my mind Liam’s bare back, Maya’s fingers clawing into him, their moans twisting like a knife. Next, I was standing in front of a nondescript red door tucked between two forgotten buildings on a street I didn’t recognize. No sign, just chipped paint at the edges and a single yellow bulb flickering above, like it was debating whether to stay lit or surrender to the dark.

I pushed the door open, and a wave of warmth hit me, thick with the hum of low jazz, murmured conversations, and the clink of glasses. The air carried aged liquor, faint cigarette smoke, and a sweet undercurrent vanilla, maybe, or something heavier, like regret. The bar was dim, its corners swallowed by shadows. It wasn’t empty, but it was hushed, the kind of place where people came to vanish into their own stories. A scattering of patrons sat alone, nursing drinks, their faces blurred by the haze of their own thoughts.

Perfect.

I slid onto a barstool like a ghost, my purse thudding softly on the counter. The bartender, a middle-aged man with tired eyes and a salt-and-pepper beard, glanced at me but didn’t pry. I liked that. His hands moved with the quiet efficiency of someone who’d seen too many nights like this.

“Whiskey,” I said before he could open his mouth. “Neat.”

He nodded, pouring a generous measure into a heavy glass. The amber liquid caught the low light, glinting like a promise.

The first sip burned, sharp and punishing, scorching its way down my throat. I welcomed it, needed something to hurt that wasn’t the hollow ache in my chest. The second sip was smoother, the third went down like water. I didn’t count after that. Each swallow dulled the edges of the memory Liam’s voice, Maya’s laugh, the rhythm of their bodies in the dark but it didn’t erase them. They lingered, sharp and vivid, like a film stuck on repeat behind my eyes.

I sat there, elbows on the scarred wooden counter, head low, staring into the whiskey like it held answers. Maybe it did. Maybe if I drank enough, the images would blur, the pain would dissolve into static. But every time I closed my eyes, I saw them her legs wrapped around him, his mouth on her neck, their betrayal, a living thing clawing at my insides.

“Everything okay, sweetheart?” the bartender asked, his voice gentle but cautious, like he was testing the waters.

I let out a laugh dry, cracked, barely human. “Do I look like everything’s okay?”

He didn’t answer, just poured another shot and slid it toward me. His eyes lingered a moment, not with pity but with the quiet understanding of someone who’d seen people like me before broken, teetering, one drink away from falling apart.

My hands were shaking now, whether from the whiskey or the storm inside me, I couldn’t tell. Probably both. The bar’s sounds faded into a dull hum,whispers, the drag of a chair, the slow wail of a saxophone from the jukebox. I felt far away, trapped behind glass, watching a version of myself unravel while the world kept spinning.

Then I felt it.

Eyes. Watching.

A chill slithered down my spine, colder than the rain outside. I turned slowly, my vision swaying from the whiskey’s grip. In the back corner, tucked into a cracked leather booth, he sat alone.

He wasn’t like the others. There was a stillness to him, a quiet command that seemed to bend the air around him. Danger wrapped in elegance. He wore a dark suit, crisp and tailored, the kind that cost more than my rent. His jawline was sharp, cheekbones carved, black hair falling just enough to look effortlessly intentional. One hand cradled a glass of something dark, the other rested lazily on the table, as if he owned the place. Maybe he did.

His eyes locked on mine calm, unapologetic, like he’d been waiting for me to notice him. Like he’d seen me spiraling and had already reserved a front-row seat to my crash.

Our gazes held, and something shifted in the air, heavy and electric. Then he raised his glass not a smile, not a wink, just a slow, deliberate toast, his eyes never leaving mine.

I blinked, unsure if the whiskey was playing tricks. I turned back to the bar, my heart thudding too loud. The bartender slid another glass in front of me.

“From the man in the corner,” he said quietly. “Told me to tell you not to waste the liquor.”

I stared at the whiskey, then glanced back at the booth. It was empty.

No way.

I whipped around, scanning the room. No trace of him, no coat, no footsteps, no ripple in the crowd. The jazz kept humming, the patrons kept drinking, but he was gone, like he’d never been there at all.

And then I heard…

“Mind if I sit?”

I jumped, my glass nearly tipping. He was beside me, leaning casually against the bar. I hadn’t heard him approach, hadn’t felt the air shift. Up close, he was even more unnerving, calm like a storm waiting to break, confident like someone used to being obeyed. His eyes were dark, unreadable, but beneath the cool surface, there was something else, something warm, or maybe broken. I couldn’t tell.

“You look like you’re trying to forget something,” he said, his voice low, gravel-edged, almost seductive in its deliberate slowness.

I swallowed, my throat tight. “Maybe I am.”

“Is it working?”

“No.”

He glanced at the glass in front of me, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Then you’re drinking the wrong thing.”

I snorted, the sound bitter even to my own ears. “You got something stronger?”

He leaned closer, just enough for me to catch the faint scent of his cologne something expensive, woodsy, with a hint of smoke. “I might.”

I tilted my head, studying him. He didn’t seem drunk or high, just… different. Like he existed on a frequency the rest of the world couldn’t tune into. His presence was magnetic, pulling me in despite the warning bells in my head. “What’s your name?” I asked, my voice quieter than I meant it to be.

He smiled, slow and dangerous, like he knew something I didn’t. “Does it matter?”

I held his gaze, searching for a crack in his composure, but there was none. He tapped his ring silver, heavy, etched with something I couldn’t make out against his glass twice. A signal? A habit? I didn’t ask.

“You look like someone who got burned,” he said after a beat, his voice softer now, almost intimate. “Badly.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Only to people who’ve been burned too.”

I studied him again, my fingers tightening around my glass. There was a weight to his words, a shadow in his eyes that hinted at his own scars. He sat with the kind of control that came from surviving something brutal, like he’d walked through hell and come out colder, sharper. I wondered what had broken him. I wondered why I cared.

“Who are you?” I asked, barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer, just signaled the bartender with a subtle nod. The man poured two more glasses without a word, like he knew the routine. The stranger pushed one toward me, his fingers brushing the glass with a deliberate ease.

“Come on,” he said, standing, his voice carrying a quiet command.

“What?”

“You need something stronger than whiskey.”

I raised an eyebrow, the whiskey in my veins making me bolder than I felt. “Like what?”

He looked at me not with pity, but with a kind of recognition, like he saw the jagged edges of my pain and knew them by heart. “Distraction.”

I hesitated, my heart pounding. The bar seemed to fade, the jazz softening to a distant hum. I didn’t know this man, didn’t know what he wanted or why he’d chosen me. But the weight of Liam and Maya’s betrayal was still crushing me, and the idea of distraction any distraction felt like a lifeline.

I slid off the stool, my legs unsteady but resolute. “Lead the way,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

His smile widened, just enough to show a hint of teeth, and he gestured toward the door. The night outside was waiting, dark and endless, and as I followed him, I knew I was stepping into something I couldn’t predict. Something dangerous. Something that might burn me worse than before.

But right then, I didn’t care.

I wanted to feel something else. Anything else.