One Night, Wrong Man

Chapter 2 — One Drink

*POV Derby*

The bar door slammed shut behind me, sealing me inside a wall of heat, pounding music, and the lingering bite of whiskey still coating the back of my throat. Bass pulsed beneath my feet, vibrating through the floor until I could feel it somewhere behind my ribs.. The air smelled like sweat, cheap cologne, and liquor that had soaked into the wood years ago. Normally I would've hated this place. Tonight, I needed it. Anything loud enough to bury Rian's voice deserved my gratitude.

I slipped onto the last empty stool at the end of the bar. "Whiskey. Neat." No ice. No questions. The first swallow burned all the way down, settling in my chest with a warmth that lasted only a few seconds. Still not enough.

I pushed the empty glass forward. The bartender barely looked at me before pouring another. Then, not long after, another. Every swallow left behind the same smoky burn... and somehow the same empty feeling..

I wasn't chasing a buzz. I just wanted my thoughts to slow down long enough for me to breathe. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his hands on her instead of me. And somewhere in the back of my mind, I kept imagining him saying her name with the same softness he'd once saved for mine.

Someone slid onto the stool beside me without asking. A guy in a half-open shirt leaned closer than he needed to, his breath carrying beer and mint. "You look like you could use some company," he said with an easy grin. "Rough night?"

His cologne hit me a second before his words did. Too sweet and strong. It made my stomach turn. I didn't even look at him. My fingers stayed wrapped around the glass. "Not interested."

A small laugh escaped him, like he thought I was playing hard to get.. "Come on. Just one drink..."

I finally turned to face him. "I said no." My voice came out quieter than I'd expected, but sharp enough to wipe the smile off his face. He clicked his tongue under his breath, muttered something I didn't bother catching, and disappeared into the crowd.. A few minutes later, someone else tried. Different face. Same rehearsed smile. Same tired pickup line. My answer didn't change.

I wasn't looking for company. I wasn't trying to make anyone jealous, and I definitely wasn't searching for a rebound. No stranger was going to erase what I'd seen tonight. It didn't work like that. I just wanted one quiet minute where my own thoughts stopped tearing me apart.

I reached for my glass again, my fingertips catching the cool beads of condensation clinging to the side.. Before I could lift it, a low voice drifted in from my left. Calm, unhurried. Somehow clearer than the music shaking the room.

I turned slightly toward the voice. Whoever he was, he sounded almost amused. "If you're trying to get properly drunk," he said, glancing at my untouched glass, "you're doing it wrong."

I glanced toward the voice, expecting another guy with another rehearsed line. I was wrong. It was the man from the shadowed corner.

Up close, he somehow seemed even bigger. Broad shoulders stretched beneath a dark shirt, and instead of the alcohol and cologne surrounding us, he smelled faintly of clean soap with something warmer underneath.

His eyes caught mine immediately. In the dim light they looked almost black, steady enough that I found myself holding his gaze longer than I meant to. He wasn't smiling, and he didn't wear the smug confidence every other man tonight seemed to have. He simply watched me, calm enough that it somehow made me more aware of him.

I lifted an eyebrow, surprised that my pulse suddenly felt louder than the music. Maybe it was the whiskey. Maybe it wasn't.. “I let out a quiet scoff. "And what? You're the expert?"

Not even a flicker crossed his face.. "You're drinking too fast," he said evenly. "If you swallow it like that, the burn disappears before anything else does."

His voice was low, velvet-rough, sliding over my skin like a touch. I felt it in my stomach, a slow curl of heat that had nothing to do with the alcohol. His knee brushed mine under the bar—solid, warm through fabric. Neither of us moved away. The contact sent tiny sparks racing up my thigh.

I took another sip, slower this time, letting the whiskey linger before swallowing. "Maybe blacking out is the point tonight."

He leaned in a fraction closer. Our shoulders touched or sleeves brushed as someone bumped past behind us, but neither of us commented on it.. The heat of his body seeped through my sleeve, steady and real. “Or maybe you’re hoping the fire inside will burn louder than the one outside.”

We started talking. Neither of us asked for names. We skipped the polite introductions people usually hid behind and went straight to the things that actually hurt. I heard myself admitting things I hadn't planned to say. Five years reduced to a single notification. Every excuse I'd believed without questioning. Every promise that suddenly sounded ridiculous in hindsight “I miss you” I’d believed. He never offered advice. Never told me to calm down or forget about it. He just listened, as though that alone mattered. The longer we talked, the easier it became to forget we'd been strangers only minutes ago.

Somewhere around us the music kept pounding and people kept laughing, but it all drifted into the background. His knee stayed pressed lightly against mine. The scent of him—clean, masculine, with a hint of something expensive—wrapped around me. My skin prickled with awareness. Every small shift of his body sent another wave of warmth through me. My pulse beat heavy in my throat.

I still held control. I wasn’t falling apart for him. But the way he looked at me, calm and unflinching like he saw every crack and didn’t flinch, made something low in my belly tighten with a sharp, unexpected hunger.

When I reached for my glass again, his hand moved first. Long, strong fingers closed gently around it, pulling it back. His skin brushed mine—warm, slightly rough, electric. The touch lingered just long enough for me to feel the steady thrum of his pulse. My breath caught sharply.

Our eyes locked. Neither of us looked away.

The tension hummed between us, thick and unresolved. His thumb brushed the side of my glass once, almost absentmindedly, but the small movement sent heat pooling lower. I wasn’t thinking about Rian anymore. I was thinking about the stranger whose touch still burned on my skin and whose dark eyes promised something far more dangerous than forgetting.

And for the first time tonight, I wasn’t sure I wanted to walk away.

**To be continued...**