Chapter Two Bad Decisions Taste Like Whiskey
1361 Words
~ Harley ~
The bass hits me first.
Hard enough to rattle my ribs. Hard enough to shake the thoughts loose from my head.
Good.
I shove through the door of the club like I’ve got something to prove, lights flashing red and gold over bodies packed too close, sweat and perfume and bad decisions hanging thick in the air. My ears ring instantly. My heart keeps up like it’s been waiting for this.
I don’t come here to flirt.
I don’t come here to be cute.
I come here because standing still feels like I might implode.
I head straight for the bar.
“Whiskey,” I shout over the music. “Whatever doesn’t taste like regret.”
The bartender snorts and pours without asking questions. Bless him.
I down the first glass too fast. It burns all the way down, sharp and grounding. My hands stop shaking. My head clears just enough for the anger to settle into something mean and focused.
That’s when I feel it.
Not a touch.
A stare.
The kind that crawls up your spine and settles between your shoulders like a claim.
I turn before I can stop myself.
And there he is.
Older. Broad shoulders. Black leather like it was born on him instead of bought. He’s standing a few feet back from the bar, half in shadow, drink untouched in his hand. Calm in a room full of chaos. Dangerous without trying.
His eyes are on me like I walked into his line of fire on purpose.
My stomach flips.
Fuck.
I look away first. I hate that I do.
I grab my second drink, sip slower this time, pretending I don’t feel the weight of him tracking every move I make. I tell myself I don’t care. That men look all the time. That this doesn’t mean s**t.
But it feels different.
Too focused. Too patient.
Like he’s not wondering if I’ll notice him.
Like he’s waiting for when.
———-//
~ Quinn ~
Who’s this little one in my hunting ground?
She doesn’t belong here.
I know it the second she walks in, all sharp edges and raw anger, eyes still burning from something fresh and ugly. She moves like she’s trying to outrun a thought, like if she stops for half a second it’ll catch her and tear her apart.
Twenty maybe, Barely and adult But that’s not what hits me.
It’s the defiance.
The way she orders whiskey like she’s daring me to hunt her. The way she drinks it like she needs the burn more than the buzz.
Trouble. The kind that doesn’t know it’s trouble yet.
I don’t smile. I don’t move.
I just watch.
———-//
~ Harley ~
I tell myself not to look again.
I fail.
He hasn’t moved. Still leaning back like the whole room bends around him instead of the other way around. His gaze catches mine instantly, like he knew I’d cave.
Jesus.
My pulse kicks up. My skin tight dress feels too tight.
He lifts his glass slightly. Not a cheers. Like he's flirting with me.
Like I’ve been seen.
“f**k off,” I mutter under my breath, even though he’s too far to hear it.
I turn my back to him and push into the crowd, letting the music swallow me again. Bodies brush past me, hands everywhere, heat and noise and motion. This is what I came for. To disappear. To feel anything other than betrayal and humiliation.
Someone grabs my wrist.
I spin, adrenaline spiking, ready to swing.
It’s him.
Up close, he’s worse.
Taller than I thought. Broader. His presence presses in on me without him touching anything but my arm. His grip is firm but not rough, like he knows exactly how much pressure to use.
“Easy,” he says.
His voice is low. Controlled. It slides straight under my skin.
“Didn’t mean to scare you.”
I yank my hand back. “You grabbed me.”
“You might be walking into someone who doesn’t take no well,” he says calmly, nodding toward a guy already glaring at me from the crowd. “Figured you’d prefer me.”
I laugh, sharp and disbelieving. “That’s a hell of an assumption.”
His mouth twitches. Not a smile. Something darker.
“You walked in here angry,” he says. “Alone. On a night like this. That’s an assumption too.”
I bristle. “You don’t know s**t about me.”
“No,” he agrees. “Not yet.”
The way he says it makes my stomach drop.
I should leave. Every instinct I have is screaming that this man is dangerous in ways I don’t have words for yet.
Instead, I cross my arms and tilt my chin up.
“Buy me a drink,” I say. “Or stop blocking my night.”
His eyes dip to my mouth for half a second.
Then he steps aside.
“Your choice,” he says. “Bar’s still open.”
I hesitate.
Goddamn it.
I turn back toward the bar.
He follows.
I don’t leave the bar.
That’s the first bad decision.
The second is letting him stand close enough that I can smell him. Leather and something clean underneath. Soap. Heat. Him. My skin goes tight like it’s bracing for impact.
We don’t talk much. Not real talk.
Names still sit unspoken between us, heavy and intentional. He orders another whiskey and slides it to me like he already knows I’ll take it. I do. My fingers brush the glass. Then his knuckles.
Electric. Sharp.
“You look like you’re thinking too hard,” he says.
I snort. “You look like you don’t think at all.”
His mouth curves, slow and dangerous. “I think plenty. I just don’t hesitate.”
That should scare me.
Instead, it makes my pulse trip over itself.
The music swells. Someone bumps into me from behind, hard enough that I stumble a step forward. I barely have time to react before his hand lands on my lower back, steadying me. Firm. Like it belongs there.
I freeze.
He doesn’t move it.
Doesn’t squeeze. Doesn’t slide.
Just holds.
“You okay?” he asks, low, close to my ear now.
I nod, even though my brain has officially short-circuited.
“I’m eighteen,” I blurt out. I don’t know why. It just falls out of my mouth like a line I need to draw for myself.
His hand lifts instantly. Clean. Controlled.
“Good,” he says. No hesitation. No disappointment. “And are you sober enough to walk?”
“Yeah,” I snap. “I’m not a kid.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
The space where his hand was feels cold now, i hate that I blurted out I was eighteen, I hated that more than I should, I see why Finn thinks I don't deserve his respect.
We stand there for a second too long, staring at each other like we’re both waiting to see who’s going to flinch first.
I don’t.
He gestures toward the exit with his chin. “You leaving?”
I swallow. My throat feels dry as hell.
“I don’t want to go home,” I say.
Something dark flickers across his eyes. Not hunger. Not yet.
“Then don’t,” he says. “Come with me.”
The words land heavy. Final. Not a question.
I should think about my aunt’s house. About the mess I ran from. About how this is insane and reckless and exactly how girls end up regretting s**t.
Instead, I follow him.
The night air hits us like a slap when we step outside. Cool. Sharp. Sobering. His bike is parked right out front, black and massive, chrome catching the streetlight. I stop short.
“You ride?” I ask, stupidly.
He glances back at me. “That a problem?”
“No,” I say quickly. “Just… s**t. Okay.”
Bad decisions really do taste like whiskey.
And something tells me I’ve only just taken the first sip.
- Writer
