Sparks and Sarcasm

The Rusty Chain was a dive bar that clung to the edge of town like a stubborn barnacle, its neon sign flickering like it was on its last legs. The air inside was thick with the scent of motor oil, cheap whiskey, and the faint tang of regret. Ivy Bullet sat perched on a wobbly barstool, her grey eyes scanning the room with the precision of a sniper. Her brown hair, cut into a sharp bob that grazed her jaw, swayed as she tilted her head, muttering under her breath about the bartender’s “artistic” pour. Her soda was more ice than liquid, and the glass was sticky—two cardinal sins in Ivy’s book. She adjusted her beige mini skirt, the fabric soft and loose enough to avoid sensory overload. No underwear, because the feeling of seams was like sandpaper on her brain. Her cream halter top, her favorite, tied at the back with delicate strings, leaving her midriff bare and flashing a generous amount of side boob. Neutral colors were her armor—nothing too loud, nothing too scratchy. She tapped her fingers on the bar, a restless rhythm, and muttered, “If this guy doesn’t learn to measure, I’m staging a coup.” “Oi, you gonna nurse that drink all night, or do I get a turn to annoy the staff?” A voice, deep and infuriatingly cheerful, sliced through her thoughts like a hot knife. Ivy’s head whipped around, her glare landing on a tower of a man sliding onto the stool next to her. Alexander “Alec” Madden was six-foot-three of pure chaos, with black hair slicked back in a way that screamed “I spent ten minutes looking like I didn’t try.” His brown eyes glinted with mischief, and his leather jacket—worn but clearly expensive—hugged broad shoulders. A gold chain peeked from his collar, catching the dim bar light. He grinned, all golden retriever energy, like he’d just found a new squeaky toy and was dying to play. “Do I know you?” Ivy asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm so thick it could double as syrup. “Or do you just harass short people for sport?” Alec’s grin widened, undeterred. “Name’s Alec. And you’re… what, the human equivalent of a cactus? Prickly, but kinda cute.” Ivy’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Call me cute again, and I’ll shove this straw somewhere creative. Like your ego. It’s big enough to need its own zip code.” “Promises, promises,” Alec shot back, leaning an elbow on the bar. His voice dropped, teasing. “Bet you’d enjoy it. I’m *very* creative.” Ivy snorted, rolling her eyes so hard she nearly saw her own brain. “Wow, original. Did you get that line from a gas station romance novel?” He laughed, a rich, warm sound that made her stomach do a weird little flip she immediately resented. “Nah, I save the good stuff for special occasions. Like meeting…” He paused, glancing at her expectantly. “Ivy,” she said, clipped. “And don’t get comfy. I’m not here for your puppy-dog charm.” “Puppy-dog?” Alec clutched his chest, mock-wounded. “I’m a wolf, Ivy. All teeth, no leash.” She raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “More like a labradoodle with delusions of grandeur.” Before Alec could fire back, a burly biker with a beard like a bird’s nest and a voice like gravel stormed over. “Alec, mate, you still dodging Sarah? She’s *perfect* for you. Blonde, curvy, loves bikes—total package!” Alec’s easy grin faltered, his eyes flicking to the side. “Not interested, Jake. Told you a hundred times.” Jake crossed his arms, undeterred. “You’re being picky. Sarah’s got half the crew drooling. You saying she’s not good enough?” “I’m saying I’m not looking,” Alec said, his tone sharper now. He leaned back, his gaze sliding to Ivy. A spark ignited in his eyes, the kind that promised trouble. “Actually, I’m taken.” Jake blinked, his bushy brows shooting up. “Since when?” “Since…” Alec’s grin returned, slow and dangerous. He turned to Ivy, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Since I met my girlfriend. Right, babe?” Ivy choked on her soda, the bubbles burning her nose as she coughed. “Excuse me, *what*?” Her voice was a mix of disbelief and outrage, her grey eyes wide as she stared at him. “Did you just drag me into your soap opera?” Alec leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. “Play along,” he murmured, so low only she could hear. “I’ll make it worth your while. Cash. Name your price.” Ivy’s brain kicked into overdrive. She was broke—painfully, embarrassingly broke. Her freelance graphic design gigs were sporadic, her bank account a sad little ghost town. Rent was due in a week, and her fridge was surviving on ketchup packets and hope. She glanced at Alec, taking in the designer boots, the gold chain, the way he carried himself like money was a language he spoke fluently. This guy was loaded. And desperate. She tilted her head, her smirk sharp enough to cut glass. “Five grand,” she said, voice steady. “One month. I’m not kissing you, touching you, or pretending I like you more than I like a root canal.” Alec’s eyes lit up, like he’d just won the lottery. “Deal,” he said, too fast, extending a hand. “But I’m holding out for the kiss.” “In your dreams, biker boy,” Ivy muttered, shaking his hand with the enthusiasm of someone signing up for jury duty. Her skin tingled where his calloused fingers brushed hers, and she yanked her hand back, blaming the bar’s shitty AC. Jake, still looming, looked between them, skeptical. “You’re serious? You and… her?” “Her name’s Ivy,” Alec said, his tone firm but still laced with that infuriating charm. He slung an arm around Ivy’s shoulders, pulling her against his side. She stiffened, her nose wrinkling at the sudden proximity. He smelled like leather, cedar, and trouble—a combination that was annoyingly pleasant. “And yeah, I’m serious. She’s my girl.” Ivy’s jaw clenched. “Call me ‘your girl’ again, and I’ll knee you somewhere that’ll make Sarah irrelevant,” she hissed under her breath. Alec’s lips twitched, but he didn’t let go. “Noted, *babe*.” Jake scratched his beard, still dubious. “Fine. But you’re bringing her to the rally next week. I wanna see this ‘love story’ in action.” “Wouldn’t miss it,” Alec said, his grin all teeth. Jake wandered off, muttering, and Alec finally released Ivy, spinning on his stool to face her. “So, partner in crime, what’s the plan?” Ivy crossed her arms, her halter top shifting to reveal even more side boob. Alec’s eyes flicked down for a split second before he caught himself, and she smirked. “The plan is you pay me upfront, I show up to your dumb biker events, and we don’t kill each other. Clear?” “Crystal,” Alec said, pulling out his phone. “Gimme your Venmo. I’ll send half now, half at the end.” Ivy rattled off her handle, watching as he typed. Her phone pinged, and she glanced at the notification: $2,500 from *Alec Madden*. Her heart did a little jig, but she kept her face neutral. “Okay, rich boy. But if you try any funny business, I’m ghosting you and keeping the cash.” “Funny business?” Alec leaned in, his voice dropping to a husky drawl. “Sweetheart, if I wanted to get funny, you’d be begging for an encore.” Ivy’s cheeks flushed, but she held her ground. “Keep dreaming, labradoodle. I’d rather beg for a lobotomy.” He laughed again, that warm, infuriating sound, and stood, tossing a few bills on the bar for her drink. “See you at the rally, Ivy. Wear something… distracting.” “Wear something less annoying,” she shot back, but he was already sauntering toward the door, his leather jacket catching the light. She watched him go, her fingers tightening around her glass. This was a terrible idea. But as she glanced at her phone, the $2,500 staring back at her, she couldn’t help the tiny thrill that ran through her. Game on, Alec Madden.