First Encounter
1567 Words
I don’t walk into tonight expecting fate. Or danger. Or the kind of encounter that settles into your bones like an echo you never get rid of.
I walk in thinking about shots and friends and Brian’s promotion, like every other forgettable night we’ve ever had.
We’ve been a unit since high school—Brian, Shaundra, Denise, Cristen, Darren, and me. Time should have pulled us apart, but it didn’t. We just got older and clumsier and maybe a little desperate to hold on to the only version of ourselves that ever made sense.
We’re supposed to go to The Lost Dutchman, this trendy new bar with artisanal cocktails and overpriced appetizers—Brian’s treat since “manager of the region” apparently means “alcoholic philanthropist.”
But the taxi driver screws up and drops us at our regular haunt—Drunk and Drunker, the kind of place where the floors are sticky, the neon signs flicker, and the bartenders have seen enough to stop caring.
We should correct him. Or complain. Or walk the measly three blocks to the shiny place we intended.
Instead, we say “thanks,” pay, and step inside like sheep.
I don’t realize until later how much I’ll regret that tiny decision—how many things could have changed if we’d just walked away.
But hindsight always likes to show up late and smug.
The moment I walk in, something feels wrong. It’s not visible wrong. It’s gut wrong. The kind of wrong you feel before you see.
The bartender shouts at the town drunk—normal.
Half the tables are empty—normal.
Some hipster is playing acoustic guitar, case open for tips—too normal.
But the air feels off. Charged. Like something unseen is already watching.
I tell myself I'm imagining it. Anxiety, alcohol anticipation, whatever.
We slide into our regular booth, and Tabitha—our sarcastic, overworked bartender—takes our drink orders. My friends laugh. They’re fine. Apparently, I’m the only one flirting with existential dread.
Everything is normal—
until the doors burst open.
Not push open. Not swing wide.
Slam into the walls like someone thinks buildings are temporary obstacles.
Heads turn. Conversations collapse. The energy in the room shifts so sharply I can almost hear it snap.
He walks in like the center of the universe got bored and decided to slum it with the mortals.
And I hate, immediately, that he is gorgeous.
Wildly gorgeous.
Annoyingly engineered to be gorgeous.
Tall, lean, reckless. Shirt half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled with just enough sloppiness to look intentional. Blonde curls—actual curls—framing a face that is equal parts angelic and predatory.
He is followed by an entourage. They move like a pack. They stare like zealots. Their eyes are too still, too hungry, too reverent.
They look at him like he is a god.
And the worst part?
He knows it.
He orders a round for the whole bar—because of course he does—and leans against the counter with the posture of a man who has never had to ask for anything.
His gaze scans the room.
Slow. Hungry. Bored.
People light up when he looks at them, then crumble when he dismisses them.
Then—
His eyes hit me.
The moment feels physical—like pressure, heat, a spotlight.
He waits.
Actually waits.
As if daring me to look away first.
I don’t.
His gaze trails down my body, unapologetically slow, and when it comes back up, he gives me a smile that is pure heat and ego and ownership.
A shiver crawls down my spine—
not pleasure.
Not exactly fear.
Something more dangerous, more primal.
I look away.
Not because I’m intimidated.
But because something inside me whispers, No. Stay away.
My friends don’t notice the exchange. Or if they do, they don’t care. They’re hypnotized, laughing, waiting for drinks, oblivious to the predator in the room.
I rally everyone to leave.
I don’t even know why I’m panicked, why I’m desperate.
It takes bribery—my promise to buy the next round—but they follow, and we bolt back outside.
As soon as we step into the night, the air feels lighter, like I’d been breathing underwater without noticing.
We walk to The Lost Dutchman, and when we step in, everything feels safer, softer, ordinary again.
The place is crowded, loud, and full of strangers who don’t look possessed.
The music is upbeat.
The lighting warm.
No electric tension tightening around my throat.
Maybe I imagined it.
Maybe I drank too little.
Maybe I drank too much.
My friends flood the dance floor, buzzing with energy. I order drinks because I promised, because responsibility is apparently a thing I cling to even while drunk.
And then I let go.
Drink. Dance. Laugh.
Every sip dissolves fear.
Every movement shakes loose the unease.
I start to feel alive again—light, reckless, temporary.
Until I collide with someone.
I whirl around to apologize—
And it’s him.
He is here.
The universe laughs in my face.
A slow song begins, syrup-thick, sensual.
Before I can move, his hands are on my waist, warm, confident, claiming space.
He pulls me into a slow sway, and my body follows instinctively—traitorously.
His touch feels electric.
Not metaphorically.
Actually electric.
Heat. Pulse. Energy.
My heart stutters, breath stalling in my lungs.
The crowd blurs.
The lights fade.
It feels like the world drops away, leaving only him, only us, suspended in dark and starlight.
His eyes hold mine, intense, consuming, intimate in a way that feels impossible between strangers.
I don’t know him.
But I feel known.
He pulls me closer, chest to chest, breath ghosting over my lips.
And in that moment, I want—
God, I want.
Want what?
Him?
Escape?
Control?
Self-destruction?
His face dips, mouth angling toward mine—
heat rising, breath tangling, the world narrowing to a kiss that hasn’t happened yet—
And something inside me snaps.
My hand flies before I think, before I breathe, before I choose.
I slap him.
Hard.
So hard my palm stings afterward.
Reality slams back with the same force as my hand.
Music. Lights. People. Gasps.
He stares at me.
Not angry.
Not wounded.
Just fascinated.
I don’t speak.
I walk.
My heartbeat pounds in my ears, a relentless, stupid drum.
My friends gape like I just committed a public execution.
“Holy s**t, Sami,” Shaundra shrieks. “Did you just slap that insanely hot man who was totally about to kiss you? Who was that?!”
“I don’t know. And I wasn’t going to kiss that arrogant jackass, thanks.”
Then—
like a curse I can’t outrun—
A voice behind me says,
“This arrogant jackass would still like your number. If you’re interested.”
I spin.
He’s smiling. Smug, infuriating, devastating.
My friends become human confetti cannons—numbers, napkins, flirtation, shrieks.
He doesn’t care.
He doesn’t even look at them.
His eyes stay locked on me, like the others are noise, clutter, nothing.
I can’t stand it.
I can’t stand him.
I go outside to call a DriveBy.
Ten minutes.
Ten minutes of breathing, silence, space.
I sit on the curb, chilly air cooling my skin and temper.
For a moment, it feels like I escaped.
Then his voice arrives, smug and magnetic and unwelcome:
“Hope you didn't miss me too much.”
I don’t look at him.
“I’d prefer if you went back inside to your harem of women who’d do anything for you. I’m perfectly fine alone.”
“In that case,” he says, settling beside me—too close, always too close—
“I’m perfectly fine right here.”
He smells expensive.
Feels dangerous.
Acts entitled.
“Can I be honest with you?” he asks.
“As long as I can go first,” I snap. “I really, really don’t like you.”
He laughs softly, stunned.
“I’ve never had a girl not like me before.”
“I guarantee plenty don’t. Add me to the list. Now leave.”
He ignores that.
Because why wouldn’t he?
“It’s strange,” he says. “People follow me. They want me. They chase me. I never understand it. I’ve never had someone see me clearly and choose to walk away. It’s… intriguing. A nice prospect.”
“Prospect?” I spit, standing. “Listen, golden boy. I’m not a prospect. I’m not an object. I’m someone—with feelings, with boundaries, with an intense desire not to talk to you anymore.”
A car pulls up.
My escape.
Finally.
He moves to get in, naturally, because he assumes access to everything.
I slam the door in his face.
I roll down the window because I can’t resist the last word, even when I should.
“Listen carefully, jackass. Don’t follow me. Don’t talk to me. Don’t like me. And do not get near me.”
I roll the window up.
The driver pulls away.
For a moment, I think that’s the end.
Of course, I’m wrong.
Later, I’ll know what he was.
What they all were.
What I stumbled into.
Later, I’ll wish for a thousand different choices.
But tonight, I just watch the neon fade and pretend I escaped something that already had its hands on me.
- Writer
