Chapter 11 #3
“Sore loser much?” I tease, leaning on my cue stick as she mutters something about demanding a rematch.
She wants to go again, of course, but the pleasant buzz from my last drink is already starting to fade. I rack the cue and toss her a grin. “Later. I need a refill.”
I weave my way through the crowd and head to the bar for the third time that night. Cole spots me instantly and flashes that signature grin of his—half flirt, half trouble.
“Back for more, huh?” he teases while he dries out a glass.
“You know me,” I say, shooting him a playful smirk as I slide into an open spot at the bar. “I’m a glutton for punishment.”
“What’s your poison this time, darlin’?” He leans on his elbows.
“Same as before,” I respond, my smirk never faltering. “Keep the good vibes rolling.”
“You got it,” he says as he gets to work on it.
I distract myself with my phone, checking messages and anything else that has popped up.
A minute later, he slides my drink across the bar, the condensation already pooling around the base.
“Let me know if you ever want the real thing, gorgeous,” he adds with a wink.
My cheeks flush, and I’m suddenly grateful for the dim lighting. “You’re trouble,” I mutter as I slide my phone back into my bag and grab the drink.
He just winks again and turns to the next customer.
Drink in hand, I head back to the table and plop down beside Khloe. She is back on the Karafun website looking for a song, her face twisted in concentration as she scrolls, so I take a sip from the drink and nudge her. After Cole’s little offer, I knew I needed to tell her about the number.
“So… I’ve been holding out on you,” I say.
She looks up, instantly intrigued. “Do tell.”
I lean closer, lowering my voice. “Okay—but don’t scream.”
She cocks a brow. “Why would I—”
I pull the folded receipt from my bodice and unfold it just enough for her to see. Blue ink, messy handwriting, and a cheeky little winky face stare up at her. Khloe gasps so loud it turns heads.
“You did not!” she squeals, nearly knocking over her drink as she snatches the receipt from my hand. “You little hoe! Oh my god, Rae!”
Tessa and Marlena whip around in their seats like they’ve just been summoned. “What’s going on?” Tessa asks, eyes darting between us.
Khloe thrusts the receipt into her hands like it’s evidence from a crime scene, and my cheeks heat again. “Cole gave her his number!”
Tessa’s eyes widen. “No fucking way! I knew something was up when he comped those first drinks!”
“Are you gonna call him?” Marlena asks, smirking as she peers over Tessa’s shoulder.
I shrug, slipping the paper back into my bra. “He’s cute, but I’m not into him like that.”
“That’s because you’ve got it bad for Officer Hottie,” Tessa sings, wiggling her eyebrows. I don’t even bother answering—but I can feel my cheeks betray me, glowing like a damn sunrise.
“If she’s passing on the bartender, I’ll take him,” Khloe declares, reaching for the receipt again.
“He’s more your type anyway,” I say, laughing as I hand it over. “Go for it.”
Khloe grins. “Cute, flirty, and totally fuckable? Say less,” she says as she adds the number to her phone. I roll my eyes at her just as Tessa and Marlena’s names are called.
“FYI, Rae?” Tessa says as she stands up from the table. I glance at her, my brows furrowing in curiosity. “You’re terrible at hiding your feelings, babe. Stop pretending you don’t like him,” she says as she follows Marlena to the DJ booth.
“Okay.” I mutter softly. Tessa knew me better than anyone. She knows what I am feeling, even before I do.
I watch as the two of them each receive a microphone, then step up onto the stage, their arms linked together as they bob their heads to the opening notes of “Monsters” by Ruelle.
As they start to sing, I take a long sip from my drink and stand. “I’ll be right back,” I murmur to Khloe, who pays me no attention, before slipping away from the table to head to the bathroom.
The bathroom itself is surprisingly clean for a dive bar.
Flyers for old and upcoming themed karaoke nights, punk shows, and drink specials are taped over every inch of space on the walls and stalls.
One of the lights above the mirror flickers with the persistence of a dying firefly, and the stall doors creak like they belong in a haunted house.
I step up to the sink and take a long look at myself.
My cheeks are still flushed, and my eyes are a bit glassy from the alcohol consumption.
My braid has almost completely unraveled, my hair now in soft waves that spill down my back.
I adjust the flower clip that’s somehow still hanging in there and run my fingers through the strands to fluff them out.
Tessa’s words are still echoing in my mind.
I’m not denying anything. I have already admitted to myself that I am attracted to Emilio.
Hell, I masturbated to thoughts of him because of that attraction.
But it was nothing more than that. The man is insufferable, and yes, kind of hot in a way that makes my brain do stupid things.
He might have apologized for his behavior during our first meeting and been kind, but that doesn’t mean I like him in the way Tessa thinks.
I didn’t really know the fucker. If anything, I just want to fuck him and satiate my body’s needs.
I sigh and splash cold water on my face, hoping to cool both my flushed skin and my thoughts. I don’t need to go down that rabbit hole again. One night of letting loose doesn’t mean I’m suddenly catching feelings.
After a few minutes of drying myself off and situating myself again, I exit the bathroom, smoothing my hands over my dress. Thoughts of Emilio were still present in my mind but were now manageable.
I step out of the hallway. Tessa and Marlena had finished their song, replaced now by some guy royally butchering a song by Korn that my intoxicated brain can not remember the name of—drunk karaoke at its finest.
I do a sweep of the bar. The number of patrons has dwindled, leaving the bar top almost entirely open. Cole spots me from the hall as I look around and gives me a short wave, which I return before leaving the hallway.
And then I see him.
Emilio Perez.
He’s sitting at a table a few feet from the bar, a bottle of Dos Equis resting loosely in one hand, posture straight and alert like he’s halfway between off-duty and still on the clock.
He’s wearing dark jeans and a black fitted tee that clings to his well-defined abs just right.
His badge and handcuffs are clipped to his belt—subtle but visible enough for anyone paying attention, and his off-duty weapon sticks out just slightly from the back of his jeans.
His expression is unreadable as he listens to who I think is Kline, though I barely register that part.
Because all I can really focus on is the way something deep inside me shifts—like someone lit a spark and set it loose in my veins.
I wasn’t expecting to see him here.
My steps falter, and I hover just outside the bathroom hallway like I’ve forgotten where I was headed.
The combination of my thoughts just minutes ago and the alcohol has my heart already racing, my palms suddenly a little damp.
The alcohol makes it easier to blame the warmth blooming in my chest, but I know it’s more than that.
It’s physically seeing him that makes something stir low in my stomach.
And then he looks up, and his eyes find mine.