Clarke
Rorie’s was always crowded, but tonight it felt like the entire town had squeezed inside.
Bodies pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, the air thick with sweat, perfume, and the twang of country music vibrating through the floorboards.
I pushed my way through the tangle of limbs and laughter, heading straight for the bar.
Avalon and Delia weren’t far behind. Delia had pulled her aside for a hushed conversation she insisted I couldn’t be part of.
I wouldn’t lie—I was relieved when they rounded the corner intact.
Delia had the impulsive energy of an orange tabby cat, all act-now-think-later, and Avalon… well, Avalon had claws of her own.
“—but nothing beats moonshine made in some old man’s cellar,” Delia declared, looping her arm through Avalon’s like they’d known each other for years.
“Okay, but you’ve never had a margarita made with Clase Azul while yachting in Tuscany,” Avalon countered, brows raised.
Delia rolled her eyes and tugged Avalon toward me. “We’ll just ask Clarke. C’mon.”
They stopped in front of me—a study in contrasts. Delia, sun-kissed and glowing from a lifetime under the Texas sun. Avalon, pale and sharp-edged, her black hair braided with tiny silver charms that glittered under the lights.
I’d thought about lending her clothes so she wouldn’t feel out of place, but decided against it. Too much, too soon. I didn’t want her getting ideas. Friends and co-artists—that was all we could ever be.
Still… she was beautiful.
Her top was barely a shirt—lace and air—with a tiny black bra underneath. Her mini skirt hit mid-thigh, her legs bare until they reached her black boots. Dark liner framed her eyes, making the blue in them startling.
It stole the breath from my lungs.
The last time she’d looked like this was the convention—oversized jacket, rings on every finger, that infuriating smirk, and eyes that kept wandering over me.
Those same eyes were wandering now.
Heat crept up my neck, and I forced myself to look at Delia instead. She’d raided my closet earlier, stealing a white dress and a belt, her orange hair curled into a wild halo.
“Clarke! Help us,” Delia said, hand on her hip. “Old Man Ritter’s moonshine or watered-down rich-people crap?”
Avalon chuckled awkwardly, mumbling a soft “sorry.”
I shifted my weight. “Uhm… I don’t know. You know I don’t drink. Not like that.”
Avalon waved a hand. “See? I could’ve told you that. Clarke isn’t much of a party girl. I basically had to beg her to come out to my aunt’s bar back in March.”
“Hey!” I protested. “There was no begging—”
“I was more than willing,” Avalon murmured. “If it had come to it.”
“—I just needed a little encouragement,” I finished quickly, hoping if I kept talking, my brain wouldn’t latch onto what she’d said. Wouldn’t bury it deep and overthink it.
Delia jumped in. “Clarke used to party down here all the time.”
Not helpful. Avalon’s eyes lit with curiosity—exactly what I didn’t need.
A tall figure near the entrance caught my attention. “I’m going to check on something before you two start sharing embarrassing stories,” I said, escaping toward my brother.
Colton looked ragged—like he had been emotionally dragged through the mud. He and Ethan took up half the entrance, towering over everyone. Girls giggled and tossed glances their way, hoping for attention.
One brunette licked her lips at Ethan, then glared at me when he didn’t look back.
“Clarke King—is that you?” she called, brushing my arm. “Thought we’d never see you again after your little depressive episode.”
“Arabella.” I forced a smile, gently removing her hand. “I’m much better now. But we’ve never been friends, so I’m not sure why you’re pretending to care.”
Her face flushed. “I was just being friendly, Sweetie. Don’t make this a thing.”
Sweetie. Arabella Finch wrapped cruelty in Southern charm like it was a gift basket. She’d been jealous of my friendship with Ethan since childhood—convinced he’d want her if I’d just step aside.
But Ethan had never been mine because I had never wanted him.
I ignored her and reached the entrance. Colton’s dark circles were worse up close.
“Hey, Kid,” he said gruffly, offering a small smile. “Didn’t think you’d want me here.”
I shrugged. “I’ve spent a lot of time being angry at people for things out of my control. I can’t stop you from marrying Delia—”
He grabbed my arm. “I won’t do it without your blessing.”
“—but whatever you decide, I’ll stand by you.”
I meant it. I’d rehearsed it. Colton was my brother—my favorite boy in the world—but that didn’t mean I had to justify every choice he made. If he was sure Delia would be happy, then my feelings didn’t matter.
“I want you both to be happy,” I said. “If this is what it takes, I won’t stand in your way.”
Color returned to his face. Relief. Hope. Maybe I’d made the right call.
“Thank you, Clarke.” He slung an arm over my shoulder. “Now let’s get Ethan away from the door before Arabella sinks her teeth into him.”
I snorted. “She still blames me for his lack of interest.”
Ethan appeared on my other side. “And yet, the entire time you were in New York, nothing happened between us. Whose fault is that? The lesbian thousands of miles away or the evil, conniving bitch who used to put frogs in my lunch?”
“Ethan!” I laughed, smacking his chest. His booming laugh carried over the music, turning heads.
He had that effect—loud, rowdy, magnetic. He and Colton together were chaos incarnate. Bar fights, drunk bareback riding, river-jumping in our underwear. I missed it. Missed feeling young and reckless.
We joined Delia and Avalon at the bar. Delia immediately drifted to Colton’s side. They looked good together—painfully good. The kind of couple you’d see in a movie. The kind that made you stare.
The kind that could hide dark secrets.