Chapter 5 245 a.m. Was A Choice #2
She startles slightly, then wraps both hands around the glass when it lands in front of her like it’s the only solid thing she has left.
“Drinking solo on a Friday night?” I add. “That’s either celebration or triage. And you don’t look like you’re celebrating.”
“The worst,” she mutters, taking a generous sip.
Behind us someone drops a pool cue and swears. A couple squeezes past on their way to the patio, carrying the smell of cigarette smoke and summer rain back inside.
“Been there.” I lift my bottle in a low-key cheers. “What makes it the worst?”
She circles a manicured finger around the rim of the glass.
“Just the joy of realizing everything I’ve worked my ass off for is a complete waste of time.”
“Lemme guess. You’re a model.”
She laughs—real, from the gut. A few heads turn.
“God, I wish. No.”
“Actress, then?”
“In Chicago?” One brow arches.
“Hey, they shot a movie here last month,” I say. “Stranger things.”
She softens, a blush creeping into her cheeks.
“I’m a staff writer. Technically a copy editor assistant. Fancy title for coffee fetcher and comma fixer.”
“So not what you want to be doing.”
She shakes her head.
“I studied journalism. Wanted to be an anchor on CNN. Pivoted to writing when I realized I liked being behind the camera more. Except my Neanderthal boss doesn’t care. He doesn’t even know my name. This morning he called me Annie.”
“Ouch.”
“First six months he called me Pippi. Before that? Lucy.” She points at her hair. “Apparently red means I’m every cartoon from the fifties.”
“Let me get you another,” I say, signaling the bartender. “Drinking alone with a boss like that? Tragic.”
She eyes me, smirk crooked.
“Your boss suck too?”
“Something like that.” I lean closer, catching the floral twist of her perfume under the citrus and bourbon floating through the bar. “But I’ve got better taste in company.”
She takes my hand when I offer it.
“Greer,” she says.
“Beautiful name,” I say, the music thumping softly through the floorboards. “Irish?”
Her brows lift.
“Yeah. How’d you know?”
A bartender nearby slams a shaker on the bar, ice cracking like a cue ball breaking a rack.
“Backpacked through Europe after high school,” I say. “Drank my weight in whiskey. Met a few Greers.”
I take another sip of my beer.
“Plus my grandmother would haunt me if I didn’t recognize a proper Irish name.”
Her smile appears then—small, but real.
“All trouble,” I add.
She laughs softly, the tension finally loosening out of her shoulders.
For the first time all night, I stop thinking about my phone.
The hour slips past without either of us noticing.
Another drink shows up. Then another. The bar grows louder as the night deepens—chairs scraping across the floor, glasses clinking, someone arguing about baseball two stools down. The air smells like citrus peels, spilled whiskey, and whatever cologne the guy beside us bathed in.
Somewhere between the second and third round, Greer moves closer.
Not dramatically. Just enough that her knee brushes mine under the bar.
Then her hand settles on my thigh like it belongs there.
I answer without thinking. My palm finds the small of her back, fingers resting just above the curve of her hip.
The music shifts to something slower, bass rolling low through the room.
Another hour dissolves in a blur of flirtation and heat. Her laughter softens. My voice drops. Drinks disappear faster than common sense.
At some point she leans in close enough that her hair brushes my cheek.
“Your place or mine?” I ask finally, my voice low near her ear.
She smiles against the rim of her glass.
“I live twenty minutes outside the city,” she purrs.
“Lucky for us,” I say, sliding off the barstool, “mine’s a few blocks away.”
I settle the tab, tossing a tip that would make the bartender’s night if he wasn’t already used to Kelley Wilde’s social circle.
Outside, the summer air hits warm and heavy. Traffic hums down the block, headlights sliding across wet pavement.
An Uber Black glides to the curb.
She’s on me before the door even clicks shut.
Hands in my collar. Mouth at my neck. Little sounds that should hit me straight in the ego.
I go through the motions.
Hands on her waist. Finding lace. Letting her shift closer in my lap as the city lights smear past the windows.
Once we arrive at my building and we are finally alone, there's a switch in her eyes.
The elevator doors slide open with a soft ding, and I send up a silent prayer of thanks when I see it's empty.
As soon as we're inside, I pin Greer against the wall, her arms above her head.
My lips find her collarbone, trailing kisses down to the hollow of her throat.
I suck at the sensitive skin, leaving a trail of small bruises in my wake.
We practically fall out of the elevator when it reaches my floor, stumbling towards my door in a tangle of limbs. I fumble with my key card, Greer's lips on my neck making it hard to focus. When I finally manage to get the door open, the sound of the lock disengaging is like music to my ears.
I lift Greer, my hands gripping her thighs as I carry her over the threshold.
She shrugs off her blazer, letting it fall to the floor with a soft thump.
I hoist her higher, burying my face in the sweet spot between her breasts.
With a grunt of effort, I toss her onto the couch.
She lands with a soft bounce, immediately starting on the buttons of her shirt.
I take a step back, drinking in the sight of her. She's gorgeous, all creamy skin and curves in all the right places. But as I watch her, a nagging feeling starts to creep in. Something's... off.
“You want a drink?” I ask, already moving toward the bar.
She shakes her head, still stripping. I pour three fingers of bourbon and knock it back like it can fix me.
It doesn’t.
Somewhere between her lap in the car and this couch, my brain checked out. Greer is objectively good looking. And my body? Not on board.
She walks over in her bra and lace panties, takes my glass like we’ve done this a hundred times, downs the rest, refills it. Guides me back to the couch and climbs into my lap.
I kiss her shoulder. My lips brush a trail of freckles along her arm.
Freckles.
Not hers.
Harlee has freckles.
The thought drops like ice water down my spine.
Greer is right there, half naked in my lap, breathing hard, willing. And my body is throwing up a hard error message.
What the fuck am I doing?
I try, again for a minute. Hands. Mouth. Muscle memory. Desperation dressed up as dominance. Flip us. Trail kisses down her stomach. Nipping at her thighs, hoping something will catch.
Nothing.
She props herself up on her elbows, concern clouding her features. “What’s wrong?”
I drag a hand down my face. “I—this never happens to me.” It slips out on instinct. Lie. The truth is worse: I can’t get out of my own head long enough to want her.
“Is it me?” she asks, voice shrinking.
“No, it’s not you,” I say quickly. “It’s… whiskey dick. Fucking whiskey dick.”
The lie tastes bitter.
What the fuck is wrong with you?
You fucking pussy.
Greer’s expression softens, relief flickering before determination takes its place.
“Oh,” she says gently. “That’s okay. Maybe I can help.”
She slides off the couch and onto the floor between my legs, a slow smile curving her mouth.
The sight should do it. Knees on hardwood.
Big eyes. All innocent face and very non-innocent intentions.
Instead—
My dick, the traitor, doesn’t even flinch.
I grab her wrist before she can get far.
“You should go,” I say quietly.
Her head snaps up. “What?”
“Echo,” I say. “Brighten the lights.”
Cold white floods the room. We both flinch.
“I said you should go.”
“You’ve got to be out of your fucking mind,” she snaps.
“Probably,” I admit, pushing to my feet.
I cross to the bar cart, pour a drink, knock it back, pour another.
“But you should still go. I’ll call you a car.”
Greer stares at me like she’s deciding whether to slap me or torch the place.
Finally she scoffs and stands.
“Unbelievable.”
She gathers her clothes, muttering under her breath. I catch pieces of it—asshole, waste of time, Chicago men—but my brain’s already somewhere else.
As she hooks her bra, I finish another drink.
“I cannot believe this shit,” she snaps, zipping her skirt. “Don’t even think about calling me.”
“Look, I’m sorry,” I say, words blurring. “I know I gave you the wrong—”
“Save it.” Her eyes flick down. “You aren’t even hard.”
Silence drops heavy into the room.
I glance down at the sad proof hanging out of my briefs.
“You did this to yourself,” I mutter.
The couch swishes when I fall back into it, cool fabric against overheated skin.
Mocking.
And my brain does what it’s been doing all night.
Goes right back to her.
Hazel eyes. Smart mouth.
That laugh.
Harlee.
I fumble my phone off the cushion. Screen lights up. No texts. No notifications. No nothing.
Of course not.
I toss it aside. It lands face-down. I tug my pants back on, zip with fingers that feel a little too big for their job. My shirt’s stained. Dry-clean only. Perfect.
I pour one last drink. Down it.
Buzz.
I blink at the screen.
Unknown Sender: Asshole.
I huff out a humorless laugh. “Yeah,” I whisper. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
I should leave it. Sleep. Start fresh.
Instead, I scroll through my contacts until her name cuts through the blur like a sharp edge.
Harlee.
My thumb hovers.
Fuck it.
I hit call.
The phone presses cool against my ear.
One ring. Two.
Three—
“Hello?”
Her voice is hoarse. Sleep-soft. Wrapped in darkness.
It slides down my spine and wakes up nerves my body refused to spend on Greer all night.
For a second I just sit there.
The balcony door’s cracked open. June air hangs thick in the room. Somewhere below, a car rolls past with bass humming low. The ceiling fan pushes lazy circles of warm air overhead.
“Why didn’t you text me back?” I blurt.
A pause.