1. Cora
CORA
“And that concludes the bracket!” the judge announced. “Let’s give all our participants a round of applause and get the next group up here!”
I walked out from behind the bar, buzzing with adrenaline as I readjusted the black masquerade-style half mask over my eyes, keeping my alter ego persona in place.
The Masked Mixer was having a great night, which meant I was having a great night—mixing drinks with my signature flair in front of a live audience for a change, instead of just on my socials.
“Look at you go!” Jennifer squealed, skipping across the bar toward me.
“My brilliant little round one winner!” She wrapped me in a hug that smelled of maraschino cherries and grenadine.
For all her culinary skills and refined palate claims, her drink of choice was a Dirty Shirley, of all things, but I loved my bestie too much to hold it against her.
“I haven’t technically won anything yet,” I said, laughing as she tried to squeeze the air out of me. Tipsy Jenn was my favorite Jenn. “Remember? The point of this bracket is not to get eliminated, so I can advance to the next round.”
“Whatever,” Jennifer said, swaying back and forth with me, nearly walking us into one of the tall vases that filled the space with lush greenery. “You still kicked major ass up there.”
I grinned. I didn’t want to toot my own horn, but we both knew I’d easily crushed the competition during this first round.
“A drink to have before dumping a jerk was such a good category,” Jennifer said. “And your red chili zest was an inspired touch! I wonder what the next one will be?”
“Something spooky, I hope. They have a smoke machine up there, and I want an excuse to use it.”
“I love a good smoke machine,” Jennifer agreed, tugging me between the throng of bodies surrounding the bar to watch the next bracket of contestants.
“A guy in the crowd was calling you the Mixology Mistress like a dumbass. I had to correct him. Like how hard is it to remember the name Masked Mixer when you literally wear a mask?”
I chuckled. The mask I wore in all my mixology videos had started as a gag—a bit of the costume I’d still been wearing after coming home from a godawful Halloween party that served the worst Zombies I’d ever tasted.
I’d felt like I had to make a video of how to do it right…
and that video blew up, and my alter ego was born.
Jennifer swayed to the side, and I reached out to steady her. “I think you’re a little drunk.” Jennifer was usually wound tighter than a clock, so I was glad she’d decided to let loose. “How many Dirty Shirleys have you had?”
“I can still see straight, so not nearly enough.” She dragged me back to the table we’d secured upon arriving at Bottom of the Barrel, a new specialty cocktail bar that was hosting the mixology contest to kick off their opening night launch.
“Sit,” she said, patting my stool. “In preparation for the next round, I have ordered us a shit-ton of food. We need you fueled up and strong to win that cash prize!”
It would be nice to make some money as the Masked Mixer for a change.
For my content, I had to source all my ingredients, and they didn’t always come cheap.
I loved my videos, loved the chance to create new and fun drinks and share them with the world, but I’d also love to finally save up enough for the literary-hideaway themed speakeasy of my dreams. And that wouldn’t happen if I kept burning through the earnings from my “real” job as a bartender on everything the Masked Mixer needed.
But maybe tonight was the start of something new. Maybe the Masked Mixer would start getting gigs on the regular, competing in contests or making paid appearances. Maybe tonight would be the night when things finally got on the right track for me.
A waitress set a tray of appetizers between us. Jennifer’s eyes lit up. “Finally!”
I reached out to grab a french fry, but just as I bit into it, I caught what the women at the table behind me were saying.
“—call him the Cocktail King, you know. And man, I wouldn’t mind getting that cock in my tail.”
Salty, fried deliciousness turned sour in my mouth as I realized who they were talking about.
“I know!” the other woman replied. “He’s so freaking hot on the GQ cover. Even if they have his crotch, like, shadowed in all the pictures, he still looks like he’s packing, right?”
“Totally!” her friend agreed. “How many inches, do you think?”
I could have told them. I knew the exact dimensions of one Aiden Callihan—CEO of Elixir, known as the Cocktail King. It had been years...but a girl never forgets her first time.
Never forgets the first asshole to break her heart either.
Especially when he never bothered to explain why we suddenly had to break up.
I think that was what stung the most—why the memory of him kept nagging at me, even after all these years.
I’d never gotten any closure, just a whole load of confusion and angst every time he crossed my mind.
And damn it all, that had been happening a lot lately.
Kind of inevitable, really, when that GQ cover seemed to be absolutely everywhere.
When a girl is heading home after a hellishly long night tending bar, the last thing she wants to see is a giant image of her ex smirking at her from the ad on the side of a bus, you know?
Like he was saying, “Hi, remember me? The jerk who dumped you with no explanation? I’m super rich and successful now.
Wanna hear how rich and successful I am?
There’s a whole freaking magazine article about how I basically rule the world.
On sale now at your nearest Duane Reade. ” Ugh.
Across the table, Jenn was frowning at me. “You look like you just ate a cockroach. Yeah, the fries are pretty shitty—I could make better apps with my eyes closed and a concussion—but they’re not that gross.”
“It’s…it’s nothing,” I said, determined to shake it off. “I was just thinking you could make better apps with your eyes closed, a concussion, and one hand tied behind your back.”
“Hell yes,” she agreed, stuffing a few more fries in her mouth. “Have one of the tacos—they’re mildly less shitty than the fries.”
I laughed, putting thoughts of Aiden out of my mind as I grabbed an only-moderately-shitty taco. Aiden was nothing more than part of my past. I wasn’t going to let him screw up this night for me.
“Samantha! Samantha!” shrieked the woman from the table behind me.
“He’s here. Oh my God, he’s here! He just walked in!
How’s my hair? How do my boobs look? Do you think he likes blondes?
He has to, right? Who doesn’t? So what should I do?
Maybe I go over there and just say, ‘I’ve been looking for a big cocktail. ’ That sounds good, right?”
A ball of ice formed in my stomach as I looked over at the door.
A noisy group had just entered, clad in tight clothing and glitter, practically screaming social media.
But there at the back of the group was a face I knew all too well.
I suddenly wanted to be anywhere else in the world.
What in the nine circles of hell was happening?
“What is it?” Jennifer asked. “What are you looking at? Oh. Oh, God! Wait.” She whipped her head around, her eyes practically bugging out of her head. “Isn’t that—”
“Yes,” I said. Aiden Callihan, in the flesh.
Fuck my life.
“Hoooooly shit,” Jennifer crowed. She knew the whole story—or at least, as much of the story as I knew, given the radio fucking silence I’d gotten from him after our high school breakup. “How long’s it been?”
“Since I’ve seen him in person? Years now.”
“I wonder what he’s doing here.”
“Besides crashing my event? I don’t know.
” Okay, I knew it wasn’t my event. But damnit, this was supposed to be my night—my chance to kick my life into a whole new gear.
Him showing up was like a neon, blinking sign from fate saying Nope, you’re not allowed to have nice things.
“Don’t they have some snooty private club for the mega-rich he can go to?
” Like Glenhaven. That’s one of those rich-son-of-a-bitch hangouts.
Jennifer tilted her head, admiring him. “Wow, they really didn’t have to airbrush him at all for that magazine cover, did they?”
“Shut up.” I peered out between my fingers.
She was right. He looked even better than he did on all those billboards and bus signs.
I didn’t want to admit his jaw was really that chiseled or his eyes were that blue or his hair was actually lush and a perfect shade of golden blond.
I remembered twisting my fingers through those curls as a teenager.
Was there a way to sneak past him? Maybe if I crawled under the table? No, too dramatic.
“Okay, I know you hate his guts, but like, wow,” Jennifer continued. “He’s like a walking reminder that I haven’t had sex in…” She slurped her drink. “Too freaking long.”
I still couldn’t believe it. Of all the damn bars in Manhattan, why did he have to show up at this one?
Jennifer waggled her brows at me. “He’s gonna walk right past us.”
“Unfortunately.” I averted my gaze.
“No, wait, he’s coming over here,” she said, sounding both intrigued and concerned.
“Like here here?” Shit. I could taste the bile in the back of my throat. It tasted like panic.
“Like he’s walking right up to our table. Now he’s looking at you. Oh, God. What should we do?”
I chanced another glance and swore under my breath as I caught his eye.
His face morphed into something like a smile as he closed the distance between us, but I could tell he was anything but happy as the crowd jostled him.
Some girl bumped into him, sloshing her drink, and his mask dropped, a grimace momentarily clouding his features as he smoothed his hand down the front of his jacket.
So that hadn’t changed—he still hated this kind of scene.
But that begged the question of what he was doing here, looking like he was a man with a mission that ticked him off.