28. Darcy
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
darcy
Getting ready with Bex is exactly as chaotic as it’s been since we were seventeen and exactly as necessary.
We’re both in the bathroom at the same time because that’s apparently a habit that has outlasted geography and several major life events, music too loud, Bex at the mirror finishing her liner with unhurried focus.
“Move,” I say, for the third time.
“Twenty seconds.”
“Bex.”
“Finishing the wing. Do not rush the wing.”
She’s gone full black— leather leggings, a sleeveless chiffon crop, heels that add three inches she doesn’t need, hair blown out smooth and pulled back into a slick ponytail.
She looks like she showed up with somewhere better to be and decided to stay anyway. Which, somehow, is just…Bex.
“You look incredible,” I say.
“I know,” she says. “Your turn.”
She turns from the mirror and looks me over.
“Oooh.”
“What?”
I look myself over, trying to see whatever she’s seeing.
The brown corduroy mini skirt. Knee-high suede boots. A fitted black long sleeve. The earrings I bought myself on a random Tuesday in February because they made me smile and, for once, that felt like a good enough reason.
I’d bought the skirt two years ago and worn it exactly once before Brett gave it one of those looks that somehow wasn’t a comment and still managed to become one.
It disappeared to the back of the closet after that.
I didn’t think about it again until I packed up everything that was mine and drove to Boston.
“I’m not saying anything.”
“Your face is.”
“My face is appreciating the moment.” She reaches past me for the mascara before handing it back. “They’re going to lose their minds, by the way.”
“That’s not—”
“I know it’s not the point,” she says before I can finish. “I’m just telling you now so you don’t act surprised later.”
Heat creeps up my neck anyway, and I roll my eyes like that somehow does anything to hide it.
“Bex.”
“What?” She leans against the bathroom doorframe, looking unbearably smug. “You finally look comfortable in your own skin again.”
Her teasing disappears as soon as she says it, but before I can figure out what to do with that, she pushes off the doorframe and heads down the hall.
I linger in front of the mirror for another second.
Yeah, I do.
The night finally feels like spring, Boston slipping into that in-between season where everyone collectively decides winter is over whether the weather agrees or not.
Bex walks beside me with her hands tucked into her coat pockets, taking everything in—storefronts, side streets, groups spilling out of restaurants, the rhythm of the neighborhood itself.
She doesn’t say much for most of the walk, which, from Bex, means she’s observing, not distracted, and I’ve known her long enough to recognize the difference.
“This is your neighborhood,” she says eventually as we cut down Columbus.
“Yeah.”
Her gaze drifts up the block, then back to me.
“It makes sense.”
“What does?”
“You.” A shoulder lifts. “Here.”
She doesn’t explain, and I don’t ask her to.
Half a block later, the Brass Bell comes into view. Bex slows just enough to take it in before looking back at me.
“This is the place?”
“The one and only.”
“I get why you like it.”
She reaches for the handle and pulls the door open.
“After you.”
The warmth hits first, followed by the familiar swell of conversation, clinking glasses, and somebody laughing loud enough to turn half the room’s heads.
They’re already here.
Mack looks up before we’ve taken more than a step inside, his attention finding me immediately in that way of his that still catches me off guard every single time it happens—aware, like some part of him knew exactly when I’d walk through the door.
Beside me, Bex goes unusually quiet.
“Okay…”
I absolutely do not look at her despite being able to practically hear the smile in her voice.
By the time we reach the booth, Tyler’s already on his feet.
“Finally.”
He pulls Bex into a hug before she’s fully registered what’s happening.
“We’ve heard so much about you, it feels like you’ve been here the whole time.”
Bex gives an amused look.
“Bold opener.”
“Is it wrong?”
He steps back, gesturing at the table.
“Bex, welcome to Boston. Boys, Bex.”
Coop’s halfway out of his seat already.
“Wes Cooper.” He reaches across the table. “You look fun. Drink?”
“God, yes.”
“Perfect.” He points at her decisively. “You’re my favorite person here.”
“You said that about the bartender,” Marco says from the end of the booth.
I slide in beside Mack while the table closes in around Bex effortlessly, Coop already animated about something I didn’t catch while Tyler grins at me over the top of his beer like he’s pleased with himself for orchestrating this entire thing.
“She’s going to cause problems,” I mutter.
“I think you might be right” he says, like that’s the best possible outcome.
Marco lifts his glass.
“Marco.”
“I’ve heard good things.”
“Most of them are true.”
Bex laughs softly at that and glances at me.
I knew she’d like Marco.
Trick gives her an easy nod and raises his bottle slightly.
“Trick.”
“As in Patrick?”
Coop almost spits out his beer.
“Just Trick.” He slaps Coop on the back. “Welcome to the circus.”
Bex looks over at Mack, who’s already reaching across the table to offer her his hand.
“You must be Mack.”
She shakes it, holding his gaze just long enough that I know she’s comparing him to every story she’s had to listen to for the last two months.
Then she looks at me, one eyebrow moving maybe half an inch.
I reach for my drink.
“Shots?” Coop asks.
“I thought you’d never ask,” Bex says.
“I like her,” Coop announces.
“You said that already.”
Trick shakes his head.
“Still true.”
Tyler leans closer, his shoulder brushing mine beneath the noise of the table.
“She’s gonna fit right in.”
Looking around the booth, it’s hard to argue. Bex’s already laughing at something Coop said, Marco’s watching the chaos with quiet resignation, and beneath the table, Mack’s knee rests against mine.
He’s probably right.
Within twenty minutes, Bex has Coop passionately defending Boston sports fans like he’s their official spokesperson while Marco keeps dropping the occasional one-liner that catches her just as she’s taking a sip of her drink.
At some point she and Trick drift into a conversation of their own while the rest of us talk around them like they’ve both temporarily stepped into another frequency.
Mack comes back from the bar carrying two beers and slides one toward me. His fingers brush mine briefly against the glass, cold condensation against rough skin, and I look down before it fully registers what he handed me.
No white wine or a cocktail. It’s the local lager I’ve apparently been alternating with my usual order often enough that Mack remembered it before I ever stopped to realize it’d become a thing.
Of course Bex catches on.
“Since when do you drink beer?”
“I drink beer.”
“Darcy Reed.” She points at the bottle. “Who are you?”
“It’s good beer.”
“It’s not about the beer.”
Her eyes flick to Mack for the briefest second before settling back on me again, and I can practically hear the gears turning in her head as she starts connecting dots I’d been perfectly happy leaving unconnected.
Thankfully, Bon Jovi beats her to it. The opening chords cut through the bar, and the entire place reacts at once.
“Oh no,” I say, already laughing.
Bex grabs my wrist.
“Get up!”
Five seconds later, we’re both standing on the booth seat screaming every word to Livin’ on a Prayer while the entire bar joins in around us, strangers pointing at each other across tables during the chorus, somebody near the dartboards fully committed and spectacularly off-key.
Coop pounds the table like he personally arranged this moment, and somewhere in the middle of the chorus I glance down just in time to catch Tyler and Mack both watching me.
Tyler’s smiling like he physically can’t help it. Mack’s leaned back against the booth, looking up at me with that steady, thoughtful expression of his that somehow always feels like he’s seeing a little more than I’m saying.
Beside me, Bex follows my line of sight, catches them both looking and shouts the next lyric directly into my face while pointing emphatically toward the table.
I dissolve into helpless laughter halfway through the chorus, and by the time the song ends the whole bar is cheering like we just headlined TD Garden.
“Sit down before one of you breaks an ankle,” Marco says.
“Nooo,” Bex protests.
Tyler catches my wrist as I climb back into the booth, his hand lingering around mine for the briefest second before he lets go.
“You really are trouble,” he murmurs against my neck.
“And yet you keep encouraging me.”
Tyler grins.
“Oh, I’m definitely not complaining.”
“Neither am I,” Mack says, eyes never leaving the table.
Sometime over the next few minutes, Tyler’s arm finds the back of the seat behind me, his fingers absently brushing my shoulder whenever he shifts even slightly.
“You look gorgeous tonight, by the way,” he says low enough that only I can hear.
I turn to him, but before I can say a word, I feel Mack’s hand settle on my knee under the table. I try with calculated effort to keep my face neutral as his thumb drifts up my thigh, slow enough to make my pulse jump.
Oh fuck.
Across the table, Bex’s in another heated debate with Coop about something I can’t hear because Mack’s hand is making a very compelling argument for paying attention to absolutely nothing else.
Marco’s scrolling through his phone beside Trick, somebody orders another round at the bar, and not a single person paying attention to me or the two men currently dismantling my nervous system under a sticky wooden table on a Thursday night.
He wouldn’t…
Mack’s hand does not receive this message. Neither does my vagina, apparently, considering how willingly I’ve just parted my knees to give him better access. He gives my thigh the faintest squeeze, like thank you for your cooperation, before his thumb starts moving again.