Take Me Home (Whisper Me Nothings #4)

Chapter 1

Reid

Iwas born angry.

My mom used to say that I’d scream and scream as a baby, wailing into the dark hours of the night and to the sunrise in the morning.

Maybe that’s why she started drinking again. She’d stopped when she was pregnant with me — the one good thing she ever did in her life. But my earliest memories are of her stuffing bottles beneath my car seat and waiting in the hot car while she went into the liquor store after school.

By the time I was in elementary school, bitterness coated me like a second skin while other kids were bright eyed and excited about every new toy that graced the classrooms.

And when I was a few days shy of turning fourteen and got pulled over while trying to drive my incoherent mom home from school after she showed up drunk in the pick-up lane, I hated the world and every single person inhabiting it.

Soon, three people became the exception to that when I transferred schools due to the foster family I was placed with in Pittsburgh, leaving behind my history in Philly.

Three guys who became a family that I never had.

A support system, a safe place to land, and a sense of brotherhood that ran deeper than blood ever could.

Or so I thought.

That’s all fucked now, too.

Maybe it’s part of the reason why it’s not even 5:00 pm yet and I’m finding myself walking down the street from my boxing gym to the bar I drive by every day.

The street is quiet and the air thick with summer heat as the shirt I threw on after a quick shower clings to my back.

Water drops dampen the collar of it from my hair, and I push it off my forehead.

This area is off the beaten path a bit and exactly how I like it. There’s not much foot traffic through this area, and anyone who is around is minding their own business, not chasing some sort of spotlight that everyone else in this city seems to be.

I shouldn’t judge because that used to be me, but like everything else in life, the shine of it has dulled over the years.

As I approach the bar, I debate turning around and heading home just from the dingy, crooked letters above the door that read On Tap.

The empty businesses on either side of it don’t aid in its curb appeal.

But the neon sign in the window says “Open” and today, that’s all I need.

As I swing the door open and step inside, the blinding light is no respite from the blaring sun at all. It’s a shock to the system when I expected dive-bar dimness. I blink a few times, shoving down a wave of agitation that my workout should’ve suppressed.

It’s an odd looking place. I hover in the entry for a second, debating on leaving. Not a single chair in the place matches, not even ones that are at the same table. And there are a few of them scattered around. Some high tops, some barely far enough off the floor to constitute being a table.

The walls are a hideous tan color that could really use less harsh lighting on them as they’re riddled with empty nail holes and chips in the paint.

Random photos, art pieces, and vintage signs are hung haphazardly around, but even more heavily concentrated around a small stage toward the back of the place.

Must have live music here.

Great.

At least the bar is quiet. Only one middle-aged man sits at the far end, while a few couples are scattered amongst the mess of tables. It takes the lone bartender a moment to notice me, but when she does, she does a double take.

Here we fucking go.

I steel my shoulders and stride over to the bar, not sparing anyone else in the place a glance. Granted, there’s not many patrons to begin with, but still. If you don’t make eye contact, people are less likely to ask for a picture.

She’s young, too young it seems to be bartending.

Her cheeks are rosy and I can’t tell if it’s due to her reaction to me or natural.

Either way, it does nothing to hide the freckles covering both her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.

A few trail up her forehead and into the hairline of her ponytail, the long reddish hair spilling over her shoulder in loose curls.

Something about the hue of it feels vaguely familiar, but I can’t pinpoint it.

Her full lips form a perfect O as I slide onto one of the barstools.

The upholstery is ripping and poorly stitched back up, but it somehow fits in with the rest of the look of this place.

She snaps to attention, her spine so straight she might as well have a pole attached to it as she places her hands flat against the grimy counter she appears to have been trying, and failing, to clean with a dark rag.

They tremor a bit against the surface, as if she’s seen a ghost, and regret bubbles in my stomach.

I should’ve made a drink at home.

Or skipped one altogether.

I try not to drink when I’m stressed. Or bored. Or angry. Don’t want it to become a crutch like the woman I hated for so many years.

But these days, I’m usually a mix of all three.

The girl doesn’t speak, instead her mouth opens and closes faintly like a cartoon goldfish. It’s not an unusual reaction and not the first time this has happened to me. That’s what happens when you’re in one of the most successful bands of this generation with songs constantly on Top 100 radio.

Were.

Were in one of the most successful bands.

Acid burns the back of my throat and I clear it pointedly. If she’s going to flirt with me, I’m going to hightail it the hell out of here. Maybe if I wanted a quick lay, but these days, nothing’s appealing.

“I’ll take a whiskey neat,” I tell the girl, hoping my order will break her out of this stupor.

She blinks a few times, her long lashes giving them a bambi-like appearance.

The pale blue of them, their dominating presence on her face, they trigger something in the back of my head.

“Um—” She coughs and fidgets with the dirty rag.

“Yeah, su-sure. I can get that for you in”—she checks the clock behind her—“ten minutes.”

I frown. “What?”

“Ten minutes,” she repeats, her voice a little stronger this time around. “We don’t switch over to serving alcohol until five.”

My answering silence makes her squirm, which causes her to elaborate.

“We’re sort of…hybrid. Cafe from seven to five, bar from five to twelve.

” She gestures behind her to the espresso machine and coffee set up that I clearly missed.

But immediately to the right of it are racks of liquor and lines of glasses.

I fix my attention back on her and she shifts, wiping her hands against the black apron tied around her waist. “That’s the dumbest fucking thing I’ve heard,” I deadpan. “That bottle right there is almost within my reach, and it’s surely within yours, but you’re not serving it.”

She narrows her eyes on me but doesn’t seem surprised by my blunt honesty.

Guess I was right. She is a Whisper Me Nothings fan.

Maybe not for long with the way she’s now sizing me up.

“Well,” she says, tone icier than before, and it calls to something in me. “I’ll pass along the feedback to my manager and let him know that his business that he’s been successfully operating for twenty years is the ‘dumbest fucking thing.’ Now, can I get you a coffee?”

“The name is On Tap and you’re telling me you don’t have beer?”

“We have cold brew…on tap,” she says pointedly. “And we do serve beer, just not until we switch over from coffee to alcohol.”

“And that’s at five o’clock,” I say dully.

A curt nod.

“What’s stopping you from just serving me now?”

“Policy.”

“Policy?”

She cocks her hip to the side in a way that makes me think at this point she doesn’t give a shit about policy, and it’s more on principle now.

Well, now it’s the petty need inside of my own chest that has me planting my feet against the floor and leaning against the counter. “Fine,” I grit out. “I’ll wait ten minutes then.”

She flicks her attention to the clock and back to me once more. “Eight minutes now.” With that, she grabs the rag, tosses it over on her shoulder, and takes off for the other end of the bar. The man sitting down there gets a much brighter smile than I did.

Guess the excitement she had when I first sat down has worn off. Might’ve just cost me and the guys another fan, but I guess when there’s no band anymore anyways, what the fuck does it matter.

I sit there, silently stewing at the interaction for the entire eight minutes until this place switches over.

I mean seriously, what kind of hybrid is this?

From the outside, it looks like a bar. Who comes here for coffee?

And the inside certainly isn’t giving a similar style or vibe to the many other cafes scattered around every block of the city.

It feels like a dive bar.

Much more rail vodka and much less almond milk latte.

Nikolai would like this place. He’d find it charming and would have no issue chugging a hot coffee one minute and chasing it with a shot of vodka the next. I check my phone while I wait, even though I know I’ll find it empty.

Not even a text back from my best friend. Before I left for my workout, I shot him a message to see if he’d want to join, but he must be in the studio. The lack of response gnaws at old wounds, but I try to brush it off.

He’s not ignoring you, not abandoning you. He’s just busy.

He’s wrapping up his first solo album, the first solo endeavor any of us have tried since the band split, and that’s taken up most of his time these days.

Well, Jane too. She takes up the rest of it. My teeth grind against each other.

It shouldn’t bother me. I love Jane, and I’m happy he’s happy. But it’s just a reminder that once again, I’m not anyone’s priority. My friends all have their own partners, creating their own lives, families back home in Pittsburgh, and it’s just…me.

Walker would tell me I have no one to blame but myself. That I pushed him and Hayden away.

They can fuck off.