4. Never Talk to Strangers
Chapter four
Never Talk to Strangers
DELANE
“Itold you, I didn’t want to come here.” I whispered harshly to Chelsea as we entered the bar.
The place was shabby, dark and not at all my scene.
A few older men sat scattered about the room, eyeing us both hungrily as we walked in.
I felt like a pig being sold to the slaughter.
The men were practically undressing us with their eyes.
Chelsea scowled and flipped her long blonde locks over her shoulder.
“Oh hush, and have some fun will you? We won’t be this young forever,” she chastised.
I felt so out of place. There weren’t that many people inside the establishment, considering how late it was, but the idea of being in a bar underage scared me to no end.
I was not a rule breaker.
I didn’t even like to drink. And I just knew we would get caught.
Along with that, I hated the idea of a beverage causing you to act like a total moron in front of strangers.
I was already knocking myself for being an idiot and allowing my best friend to coax me out of the house for a night of partying.
I considered myself mature and put together, and this was the exact opposite of what a sophisticated, organized and put together young lady should be doing.
If my parents discovered that I had allowed Chelsea to drag me here, they would actually kill me.
I shouldn’t have told Chelsea that my parents were out of town.
The second the cat was out of the bag, she was at my place demanding that I get dressed so that we could have some “girl time”.
Chelsea was constantly telling me that I too frequently refused to “have fun” or do anything exciting.
Well, drinking and acting a complete fool was not my definition of girl time, nor did it sound exciting.
I scratched the tops of my hands nervously.
I couldn’t get past the feeling that we were being scrutinized.
Like, how were these people not going to know that we weren’t twenty-one?
We were going to end up in a jail cell for breaking the law and then my parents would go tombstone shopping. What a fun way to spend the night.
“This is ridiculous,” I persisted in telling Chelsea. The prissy blonde ignored my plight, and began placing orders for drinks like a pro. “What if we get caught?” I whispered urgently.
Chelsea waved her hand through the air as if she was swatting a fly. “Oh, who cares? And shut up, we’re twenty-one remember? It’s our birthday.” She winked and I slapped my forehead.
Who knows? This could be great! my Demon Delane, as I call her, chimed in unexpectedly from within. I often had these bouts with my moral compass. Part of me was eager to toe the dangerous side of the world, and I had to constantly keep that piece of me in check.
The drinks arrived quickly, and Chelsea raised her glass, a huge grin plastered across her face.
This was a bad idea.
“To luck,” she declared.
“Yeah, sure.” My turn at sarcasm.
I unenthusiastically tapped my glass to Chelsea’s and then took a sip of the strong liquid. Chelsea finished hers in one gulp, and started on the second without so much as a wince.
“Ah, the burn,” she purred. “I love it.”
I shrugged, unimpressed, and gradually sipped my drink until the glass was half empty. I pushed the rest forward to the center of the table. “Ok, that’s it for me.”
Chelsea choked and I watched in slight amusement on how she tried to regain her composure before spitting the beverage everywhere.
After she swallowed, Chelsea slammed her fist down on the table. “I don’t think so! I brought you here to have a good time, and even if it kills me, you are going to drink more than one!” She growled, beckoning the server back over for another order.
I felt my cheeks redden when the couple behind us turned to look at the commotion Chelsea created. “Someone has to drive you home, Chelsea. And you’ve already had two,” I tried to explain responsibly.
Chelsea laughed, and the server brought four more shots to the table, not a single question for ID. “WhatEVER. We’ll call an Uber or something.” She pushed my half sipped drink forward, plus a shot of something clear. “Now drink it, or I’ll cry.”
I sighed and picked up the drink once more. Maybe, I thought, if I waited long enough, Chelsea would get so drunk that she would just forget about the whole alcohol thing.
“DRINK IT!”
But that was doubtful.
I drank the remainder of what was in my glass, appeasing Chelsea for the time being.
I allowed my gaze to travel from face to face in the bar, observing the interactions at tables, the much too loud chatter and overly drunk laughter.
When the front door slammed open, my attention was instantly redirected.
Three men marched in and collapsed at a vacant table.
The one in the middle of the odd group shouted at the waitress for drinks, rather disrespectfully, I noted.
I knew that I shouldn’t stare. My mom always taught me that gawking at people was rude and unattractive, but the commotion piqued my interest, and I stared anyway.
My eyes lingered on the man with longer, dark brunette hair.
He seemed slightly older than me, and quite attractive.
The most enthralling part about him were his eyes.
They were a bright grey color, something I had never seen before naturally.
Protruding underneath his messy hair was a popped white shirt collar and loosened tie.
Official looking, I thought, taking heed to his choice of outfit. It appeared to have once been a full suit, but it did look somewhat disheveled at the moment.
The more I studied him, the more I noticed his behavior.
His jaw clenched and unclenched beneath the light stubble on his cheeks, and his arms were rigid.
His fists rested in tight balls on the table and his eyes stared straight ahead, unblinking.
He appeared to be visibly upset about something, giving off the impression that he was not to be trifled with.
Unapproachable. I could tell instantly that something about him was just… off.
“Someone’s got an attitude problem.” Chelsea snorted as she reached for another cup, trying—and failing—to be inconspicuous about jerking her head in the direction of the man with the light colored eyes.
I chuckled to try and divert her commentary, but really my focus was still glued to that man.
He received his drinks, and without saying a word to the waitress began to chug them down.
The two guys that accompanied him said nothing and drank nothing, which I found strange.
They merely sat adjacent to him at the table, looking uncomfortable.
As for the brunette, he resembled a taut rubber band, as though he may snap at any moment.
The more I watched him, the more a knot began to form in the pit of my stomach.
His presence caused a tension within the room that I could physically feel.
The other patrons in the building didn’t seem to notice.
Maybe they were too busy enjoying their buzz.
The man’s head whipped around towards me suddenly, as if he sensed me gawking at him. His eyes captured my gaze directly, a shot so intense that I couldn’t even describe it. I didn’t even know this person, but the cold, ferociousness of his eyes gave off one word:
Danger.
An icy chill ran up my spine, and the knot in my stomach twisted and dug at me, causing me to feel sick. But I couldn’t divert my eyes from his. We sat there, motionless, staring at one another. My heart pounded in my ears. There was something not right about that guy, I just knew it.
“Chelsea,” I said, finally breaking the trance, eyes shifting to the clock above the brass counter near the front of the bar. “It’s nearly two thirty in the morning. Let’s get out of here.”
Chelsea snorted, and gently pushed two little shot glasses that were in front of her forward with her index finger. “No. You. Drink,” she slurred.
I sighed, impatiently.
How do I explain to my best friend that we could be sitting across from the next Jeffrey Dahmer? Or Bundy? I wished that I had stayed home.
“DO YOU WANT ME TO YELL?” Chelsea yelled, pounding her fist against the table, causing some of the drinks to spill over the top of the shot glasses.
I inhaled sharply at the outburst, fidgeting in my seat at the unwanted attention we now received.
Even the bar staff stopped to size us up.
I took a chance at looking back to the brunette man, and certain enough, his eyes remained on me still.
In addition, the other two men at his table were glaring in mine and Chelsea’s direction as well.
I smiled awkwardly and lifted my hands up slowly to grasp the overflowing drinks.
I was desperate to appease my friend and keep her quiet.
“Please don’t make a scene, Chelsea,” I said through clenched teeth.
Chelsea raised an eyebrow and swiped her hand through the air, obliviously to the small audience her tantrum had attracted.
“Well?” Chelsea cooed, a little too loudly.
I exhaled the breath I had been holding and took her stupid shot.
I nearly retched. What kind of drink was that?
“Yay, tequila!” Chelsea cheered, answering my question.
“Look, I’m drinking them,” I said. “You see?”
At this point, I just wanted everyone to stop staring at us. Chelsea was so embarrassing, and I couldn’t wait to leave and put some distance between us. I made a mental note to never go out with her again, until she apologized for her ridiculous behavior.
Chelsea clapped and continued her alcohol parade. “The other one too, baby!” She demanded, taking three more shots of her own.
I already felt my head spin from the intake. I was not a big drinker. The most alcohol I ever consumed was one, maybe two, glasses of wine in a sitting. Now, I couldn’t even remember how many shots I’d drained to keep this psycho content.