19. Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Nineteen
Lila
Outside, the rain had downgraded to a drizzle.
The asphalt glistened under streetlights.
The storm had left everything damp and reflective, as if the road were trying to look more dramatic than it had any right to.
A neon diner sign blinked hopefully down the block.
Someone suggested fries and beer, so the group moved toward the bar beside it instead.
I went along because not going meant possibly being alone with Evan again. My stomach coiled tight. Obviously, because I was mature and balanced and not at all still thinking about his hand on my knee and the way my body had tried to file paperwork declaring itself legally his.
The bar was half sports pub, half live-music jukebox. Loud, rustic, probably sticky. The kind of place with peanut shells on the floor, dollar bills stapled above the bar, and a mechanical bull in the corner that looked like it had seen several lawsuits and learned nothing.
Finn perked up the second we stepped inside. "This place has felony energy."
Harper scanned the room. "You say that like a compliment."
"It is."
"I'm not bailing you out."
"You always say that."
"And yet I continue to mean it."
Evan walked in behind us like he owned the damn floorboards.
Heads turned. A girl in a silver top froze with her drink halfway to her mouth.
The bartender lit up like Christmas morning.
A group of college guys elbowed each other and stared.
Someone near the jukebox whispered his name with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious apparitions and celebrity sightings at Target.
And Evan smiled. Not his real smile. The stage-adjacent one, easy and crooked and polished at the edges, the one that said I'm harmless while also making everyone in a ten-foot radius wonder if they could survive being harmed.
He looked available, and worse, he looked good at it.
A blonde in a silver top drifted closer before he even made it to the bar.
She said something I couldn't hear over the music.
Evan laughed, head tipped slightly, like she'd said something funnier than she had.
His hand stayed polite, hovering near her waist when she leaned in to point at the jukebox instead of landing there.
But from across the room, it didn't matter.
I told myself I didn't care. My entire bloodstream filed a formal objection.
"Subtle," Finn said beside me.
"I didn't say anything."
"You're glaring so hard that girl's highlights are going to melt."
"I'm admiring the decor."
"You are admiring the inside of Evan's skull and planning renovations."
I grabbed the nearest menu. "I want fries."
"You want violence with a side of fries."
"Maybe."
"Good. Carbs make violence better."
We claimed a battered table near the back. Harper slid into the booth first, immediately stealing the best angle for surveillance because she was a drummer and therefore believed in strategic positioning. Finn flopped beside her, already waving down a server.
I sat on the edge of the booth and tried not to watch Evan. I failed.
He stood at the bar with Miles and two other guys from Arcadia Drive.
The blonde in silver had managed to stay beside him.
Another girl had appeared on his other side, holding up her phone for a selfie.
Evan gave the photo, leaned in, smile on, chin tipped, rockstar mode engaged.
The girl pressed her cheek close to his shoulder.
The blonde touched his arm and laughed again.
He didn't step away fast enough. Maybe he didn't need to. Maybe that was normal now. Maybe that was the whole problem.
A server appeared at our table. "What can I get you?"
"Fries," I said.
Finn lifted a finger. "Loaded fries. Regular fries. Whatever fried pickles you have. Also the strongest drink that will not legally kill her."
"Finn."
He smiled at the server. "She's processing."
"I'll have a vodka cranberry," I said.
Finn pointed at me. "Look at that, vegetables and fruit."
"Potatoes are a starch"
Harper ordered beer and nachos.
I took my first drink too fast. The cranberry hit tart. The vodka hit mean. Good.
Across the bar, Evan looked over. Our eyes caught. For one second, the room narrowed. Rain still dampened his hair. His hand was no longer near the blonde. His stage smile slipped, just enough for me to see the tired man beneath it.
Then the blonde touched his sleeve. He looked away.
I hated him. I hated myself more because I wanted him to look back.
A guy from the college group approached our table with the cautious swagger of a golden retriever who had watched one YouTube video on confidence.
"Hey," he said, looking at me. "You're in the opening band, right?"
I lifted my drink. "Allegedly."
"You were awesome."
"Factually."
Finn coughed into his napkin.
The guy grinned. Cute enough, I guessed. Brown hair, nice shoulders, the kind of face that probably got away with saying "my bad" after knocking over drinks.
"I'm Tyler."
"Congratulations."
Harper snorted into her beer.
Tyler laughed, because apparently he had chosen optimism as a lifestyle. "Can I buy you another drink?"
I should have said no. I should have remembered that I was not in a competition with Evan Walker's public smile. I should have done many things.
Instead, I looked toward the bar. Evan was watching.
I smiled at Tyler. "Sure."
Finn muttered, "And the games begin."
Tyler brought me another vodka cranberry, then another, not fast enough to be scary, fast enough to be stupid.
Evan saw the second one. I saw him see it. His jaw did the thing, not a clench, just a little cut of tension near his mouth that said he was pretending not to care and failing with style.
The blonde in silver tugged him toward the jukebox.
He went, of course, let her pull him through the crowd, laughing under his breath.
His hand hovered at the small of her back when someone stumbled into them, protective reflex or performance, maybe both.
From where I sat, it looked like touch. It looked like permission.
I took another drink.
Tyler leaned closer. "So how long are you in town?"
"One night."
"That's tragic."
"Most things are."
He laughed again. "You're funny."
"I'm emotionally damaged. People confuse the two."
"I like it."
"I'm sure you do."
Across the room, Evan's gaze snapped to us. His smile was gone.
I shifted closer to Tyler, not enough to actually want him, just enough to make a point that no sane adult should have been making after two drinks and a thunderstorm.
Tyler's hand landed on the back of the booth behind me, not touching, just close. Evan noticed.
Naturally, he chose that moment to dance.
Not a full dance. Evan didn't do awkward bar dancing unless he was drunk or trying to make me laugh.
This was worse. He let the blonde in silver sway close to him near the jukebox while some old rock song rattled through the speakers.
He smiled down at her like he had nowhere better to be.
I knew that smile. Fake, mostly. Didn't matter. My chest did something humiliating.
Then I did something worse. I stood.
Finn grabbed my wrist under the table. "Lila."
"I'm getting another drink."
"You have one."
"I'm getting a backup."
"Love that as a concept. Hate it as a plan."
"I'm fine."
"You are wearing your I'm-about-to-be-on-purpose face."
"That sounds made up."
"It is extremely real."
I slipped free and walked to the bar. Tyler followed, of course.
The bartender leaned in. "Another vodka cranberry?"
"Please."
"On the house."
"Generous."
"For the rock star."
I arched a brow. "Wrong rock star."
"Not from where I'm standing."
That one landed. Not because I wanted him. But because for one second, someone saw me without attaching me to Evan first.
I took the pen from beside the receipt tray and scribbled on a napkin. Not my real number, obviously. I was spiraling, not reckless enough to receive 2 a.m. WYD texts from a man with a bar towel over his shoulder and a jawline he absolutely knew about.
I slid the napkin toward him. The bartender smiled.
Over his shoulder, Evan went still. There it was. The win. Tiny, cheap, poisoned. It did not feel as good as it should have.
Evan crossed the room, not fast, not dramatic, worse. Controlled. The blonde in silver said something behind him, but he didn't turn back.
He stopped beside me at the bar, close enough for his sleeve to brush my arm. "Having fun?"
"Are you?"
His eyes flicked to the napkin, then to Tyler, then back to me. "Depends on the company."
I barked out a laugh because of course he'd throw that line back in some twisted new form. "Careful. Your fan club might hear you."
"Yours seems busy."
Tyler looked between us. "Uh..."
Finn appeared out of nowhere and slapped a hand on Tyler's shoulder. "Buddy, I'm going to save your life. Come talk to me about darts."
"I don't play darts."
"Tonight you do."
He dragged Tyler away before Tyler could decide whether he was offended or rescued.
The bartender wisely pretended to wipe the counter.
Evan and I stayed locked in place.
"You don't want him," Evan said.
"You don't know what I want."
"I know you're drunk."
"I'm buzzed."
"You're trashed."
"That's not a clinical term."
"It should be."
His gaze dropped to my drink. I moved it away before he could take it.
"Don't," I warned.
"I didn't say anything."
"You were thinking it."
"Yeah," he said. "I was thinking you should slow down."
"And I was thinking you should stop letting girls rub themselves on you by the jukebox, but we can't all get what we want."
His mouth tightened. "She was dancing."
"And you were suffering through it heroically."
"You're jealous."
"You're delusional."
"Both can be true."
I hated him for being funny. I hated more that I almost laughed. Instead I stepped closer, because the vodka had apparently convinced me I was made of knives and poor decisions.
"You don't get to be territorial."