Music pulses through the speakers when I walk in, and I suddenly feel a tinge of guilt for being here pulling at me. I guess my real dad got lost in the bottle for a while after I was kidnapped. I hate using that word because it makes it sound like they were horrible to me. Anyway, he’s okay now. They’re those kinds of people. They make it through everything together, but I wonder if they’d be disappointed I’m here.
No, I tell myself. There’s nothing wrong with having a beer once in a while.
It takes a couple minutes to make my way through the crowd and up to the bar. It smells like alcohol and too many bodies, but I try to ignore it. A seat opens up and I take it. Men sit on either side of me, but none of them seem to be paying any attention, which is good. I’m not in the mood to be hit on tonight.
The bartender comes over a few minutes later. He’s about my age, hot, but a little pretty for my type. He has blond hair and green eyes that run the length of me, telling me it’s going to be him who tries to flirt.
“Hmm, let me guess. Cosmo?” he asks. I shake my head. “Lemon Drop? Mojito?” He keeps tossing drink names at me, but I keep shaking my head.
“You’re going to have to give me a clue here. I’m drowning and I’m usually pretty damn good at knowing what a girl wants.” He winks at me and I can’t help but roll my eyes.
“The only thing you have that I want right now is a Corona with lime.”
“Ah, a beer girl. I was way off.”
He grabs a bottle, twists the top off, and then hands it to me.
“You’re new. I would have noticed you before,” he says.
I nod. Again, he’s good-looking. Maybe on another night I might be interested or if I was a different kind of girl. The good kind, but I’m not and I swear he looks like he belongs in a college frat, so I just lean back and take a drink of my beer.
“I’m Trevor,” the bartender says.
“Bee,” I reply. It’s amazing how the name just automatically rolls off my tongue. It’s almost like it gave me my new identity at eighteen years old. It was my third one, but this one I actually picked. It’s the only one that feels like me. I don’t remember what it was like to be the girl I’d been before I was taken, and once I went back home, I wasn’t allowed to be the person I thought I was.
“Bee? As in buzz, buzz?” he asks, jerking me out of my thoughts. “Did I tell you how much I like honey?”
Yeah, because I haven’t heard that one before. “No, as in the letter B. It’s short for bitch. Want me to demonstrate how accurate the name is?” I finish my tirade with the tiniest of wicked grins.
At that, Trevor smiles and holds up his hands. “I was kidding. Kind of. But seriously, that was hot. I think I’m in love with you.”
Before I have the chance to reply, someone yells, “Trev! Stop flirting and get your ass down here. There’s work to do.”
That’s my cue to leave. I toss a five down and he grabs it before I walk away. All I want is a nice, empty corner to hang out in and finish my drink. Or, if I’m being honest, I’m not opposed to meeting someone. That someone just isn’t him.
When I spot a small table in the back, I head right for it. I’m surprised no one grabbed it as I sit down and lift the bottle to my lips, downing the whole thing.
I set the bottle down and for some reason seeing the lime inside transports me back in time. Rex used to make all kinds of bottle art. He’d tell me sometimes the simplest things could be the most beautiful. We’d fill different colored bottles with different shades of objects until we found one that we thought was the most unique, and then he would let me keep it. I put it on the shelf above my bed with all my other favorite things. The things I couldn’t take with me when they found me.
My hand squeezes around the bottle and I take a couple deep breaths. What’s wrong with me? Why am thinking about them so much tonight? I’m doing better. I have Masquerade. I need to remember things happened the way they were supposed to and go on with my life.
“Decided not to flirt with Trevor anymore?” a male voice says. I look over to see a guy leaning against the wall with his arms crossed in the dark. There are stairs that go up right next to him, and it’s almost like he’s hiding.
“Is there a problem if I was flirting with him?” I reply.
He has a tribal tattoo around his forearm. It’s pretty nice work but I could have done it better.
“Not my business. I don’t know why I even said anything.” He turns his head and scans the crowd. My first thought is, now this is the kind of guy I’d be into. He has a trail of dark stubble on his face, a tick in his tight jaw, and black hair. It has a few curls in it. Just enough to make you want to run your fingers through it to see how it feels.
I would put money on him riding a bike. I bet he has more tats than the one I can see. He’s gorgeous and trouble and from the scowl on his face, he’s probably angry at the world just as much as I’m confused by it.
Too bad he’s an asshole.
“You’re right. It’s not your business, but since that didn’t stop you from bringing it up, I’ll keep it going for you. Let me guess, I’d probably be a slut or a tease if I was flirting with him. Let’s for a minute forget the fact that he not only came on to me, but also that men do that kind of thing all the time. It’s okay for them to hook up with someone in a bar but not for a girl to want to, right?”
I dealt with stuff like that all the time when I was in school and I hated it. I wasn’t like all the other people who joined activities and smiled in everyone’s face, pretending to be perfect but then going wild behind their parents’ and teachers’ backs. I was who I was then and I am who I am now. At home I didn’t fit in, which bothered me, but I didn’t care if I fit in anywhere else.
The guy doesn’t reply to me but continues to look out into the sea of people.
What’s his deal?
I pick up my bottle before remembering it’s empty and setting it down again. I keep glancing at the guy, but he’s not paying any attention to me. It frustrates me, and the fact that I’m letting it bother me makes me even more annoyed.
Finally, he says, “I don’t care who you fuck, or who anyone else does for that matter. Doesn’t matter if you’re a woman or a man.”
There’s something in the raspy seriousness of his voice that makes me believe him. It makes me wonder what he does care about, if anything, because by looking at him, I’d say it isn’t much.
That makes two of us.
I’m not really sure what makes me do it, but I push to my feet, walk over, and lean against the wall next to him. “Your piece is pretty nice. Could be cleaned up a bit.” I point to his tat.
He huffs. “And you’re an expert, right?” He makes it sound like it’s a ridiculous thought.
I smirk because, of course, that’s the first thing people think. I don’t know why. It’s not like it’s so rare to be a female tattoo artist. We keep standing there. People are dancing all around, drinking and talking. He’s wearing an earpiece, so it’s pretty obvious he’s security.
After a few minutes, he tosses a glance my way. “You’ve got some nice work too.” The words seem to physically pain him to say.
“Thanks.”
Most of my work was done by the Professor. He’s the old guy who taught me how to tat. I don’t really talk about the Professor because he’s important to me and I like to keep things to myself. Most people wouldn’t get it anyway.
“What’s your name?” he asks without looking at me.
“Bee. Yours?”
“Maddox.” I recognize what he’s doing. It’s so much easier to talk to people when you don’t have to look at them. Looking brings you closer and sometimes it’s too hard to get close. I was like that when I first came home. I’m still like that sometimes.