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by Clare James

  “Okay, you’re right,” he said. “It wasn’t nothing. I am an asshole, but I want to make it right. What can I do?”

  “Well,” I said, bracing myself. “You can start by telling the truth when Dean Schiller calls you in.”

  His face quickly lost all traces of warmth. “What?” he spit. “You’re going to the administration with this?”

  “I have a meeting later today,” I said, not meeting his eyes.

  “Well, it’s a good thing I stopped by then.” His face was red, jaw tight. “I have something you should see before you go.”

  That was the moment that did it. And I’ve been broken ever since.

  ONE

  Ten Months After

  “What can I get you?” the bartender asks while building a perfect Guinness from the tap. He looks to be in his twenties, although he is completely bald, by choice or bad genetics I can’t quite tell. Doesn’t matter, it looks good on him. I consider it—or him—for a second but quickly dismiss the idea.

  What’s that old adage, don’t shit where you eat?

  Well, this would fall into the category, don’t get down and dirty where you drink. Also, not a good idea.

  My hairless, but handsome, bartender strums his long fingers along the bar, making the tendons in his tattooed arm contract and release in one fluid motion. I get lost in his lanky limbs, not understanding his impatience until he clears his throat.

  “Oh yeah, sorry.” I shake my head. “Do you make mojitos here?” It’s September and summer has officially ended, but I want one more taste before we descend on the downward slide toward the inevitable Minnesota winter.

  “A mo-what-oh?” the bartender asks, his voice dripping in sarcasm. “Hmm, that’s a tough one, ma’am. Isn’t that like three ingredients?”

  I roll my eyes at this smartass behind the bar.

  “We’re simple folk at Rye’s, but we’re not barbarians.” He gives me a friendly wink. “We do have access to mint and sugar.”

  “Okay, okay,” I say with my hands up. “I meant no disrespect.”

  It’s not like Rye’s is a dive. It’s one of those neighborhood places that caters to the locals and occasional hipster. Nothing fancy or fussy. No mixologists here. It’s why I chose the place—it’s no frills and off campus, so there’s slim chance any students from the university are patrons of the joint. The perfect place for what I need to do.

  The little bar is slowly filling up. All the regulars are already here: my favorite pervy-looking Santa character, Mr. Asscrack (self-explanatory), and a guy who looks like Leonardo DiCaprio’s ugly twin. It’s a Thursday evening, which means it won’t really be jumping for another hour. I’ve been coming here for the last few months, but anytime I get close to picking a guy, I chicken out. The whole point of this little exercise is to be the person in control. To be the person to say where, when, and most importantly, who.

  Once I can do that, I think I might have a chance at being normal again.

  At the end of the bar are two prospects: one looks like a messenger boy—an extremely ripped and adorable one. I saw him locking up his bike on the way in with a bag slung across his body.

  No, I couldn’t. Could I?

  No, absolutely not. He looks way too sweet.

  But there on the corner is a definite a contender. He’s a little messy: wild hair, rumply shirt, ten o’clock shadow. Too bad he’s fidgeting all over the damn place. Not exactly what I was going for. I need easy, breezy. A guy who is up for a fun night, but also knows when it’s time to leave. No strings, no complications.

  He glances from his phone to the door to his phone again. I’m dizzy watching him. He’s either meeting someone or he needs to get drunk … or laid. Maybe I could help with both? I’ll have to check in on him in a bit.

  For now, I’m content watching the evening unfold.

  I order another mojito from my new bartender BFF and I swear it’s about twice as strong as the last one. My lips pucker from the sour liquid as I swirl it on my tongue, readying for the burn on the way down my throat. I never was much of a drinker, but some things cannot be done sober. Still, I can’t be bombed either. I need to find that happy medium.

  An hour later, I’d say I found that happy place. I’ve put down two more extra strong glasses of mint deliciousness and have made some new friends in a very vicious game of Bingo. I’m having so much fun I almost forget my mission or what I like to call: Take Back the Night.

  The men are looking much better in here now. When did that happen? I’d say my prospects have doubled. Pervy Santa even has a nice happy glow to him and Asscrack looks like he’s lost a few pounds.

  Yep, the liquor is definitely taking its toll. Better check on my friend on the corner before I’m too far gone.

  Thankfully, he’s still here, drinking a beer and laughing at the guy on the barstool next to him. He seems more relaxed too, and he’s no longer checking his phone every second.

  And, action.

  I make my way down the bar and grab a seat to his left. “Hello,” I give my most brilliant opening.

  He angles his body away from his neighbor to greet me.

  “Hi.” He flashes a smile.

  “Sorry to interrupt your evening,” I say, gathering my courage. “But I’m killing these guys with the Bar Bingo over there.” I point to the regulars. “And I could really use some competition. Are you up for it?”

  “I’m not sure Bingo has a lot to do with competition. I think it’s more a game of luck.” He chuckles and I feel it all the way down to my toes.

  Yes, this could work.

  “Not with these guys.” I return the smile. “Even squinting one eye, most of them can’t read the board. Come on over. It’ll be fun and it’s better than staring at your phone all night,” I blurt out before thinking.

  “Been watching me all night, have you?” He smirks.

  I take a moment, letting my eyes rake over him. He’s actually better looking up close. Gorgeous even. His sandy hair sets off his bright blue eyes and his skin is still tan. Hell, I’d be interested even if it wasn’t Take Back the Night. He really is something.

  “Like I said, I’ve been looking for competition.” I nudge him, yet he barely moves. His body is long and lean, but surprisingly solid.

  “Are you in a habit of picking up strangers in a bar?” He narrows his eyes.

  “Uh, no.” I flip my hair. “Now come over and play an innocent game of Bingo. Then we won’t be strangers anymore.”

  “Okay.” He laughs. “I was supposed to meet someone tonight, but they had to cancel so I could use a distraction.”

  Jackpot.

  I take his hand and lead him to the other end of the bar.

  And he simply follows.