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“I know.” I really don’t know…
I grip the back of his neck and pull him into me, giving him the opportunity to release his grief without the eyes of the bar on him.
I can’t empathize with his pain. Short of my brothers and my long-deceased parents, I’ve never cared for anyone enough to mourn them to the lengths that Declan has for Sarah. I can’t fathom caring for someone who isn’t my family that much.
“I hope you lot never find someone like her.” Declan shakes his head as he pushes away from me and wipes his face. “Because having it might be heaven but losing her has been fucking hell.”
“I think it’s time we get out of here.” I nudge Declan’s arm and slide myself from the booth.
“Fuck that!” he angrily shouts. “I’m not leaving until I’ve finished this fucking bottle.”
“You’re fucking done.” I swipe the bottle from his hand and toss it to the floor. The glass shatters, drawing the attention of the nearby tables as the whiskey remaining in it pools beneath my shoes. I grab his arm and hastily pull his heavy ass from the booth. “You can continue to get fecked at home. Or you can fucking sober up a bit so that Fiona doesn’t wake up in the morning to find her daddy lying in a pathetic puddle of his own vomit.”
“Fuck you,” he curses in defeat. That little girl is his kryptonite, and he’ll do anything not to soil her image of him.
“Good. Now get the fuck up,” I pull at his arm, and he stumbles to his feet. As he falters, I wrap my arm around his waist to keep him from falling back into the booth or slipping on the pool of whiskey on the floor.
Declan wobbles through each sluggish step he takes through the bar. He missteps, pulling us both off-balance, causing us both to bump into the barstool still occupied by the woman in the gold sparkles.
We hit with such force it jostles her barstool and forces her to spill her drink down the front of her beautiful dress.
Shit…
“Quinn,” I shout to get the bartender’s attention. The moment she looks over, I point to the mess Declan and I have made before dragging him from the bar.
CHAPTER THREE
LAYLA
“What the fuck?” I exclaim as icy whiskey runs down the front of my now-ruined dress. Abruptly spinning on my bar stool, I’m suddenly even more irate at the fact that the asshole who bumped into me didn’t even bother to stop to apologize. “Are you fucking serious?” I shout after him as he walks out the door.
“I’m so sorry about that.” The bartender quickly hands me a dry towel to clean up while wiping up the bar before me. “Let me get you another. On the house.”
“You don’t have to. That asshole should be the one paying for it.” I shake my head at her as I try to subtly soak up the whiskey trickling between my breasts and down my stomach.
Pouring another drink, the bartender smiles. “The boss would have my ass if I didn’t cover your tab for the night.”
“Really, you don?—”
“Shush.” Jorge nudges me, clearly wanting to stay here and enjoy an evening of free drinks. Even if they are nothing but straight whiskey.
“Fine,” I huff, tossing the towel on the bar. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere else in this dress tonight.”
First—this bar, filled with old men I would never go home with.
Then—a drink tipped down my dress.
Any plans I had of finding someone to go home with tonight are quickly diminishing. If not already non-existent.
“Another round.” Jorge’s voice is boisterous as a huge smile spreads across his face. “Considering the table of the only good-looking guys in this place have left, it appears neither of us are going home with anyone but each other tonight. We might as well enjoy free drinks.”
“Oh, Jorge,” I exaggerate my faux delight as I snuggle against his arm and bat my eyes. “When we role-play later, do you want me to pretend to be Gerard Butler or Jeffrey Dean Morgan?”
“I was thinking more Bradley Cooper,” he retorts with a chuckle before placing a kiss on my forehead.
Jorge is my soulmate. My completely platonic soulmate. The fact that we both have the exact same taste in men—and lack of interest in women—firmly prevents our relationship from ever being even remotely romantic in nature. It’s for the best. Based on us both being completely incapable of maintaining a romantic relationship, we probably would’ve parted ways years ago. Likely after a night where at least one of us managed to get the name of the other, thus breaking our rule of unnamed one-night stands.
After several hours of free drinks, we have had way too many whiskeys to be swiping responsibly on dating apps.
