Nice to meet you
Stoker’s wasn’t fancy, but it had character. The kind of place where the floor stuck to your shoes, the drinks tasted like regret, and the bartenders had seen enough trauma to get honorary psych degrees. Neon lights buzzed over frayed vinyl booths, and the jukebox in the corner was permanently stuck on songs that sounded like heartbreak and spilled ashtrays.
I liked it.
It had everything I needed—dark corners, cheap bourbon, and a steady rotation of beautiful people making bad choices.
Case in point: the brunette across the bar.
Red dress. Long legs. Heels sharp enough to stab a man, and a leather jacket two sizes too big. Probably her boyfriend’s, which meant she was either rebellious, lonely, or both. My favorite kind of problem.
She looked bored. Stirring her drink with the straw like she wanted to drown it.
I caught her eye.
Once.Twice.Three times and she still hadn’t looked away. That was practically an engraved invitation.
I raised my glass, gave her the slow smile—the one that saidI know I’m not safe, and you’re bored enough to find that interesting.
She smirked. Tilted her head. Tucked a strand of hair behind her ear like it meant nothing.
It meant everything.
I slid off my stool and crossed the floor with all the swagger I could muster on a bruised knee and empty wallet. “Mind if I sit?” I asked, already easing into the seat beside her.
She glanced over, cool and curious. “You always this confident?”
“Confident?” I echoed, setting my drink down. “Nah. Just cursed with the face of a Greek god and the survival instincts of a moth near a bonfire.”
That got a laugh. Soft, surprised, unguarded. My favorite kind.
“And you use that line often?”
“Never,” I said, leaning closer. “You’re special. I usually open with something worse.”
She took a slow sip of her drink, hiding her smile behind the rim. “Well. I’m flattered.”
“I’d ask your name,” I said, “but I like the mystery. Let’s just agree you’ll haunt me in my dreams either way.”
Another grin—this one sharp-edged. She was about to say something back. Probably something clever. Maybe even dirty. I liked where this was going.
Right up untilhearrived.
He came in like a storm in a t-shirt—tall, broad, neck thick with muscle, and a face like a meat grinder had kissed it tenderly. Sleeves rolled up. Veins bulging. Eyes already scanning the bar like he was looking for someone to ruin.
Of course they landed on me.
“Babe,” he said flatly. No emotion. No confusion. Just ownership.
She stiffened. Turned. “It’s not what you think—”
I raised a hand, palm out. “Relax,” I said smoothly, turning on the charm. “I was just keeping her company. You were gone a while. Thought maybe you’d been drafted.”
His eyes narrowed.
Okay, not the best timing for a joke. But my mouth works faster than my brain. Always has. A tragic flaw, like in the Greek plays. Except in those, they die at the end. I usually just get punched.
Which is exactly what happened next.
He didn’t say a word. Just drew back andswung—a clean, heavy, straight-from-the-gym punch that snapped my head to the side like a cracked whip.
The impact rang in my skull like church bells during a hangover.
My body hit the floor hard. Shoulder first. I tasted blood and whiskey and something like regret.
The bar exploded. Laughter, jeers, a few claps. Someone whooped like they’d just won a game.
I lay there for a second, blinking up at the ceiling, where a fly buzzed against the dim light like it was trying to get to heaven.
“Okay,” I groaned, spitting blood onto the floor. “Deserved that.”
The bartender—Donnie—loomed into view. Mid-fifties. Bald. Built like a retired boxer with a backstory no one asked about. His white towel was always stained, and his eyes always saidI’ve seen worse.
He scowled down at me. “Cassian, one night. Just one night without getting decked in my bar. Is that too much to ask?”
I grinned up at him, teeth slick with blood. “Blame the cheekbones. They cause chaos wherever I go.”
He snorted. “You cause your own damn chaos. Get out before I help him finish the job.”
“Romantic as always, Donnie.”
I rolled onto my side with a grunt, ribs protesting. My elbow was bleeding. My pride was cracked. But honestly? I’d had worse.
I’ve been chased through the underground by guys with knives. Dumped through a second-story window. Shot at over a poker game. This? This was just foreplay.
I stood, wobbled, then righted myself. Turned to the girl and gave her a bloodied wink.
“Nice meeting you, mystery woman.”
She mouthedsorry. I mouthedworth it.
Then I limped out the door, into the cold, where the wind slapped me harder than her boyfriend had. I tugged my jacket tight and lit a cigarette with fingers that still shook a little. The night swallowed me whole.
I stood under a busted streetlamp, watching smoke curl out of my mouth like it was trying to take something with it. Then the cold settled in—the kind of cold that seeps past your clothes and curls around your bones like a bad memory.
