The Tipsy Turtle

Ian’s POV

The bass didn’t just play—it pulsed through The Tipsy Turtle, loud enough to rattle the glass in my hand, syncing perfectly with the headache building behind my eyes.

The Place was a goddamn zoo tonight.

The air hung thick with spilled gin, sweat, and something sharper—desperation, maybe. The kind that only showed up when the lights were low and no one wanted to go home alone.

"Ian! Over here, babe! Stop being a tease!"

I didn’t even look up as I spun a jigger between my fingers, measuring out a perfect two ounces of tequila.

I knew that voice. It was Tiffany, or maybe Tiffani—some girl who’d been sitting at the corner of my station for three hours, nursing a single cranberry vodka just to watch me move.

"Patience, darling," I rumbled, my voice cutting through the noise like a low-frequency hum. I finally looked at her, letting a slow, lopsided smirk creep across my face. I saw her pupils dilate instantly. "You know I like to take my time."

I leaned over the bar, the damp fabric of my black button-down straining against my shoulders as I reached for a glass. I felt a pair of hands—hot and slightly sticky—grab my forearm, tracing the lines of the black ink that ran from my wrist up under my rolled sleeves.

"Is it true?" she whispered, leaning so close I could smell the cherry lip gloss. "That guys with this many tattoos are... troublesome?"

I caught her hand, my thumb grazing her pulse point for just a second longer than necessary.

"Troublesome? No." I leaned in, my lips inches from her ear, the scent of my sandalwood cologne probably hitting her like a freight train.

"I’m a fucking catastrophe. But I’m the best one you'll have all night."

I winked, pulled away, and slid her drink across the wood. She looked like she was about to short-circuit.

"You’re a goddamn menace, Hale," Rick barked from the other end of the bar, slamming a tin of martinis onto the counter. He was sweating, his shirt clinging to his back, but he was grinning. "How many phone numbers is that tonight? Six? Seven?"

"Who’s counting?" I grabbed a clean towel and wiped down a stray splash of lime juice, my eyes scanning the room like a predator. "It’s all part of the service, Rick. People don't come here for the cheap well-drinks. They come for the show."

"Yeah, well, your 'show' is making my life harder," Rick grumbled, though he didn't look mad. He tossed a handful of ice into a glass. "That group of bridesmaids in the VIP booth is asking if you're single. Again. I told them you’re married to the bar, but they want a second opinion."

I laughed, a sharp, dry sound that was lost in the roar of a Drake remix. I grabbed two bottles of bourbon, flipping one behind my back and catching it by the neck without breaking my stride.

"Tell 'em I'm open for negotiations," I said, pouring a double shot while a girl in a red dress tried to slip a twenty into my pocket. I didn't stop her; I just gave her a look that made her blush a deep, violent crimson.

It was easy. It was mindless. I knew exactly which button to press, which look to give, and how to touch a shoulder or a hand just enough to keep the tips flowing and the ego fed. It was a goddamn cycle of fake intimacy and loud music.

"Hey, Ian!" a regular shouted, waving a crumpled fifty. "You ever get tired of the view?"

I looked at the sea of reaching hands, the blurred faces of girls screaming to be seen, the neon lights reflecting off the sweat on my own skin. I felt the weight of the ink on my arms and the heavy, hollow hum of the bar in my chest.

"Tired?" I muttered to myself, grabbing a fresh shaker and slamming it onto the rail. I caught my reflection in the back-bar mirror—dark hair messy, eyes sharp but tired, looking every bit like the heartbreaker everyone wanted me to be. "Nah. I’m just getting started."

I looked toward the heavy steel door at the entrance as it swung open, letting in a gust of New York humidity. I didn't expect anything different. Just another body to fill the space, another girl to charm, another ego to stroke.

Rick nudged my elbow. "Heads up, lover boy. Your 'favorite' asshole just walked in."

I looked up, and my smirk died a sudden, violent death.

"Ethan," I spat, the name feeling like ash in my mouth.

But it wasn't Ethan that made me stop mid-pour. It was the girl standing next to him.

She wasn't looking at me. She wasn't looking at the bar. She was looking at the room like it was a goddamn petri dish and she was the scientist trying not to get contaminated.

"Who the fuck is that?" I asked, my voice suddenly devoid of any playboy grit.

"No idea," Rick muttered, his eyes narrowing. "But she looks like she's about five seconds away from calling a manager she doesn't even know."

I gripped the edge of the bar, watching them approach. Every girl in this place was trying to be loud.

She was the loudest thing in the room, and she hadn't even said a word yet.