The Wingman Who Fell First

The neon sign outside Neon Mirage flickered in a hypnotic rhythm of sapphire and magenta, casting a deceptive glow over the bustling heart of the city’s nightlife.

Inside, the air was a heavy mix of expensive cologne, spilled liquor, and the low, thumping bass of a deep house track that vibrated straight through the floorboards.

To the untrained eye, it was a paradise of endless possibilities. To Leo, it was just another Tuesday night shifting through a sea of predictable cliches.

Standing behind the polished mahogany bar, Leo moved with the effortless precision of a surgeon. He caught a crystal coupe glass in mid-air, gave a silver shaker three rhythmic, ice-cold snaps, and poured out a perfectly translucent lavender liquid.

He dropped a single dehydrated lemon wheel onto the foam, sliding the glass across the counter without looking up.

“A Mirage Sour. That’ll be twenty-five,” Leo said, his voice smooth, low, and completely devoid of warmth.

“And how much for a smile, sweetheart?”

The customer—a guy in a tailored suit that screamed ‘daddy’s credit card’—leaned heavily against the bar, flashing a smile he clearly thought was devastating.

He pushed a crisp hundred-dollar bill forward, tapping his fingers against the wood. “Keep the change if I can get your name with it.”

Leo finally raised his eyes. Under the ambient purple track lighting, his sharp, fox-like eyes gleamed with a cold amusement.

His obsidian hair was parted perfectly, framing a face that was undeniably striking, though his expression was as welcoming as an arctic blizzard.

Slowly, Leo reached out, picked up the hundred-dollar bill, and slid it neatly into the acrylic tip jar.

“The name is on the menu, printed right at the bottom,” Leo replied, offering a polite, entirely artificial smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “And as for the smile? I only smile when the bar closes and the guests finally leave. Enjoy your drink.”

A few seats down, a regular customer chuckled into her glass, while the suit-clad guy flushed a deep crimson, muttering an insult under his breath before grabbing his drink and slinking away into the crowded lounge.

“Another casualty added to the scoreboard,” a lazy voice droned from the service station.

Sam, the bar owner and Leo’s longtime enforcer of reality, leaned against the ice well, wiping down a silver tray. He shook his head, a smirk playing on his lips. “You know, Leo, if you keep turning down people with that much enthusiasm, we’re going to run out of rich idiots willing to overpay for gin.”

“If they want a companion, they can download an app,” Leo retorted smoothly, washing his shaker under a jet of hot water. “I mix drinks. I don’t mix business with pleasure, especially not with people who use pickup lines from the early 2000s.”

“Fair enough. But look at 10 o’clock,” Sam whispered, nodding subtly toward a plush velvet booth near the back corner. “I think you’ve caught the attention of a very persistent predator. Or a very desperate one.”

Leo glanced over, his gaze cutting through the haze of the dim lounge.

Sitting in the booth was a girl with bright auburn hair, practically vibrating with excitement. She was clutching her phone like a lifeline, her eyes locked onto Leo with a look that crossed into pure worship. But she wasn’t the one Sam was talking about.

Sitting across from her was a man who looked entirely out of place in the smoky, dimly lit atmosphere of Neon Mirage.

He was exceptionally tall, even while seated, with broad shoulders that filled out a casual, high-quality charcoal jacket. His hair was a sun-kissed blonde, slightly messy in a way that looked effortlessly expensive.

Even from across the crowded room, his sharp jawline and striking features stood out. He looked like he belonged on a surfboard in Malibu, or perhaps on the cover of an architectural digest—not hiding in the corner of a moody metropolitan bar.

Right now, the girl was aggressively nudging his arm, pointing a manicured finger directly at the bar—specifically, at Leo. The blonde man looked intensely reluctant, running a hand through his hair and sighing so deeply Leo could almost see his shoulders drop.

“A dare?” Leo guessed, turning his back to the floor to restock the top-shelf vodka. “Or a lost bet?”

“Whatever it is, the golden retriever is getting up,” Sam murmured, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Brace yourself, your majesty. He’s heading into the firing zone.”

Leo didn’t look up, but he heard the distinct, heavy footsteps approaching the counter. The ambient warmth of a large presence suddenly filled the empty space in front of his station.

Leo deliberately took his time, drying a highball glass with a microfiber cloth before setting it down. When he finally looked up, he found himself staring directly into a pair of clear, strikingly earnest hazel eyes.

Up close, the man was even more intimidatingly handsome. He practically radiated the clean, bright energy of California sunshine—a direct contrast to the dark, cynical world Leo inhabited.

“Welcome to Neon Mirage,” Leo said, his voice slipping into his standard, icy bartender monotone. He rested his hands on the edge of the bar, tilting his head slightly. “What can I get started for you?”

The big, handsome blonde man cleared his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. To Leo’s absolute surprise, the guy’s ears were already turning a faint shade of pink, and his hands were stuffed awkwardly into his jacket pockets.

“Uh, hi,” the man began, his voice a deep, resonant rumble that carried an unexpected nervousness. He glanced back at the booth for a split second, where the auburn-haired girl was giving him a frantic, two-handed thumbs-up.

He turned back to Leo, swallowed hard, and forced a stiff, polite smile. “I, um... I’m actually not here to order a drink.”

Leo arched a single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Oh? Then I hope you aren’t here to ask for directions, because the exit is right behind you.”

The man blinked, caught off guard by the sharp tongue, but he pressed on, determined to finish whatever mission he had been assigned.

He leaned in slightly, lowered his voice, and spoke with an intensity that made it sound like a high-stakes business negotiation.

“My sister over there thinks you’re the most incredible person she’s ever seen,” the blonde man explained, his tone completely genuine, devoid of any sleazy undertones.

“And she was too terrified to come up here herself. So... I was wondering if I could get your number? For her.”

Leo froze for a fraction of a second.

He had been asked out by modeling scouts, wealthy heirs, drunk socialites, and every arrogant executive in the financial district.

But he had never, not once in his five years behind a bar, had a man who looked like a literal Greek god walk up to him just to act as a wingman for his sister.

Leo’s gaze drifted past the man’s broad shoulder, catching sight of the girl in the booth, who was now holding her breath in anticipation.

A slow, dangerous amusement curled in Leo’s chest. The cynical side of him—the side that took pleasure in dismantling the egos of attractive people—woke up. This gorgeous, straight-laced guy thought he could just walk up, do a favor for his sister, and walk away clean?

Not on my watch, Leo thought.

Instead of rejecting him outright, Leo set the cloth down. He leaned across the wide mahogany counter, reducing the distance between them until the faint, woody scent of the man’s cologne filled his senses.

“For your sister?” Leo whispered, his voice dropping an octave, rich with sudden, predatory playfulness.

The blonde man blinked, his hazel eyes widening slightly as Leo leaned closer. He went entirely still, his breath hitching in his throat.

Leo reached out, his slender fingers brushing against the lapel of the man’s jacket before gently wrapping around his dark tie. With a slow, deliberate tug, Leo pulled the towering man down just an inch further, until his breath brushed directly against the shell of the man’s reddening ear.

“I have a very strict rule,” Leo purred softly, ensuring his voice was meant for only one pair of ears. “I don’t give my number to messengers.

If you want my contact info, sweetheart... you have to ask for yourself.”