Inevitable Detour (3 page)

The track changes to something less rowdy, and I’m finally able to speak without having to scream. Just as I’m about to say something to Haven in a nice, normal tone, some jock saunters over and oh-so-obviously bumps into her shoulder.

She almost spills her drink, but still manages to smile. Not in a flirtatious way, she’s just being nice.

Jock-boy says, “Oh, hey, sorry ’bout that.”

He reaches out to touch her arm, but Haven smoothly shifts and avoids his grasp. “No worries,” she says tightly, still smiling.

The jock finally gets the hint and moves on with a shrug.

Haven rolls her eyes my way and mouths, “Men.”

I just nod back, since I’m used to guys hitting on my friend. It’s pretty much like this every time we go out. Haven is beautiful and sexy, especially tonight in her distressed denim miniskirt, black combat boots, and a clingy red sweater with one shoulder down. Her bra strap is exposed, black, a perfect match to her fishnet stockings. Only Haven could successfully pull off such a hot, urban look in such a rural and conservative town.

I, on the other hand, am dressed like most of the other girls in the bar. I have on dark skinny jeans, a lacy black shirt over a white tank, and a pair of flat sandals that I threw on before leaving the house. As a concession to Haven, I let her do my hair and makeup. That’s why my blondish locks are down, all wavy and bouncy, and my whiskey-colored eyes are lined with lots of smoky color.

That reminds me…

I swipe a finger under my lashes, rubbing twice, just in case I’m smudging.

Haven’s own smoke-lined eyes slide to me, and she says, “So, let’s review. Tell me again what your parents’ crazy reasoning is for why you can’t come to New York City this summer?”

“Ugh, Haven.” I cover my face with my hands and speak through my fingers. “What do you think? It’s the same as always. They want me to stick around campus and take summer classes.”

Haven tugs my hands away from my face. When I acquiesce, I see she’s frowning. She shakes her head slowly, and a lock of raven hair falls to her cheek. She tucks it behind her ear.

“That’s bullshit, Es,” she says. “You, of all people, do
not
need summer classes.”

“I know,” I lament, since my parents’ stance is unbelievably ridiculous to me, too.

Haven sighs. “You’re a twenty-two-year-old woman. You need to take a stand at some point. You should just tell your parents to go fuck themselves.”

I’m in the middle of taking a drink from my bottle of beer, and I practically spew Corona Light all over the polished-wood bar.

“Um, right,” I mutter. I nod to her margarita and say, “Just how much tequila is in that drink, anyway?”

I’m only half-serious, but Haven replies without missing a beat. “Three shots of Patrón.”

“Sheesh, good thing we walked here,” I mumble.

Haven doesn’t disagree. “For sure,” she says with the glass halfway to her mouth.

After taking a sip, she adds, “So, what are your plans? Are you going to defy or comply with Mr. and Mrs. Brant?”

I let out a long sigh. “I’d like to defy,” I admit. “But you know I’d get cut off. That would mean no more school, no more anteing up my share of the rent for our cute apartment—”

“They wouldn’t stop paying for your classes,” Haven interrupts, her voice soft despite her cutting me off.

“That’s probably true,” I say. “But I’d definitely be back in the dorms.”

Haven shudders. “I know, sweetie. Your parents probably would cut out anything they deemed unnecessary.”

“Which would mean most everything,” I say, sighing.

With a genuinely apologetic tone, Haven says, “I shouldn’t have said anything, Essa. Besides, all is not lost. You can always drive up to the Big Apple and visit for a few days.”

I don’t say anything, but I doubt a visit to New York will ever really happen. I’m too chicken to take a chance like that. What if something went wrong? My parents would flip.

For Haven’s sake, though, I smile and nod.

Haven smiles back and then motions for the bartender. “Hey, let’s do a shot,” she says to me. “We need to lighten the mood. We’re supposed to be celebrating tonight, right?”

“Right,” I agree, before I tip back my bottle and finish off what’s left of my beer.

Haven eyes me curiously.

Since it looks like I will, indeed, be abandoning my two-beer rule tonight, I declare, “Let’s get fucked up.”

She replies, “Hell, yeah. I’m all for that.”

A mere minute later, we’re downing shots of tequila. Another round of shots follows, and then Haven and I hit the dance floor. I am officially drunk, so when Haven initiates a bump-and-grind routine with me, I roll with it.

Soon, half the bar is watching us—the male half. Haven leans in and whispers in my ear, “Hey, let’s give them a show.”

Before I know what a “show” involves, Haven’s lips are on mine. There’s nothing romantic or erotic about the kiss, however. My best friend’s lips feel warm and soft as they press against mine. I know the intent behind her action is born purely from affection, so I kiss her back. Soon, though, there’s whooping and hollering and calls to “touch each other’s tits.”

“Okay, that’s enough of that,” I murmur, breathless and dizzy as I take a step back.

Haven laughs. And we continue to dance, albeit with less grinding, until the song ends.

When the next song begins and it’s nothing we like, she grabs my arm. “Come on, Essa,” she says. “I think we need more shots.”

My head is spinning, and everything is kind of fuzzy. But who am I to ruin our good time? Intent on being a good sport, I heartily agree that more shots are what we need. On our way to the bar, though, a sense of uneasiness creeps over me. Even in my inebriated condition, I feel as if Haven and I are being watched. Some deep intuition warns me that these are not college-boy stares.

Glancing up to a raised portion of the bar overlooking the dance floor, I spot two men in business suits watching as Haven and I make our way through the crowd. The men, who are clearly older than us, try not to be blatantly obvious. When they catch me staring at them, they turn away quickly and engage in conversation. I assess them. Maybe they’re not so bad. They’re both nice-looking, and compared to the rest of the guys in the club, these men ooze suaveness and sophistication.

Feeling brave from the alcohol, and with clearly impaired judgment, I lean in close to Haven and whisper loudly in her ear, “Two hotties at three o’clock.”

Her eyes dart over to where the men are seated at a high table, giving them a commanding presence.

“Oh, hell, Essa,” Haven gushes over her shoulder to me. “Good pickup. Hmm, wonder what two guys like that are doing here. They’re not kids,” she continues, stating the obvious. “They must be at least thirty.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” I muse.

Stopping in the middle of the crowd, she spins to me, bounces on her toes, and says excitedly, “We should go talk to them. This could be your chance, Essa. Maybe you’ll like one of them.”

“Whoa, slow down,” I say.

This is a level of enthusiasm I don’t know what to do with. Personally, I’m nervous as hell at the thought of actually meeting these strange men. Suddenly wishing I’d kept my mouth shut, I step around Haven. Over my shoulder, I say lightly, “Jeez, Haven, didn’t you get enough of older men with Professor Douche Fuck?”

She catches up to me, leans in, and says quietly, “Aww, you’re just nervous.”

“Damn straight,” I reply.

“Trust me, Essa,” Haven continues. “If you’re fortunate enough to experience an older man—one who knows what he’s doing—then you’ll understand.”

I make a scoffing noise. “No thanks. Older, younger, the same age, I’m really not interested. You know I’ve sworn off sex.”

Haven stops and levels me with an are-you-kidding-me expression. “I never thought you were serious,” she says.

We’ve reached the bar, and we wedge our bodies in between two standing patrons. Haven is facing me, inches away, as she hisses, “You need to forget about that God-awful, three-thrust experience you had with the study-partner dude.”

“He wasn’t a study partner,” I mutter, just as the song in the background is changing. “He was cowriting an article for the school paper with me.”

“What?” she yells over the now very loud music.

I yell back, “He wasn’t my study partner.”

“Whatever,” Haven says, shrugging her slender shoulders. “In any case, you need to dust yourself off and get back on the horse.” She nudges my arm. “Like, literally, Essa.”

“I don’t know…” I’m glad it’s dark and she can’t see me blushing. “…maybe.”

Despite my embarrassment, I can’t deny that Haven has a valid point. I sometimes think the same thing. Maybe that’s why I’m still taking birth control pills, even after the Saint Patrick’s Day bad-sex debacle. I lie to myself. I tell myself I stay on the pill for clearer skin. But, really, there’s one guy I’d scrap my no-sex-ever-again plan for—Haven’s brother, Farren. And maybe that would have been in the cards, if New York was happening.

But it’s not, alas…

My gaze flickers to the two men in the bar. They are both older, like Farren. One has dark hair, the other is a blond. From far away like this, and with inebriation blurring my vision, I start to think the dark-haired man could pass for Farren. Maybe.

Dark-haired Man catches me staring. He nods and lifts his drink—something that looks like whiskey in a rocks glass.

Beer goggles or not, while staring at the Farren look-alike, I dreamily murmur to Haven, “Hmm, maybe you’re right. Maybe I should, uh, how did you put it? Get back on the horse, right?”

I don’t dare add that I may be drunk enough to pretend my dark-haired admirer
is
Farren. I’d never tell my friend—who’s currently staring at me, mouth agape—that I lust this hard for her brother. She’d probably think I’m crazy, considering I’ve never even met Farren.

Losing the shocked expression, Haven clears her throat and says, “You know what, Essa. I’m proud of you. You’re being daring.” She studies me, glances at the guys, and then returning her gaze to me, says, “You like the dark-haired one, don’t you?”

“He’s okay,” I say, shrugging.

Jesus, I hope she doesn’t notice the man’s resemblance to her brother.

But I don’t think she sees the connection, since she starts pulling me in the direction of the men. “Come on,” she says, laughing. “Let’s go get you laid.”

I grimace. I may talk big, but am I drunk enough to have sex with a stranger?

Haven, taking notice of my slowing steps and troubled expression, backtracks quickly. In an understanding tone, she says, “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. You know that, right?”

I nod.

“Do you want to at least go talk to them? I think the dark-haired one likes you. We can get a drink with them and see how things go.”

“What about you?” I say. “Are you okay with hanging out with the blond one?”

I don’t want Haven wasting her time talking to someone she’s not into just for my sake.

“Sure,” she says, nodding in his direction. “Look at him. He’s really cute. Plus, God knows I can use a distraction. I need
something
to help me forget about the professor.”

I’m about to say teasingly that I’m shocked my dance-floor kisses didn’t make her forget about her broken heart. But then I see how sad she really is, and I say nothing at all.
Poor Haven. Professor Walsh really messed with her head
.

In that moment, I decide to be a good friend and roll with whatever happens tonight. After all, this evening is supposed to be about fun and good times. So we maneuver our way past two girls chatting on the steps that lead to the raised area above the dance floor and close in on the older men.

It’s like they’re our prey
, I think, giggling at the thought. But then I see the way the blond man is eyeing Haven, hungry and cold, and I worry someone in this scenario is prey.

And it’s not either of the men.

Just then, I notice I’m being watched as well. The man with the dark hair is sizing me up. Not in any hungry or cold way, but rather in a seemingly thoughtful manner.

“Hey.” Haven bumps my shoulder with her shoulder. “Check out the hot Scandinavian features on Blondie. I didn’t notice it from far away, but he could totally pass for Eric on
True Blood
.”

Haven and I are
True Blood
junkies. We binge watch past seasons when we’re bored. Hmm, maybe that’s why the blond man initially looked like a predator to me. The whole vampire thing and all.

“Shit, Hav,” I reply. “He really does look like Eric.”

And he does. Blondie is Viking-tall, blond, and very obviously buff. His toned body moves fluidly in his smartly tailored suit.

“I think I want him.” Haven sighs dreamily. “Just look at his smooth, confident ways. It’s like he really is Eric.”

“Great,” I mumble. “He’ll probably end up wanting to drink your blood or something equally kinky.”

“Ooh, let’s hope he’s kinky,” Haven purrs. “I will so let him do whatever he wants.”

Haven, despite her ill-advised fling with the professor and her girl-gone-wild behavior tonight, is not promiscuous. She’s just a girl hoping to mend her broken and stepped-on heart. Alas, if drinking and sex are what she needs to feel better, I can play along.

When we are about five feet from the men I’ve temporarily christened “Eric” and “Almost Farren,” I sadly come to the conclusion that the dark-haired man falls far short of the real Farren. He’s not as built as Haven’s muscular brother, nor does his face compare. His cheekbones and jaw aren’t as finely sculpted, his lips are too thin, and his eyes appear to be brown, certainly not green like Farren’s. The guy is a good-looking man, don’t get me wrong. He’s just no Farren Shaw.

With Haven in the lead, we saunter up to the high table. After a flirtatious greeting, the dark-haired man asks me, with a wave of his hand, if I’d like to take a seat. “Eric” asks Haven the same question, only he is gentlemanly enough to pull out one of the tall chairs for her. Haven sits down, straightens her skirt, and proceeds to engage the men in conversation. “This is Essa”—she gestures to me as I’m sitting down—“and I’m Haven.”