𝐯𝐢𝐢𝐢. chapter six

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let's get our g̶r̶i̶n̶d̶ groove on

let's get our g̶r̶i̶n̶d̶ groove on

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✍︎︎

drew couldn't believe it.

yet, there she is. in her little dress.
leaning on the bar top as she stirs her shirley temple.

he knows it's her. he can recognize those thighs anywhere.
their image burned in his brain from last night, like engravings singed in wood. forever stamped with something he can't have.

the others are laughing at some story charles was sharing, one of his many wild adventures as a teenager growing up in the eighties. how he, too, had leather pants and big, voluminous hair and how he tried to become a groupie for the who.

speaking of trying, drew tried to stay focus to the story, honestly, he really tried.

but every time he takes a swig of his dog's head ipa, his grayish blue eyes can't help but to glance over to where she sits on the bar stool.

he watches as she makes conversation with the woman bartender, happily accepting another shirley. her happy-go-lucky smile brightens every one's night, even lightening up the dark blue and purple room.

unfortunately, with a beaming smile as bright as hers, it attracts some flies.

drew clutches his beer can as he watches a drunk guy from the dance floor stumble over to the bar and perch himself next to derrielle.

elle shifts in her seat as the drunk says something, obviously growing uncomfortable. she fakes a laugh, turning her head quickly to talk to the bartender— only to realize that they were busy attending to others.

she's too nice.
she would never cause a scene.
drew, on the other hand, would.

she nods at the man, trying to yes-him-to-death, but that only edges him on more— he places his grimy hand on her thigh.

no one touches his girl— h-he means— the girl.
not his girl. they're not together.

"i'm gonna get another drink, i'll be right back," he tells chase stokes, before excusing himself from the group and weaving in and out of people in the club towards the bar.

"ayo! get me one?!" austin calls out to him, but the words fade as her voice becomes more present.

"don't touch me," elle says, ripping off the ugly drunk's hand from her skin.

"come on, baby," the wasted guy says, almost begging. "don't be like that, i bought you a drink."

"yeah and i gave it to someone else," elle shrugs, picking at her fingernails. ignoring the man expertly, making him more angry.

𝐍𝐎 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐋 ━━ 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘸 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘦𝘺Where stories live. Discover now