Oh, Dakota.

Chapter Eight.

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Dakota Aniston

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Elijah’s voice was hypnotizing. His band was currently playing some song from the eighties; I vaguely remember it to be called, “Melt with you,” Whatever it was, Elijah’s voice was so smooth and raspy while he sang, and so filled with emotion, I’ll remorsefully admit I could listen to him sing all day.

I was currently behind the bar, my elbow resting on the countertop with my chin propped on my fist. I dazed off at the stage, watching the band switch into another song. They were good, really good. I was so into it; I hardly noticed when someone’s finger brushed over my arm.

I jumped up, startled. Snapping my head toward the intruder, I pressed my hand into my speeding heart. “Ryan,” I sighed, looking into the smiling face of my neighbor. “You scared me.”

He laughed a soft, chilling sound. His eyebrows rose in mockery, and he cocked his head to the side. “May I have a drink?”

Once my heart calmed, I shrug playfully. I wagged a finger at him. “Aren’t you a little young?”

His hands spread out onto the counter, and he tilts himself forward. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Ryan smelt of aftershave, and a lingering smell of Stacey’s perfume. I was suddenly afraid of him being this close, our fingers almost touching. His lips were pulled into a small, unreadable smirk, and his dark eyes moved over me slowly. Something settled in my stomach, and I wasn’t sure if it was from excitement or nerves. Ryan was flirting with me. I found myself saying, “Can I trust you?”

“That will remain a mystery.” He winked at me, and cracked a grin. I hated myself for noticing he didn’t have dimples like Elijah.

Stop it, Dakota, stop it. Who cares about Elijah’s dimples? Who cares if his smile was maybe one of the best smiles you’ve ever seen, and who cares that his dimples are adorable? You don’t like Elijah. He’s infuriating, aggravating, pig headed and impudent and every other horrible, insulting adjective. And most importantly, one you most never forget, he likes Stacey.

But then again, doesn’t Ryan also like Stacey? And if he did, why was he here flirting with me? Or at least what I thought was flirting.

I come to a conclusion: boys are the most confusing beings to ever roam the earth.

Ryan’s finger brushed over my arm again, and I jumped out my revere. “You promise not to tell?” I joke, deciding to forget about Stacey, and Ryan’s potential flirting, and most certainly forget about Elijah.

“I promise.” He said, and smiled.

I smiled back slightly, and then turned around, mixing him up a drink before sliding it back to him. “You better not get me fired.”

He chuckled. “I’ll try.” He glides into a stool, leaning his elbow on the bar, and taking a small sip of his alcohol. His gaze moved around me to the stage.

“So,” I popped my lips. “Where’s Stacey?”

Ryan glanced at me before extending his arm and points Stacey out to me. I squint my eyes, trying to see beyond the large crowd and my eyes finally land on a mop of red hair. She was pushed up to the front of the stage, her arms in the air and her hips swaying to the beat of the music. “She’s become a groupie.” I say.

Ryan laughs, shaking his head and taking another sip of his drink. “You could say that.” He places down his wet glass, before swinging around in the stool in order to face me. He fingers a straw wrapper that was littered on the counter. “So, how long have you been dating Elijah?”