Silk || hs

The Snapchat

The air between us is so still, I almost forget to say anything at all. Thankfully, the back door opens and a thirty-something-year-old man stands there, so I don't have to say anything.

"Come on, Styles. Get in here," the man says, and 'Styles' follows his command by stepping away from me and towards the door. Without thinking, I follow him into the building and the man holding the door rolls his eyes at me. What is going on? Why is 'Styles' leading me in and out of back doors? Is this one of those super cliche moments where I just so happened to meet the owner of the bar? God, I hope so. He'd be loaded if that's the case.

While my brain goes down an absolutely insane rabbit hole of possibilities that will never be true, we walk through the store room and out to the floor. I immediately see that I am right in my assumption that this is the bar I had been eyeing earlier. There are three pool tables in the back of the large space and there is a stage against the left wall, though it appears to be empty at the moment. Opposite the stage is the bar, at which there are conveniently two open stools. As we make our way to the bar, I can't help but notice how much more pleasant this place is than the last. The chatter is quiet and the music is– for lack of a better word– chill. The lighting is low and the people here are significantly less sleazy, save for myself in my scrap-of-cloth outfit that somehow passes as a dress.

When we approach the bar, the man in the gold, silk shirt slides the stool out for me and he takes a seat in the one beside it. I sit down and adjust my dress for the millionth time.

"About those drinks," he says expectantly with a cocky grin plastered across his face. It's in this moment that I notice the dimples that pop out at the corners of his mouth, and I can't help but blush because of how damn attractive this guy is. His stupid beautiful face is distracting me. I pull myself out of my probably creepy stare and fully process his words. Drinks? As in, plural?

"Whoa, I said I'd only buy you one," I counter, crossing my arms in front of me and putting on my best attempt at an intimidating expression. I've been told my bitch face is my most effective talent, so hopefully, I don't look too stupid.

He laughs, leaning his elbow on the bar and propping his head up in his hand. As he does this, a clump of his brown curly hair falls over one of his eyes, but he takes no notice, "You nearly tackled me twice, so that warrants two drinks."

I scoff at him as the bartender walks up to us and asks us what we want. With a roll of my eyes, I sigh, "Give him whatever he wants. I'll have a water."

He groans beside me, "Oh, don't be boring. Get something on me."

I contemplate his offer, though it seems like a bad idea. One drink won't impair me enough to where I can't drive, and besides, I'll have the water with it. Fine, I shall do this thing, but I shall be careful about it. Clearly, I have a wonderful way of maintaining my resolve.

"Fine. I'll have a shot of Red Stag and a water," I say confidently, looking at the grinning idiot next to me. He nods in approval and orders 'my usual, John.' I guess he comes here a lot if he has a usual and he's allowed to use the back door. When the bartender walks away, he grins at me again. "What?" I ask, a little irritated that he keeps staring at me.

"Nothing, I just didn't take you for a shot person," he shrugs, turning his body to face me.

"Oh?" I raise one eyebrow at him and turn myself to to face him too. "And what kind of person did you take me for?"

"Well, given your attire, which is lovely by the way," he smiles, for the first time actually looking at my exposed chest, "I would have assumed you liked to get drunk on wine or margaritas or some girly drink like that."