It wasn't a fancy space. The whole building as a whole could use some touching up. The owner's idea of that on the lower level was to let kids draw murals all over the walls. The upstairs had a few walls full of poems of various levels of skill, but otherwise was mostly un-decorated save for the scraped hardwood floor, yellowed blinds, and white-ish walls. There were a few couches hanging around, likely picked up second or third hand, judging by the wear and tear, as well as a bunch of mismatched wooden chairs.
Luxurious, it was not. But I had a special place in my heart for it nonetheless. I'd spent many a night out with my friends at this coffee house as a teenager, playing games, listening to music, seeing people, and hoping to be seen by people.
"Pretty decent turnout," Blake, a local enthusiast, said, nodding at the people congregated around. He was right, too. There were the usual faces, plus at least seven new ones that I didn't recognize. They could be friends of regulars, new fans in the area, or ultra-fans from far away. When two of them turned, revealing shirts with my design on them—shirts I sold to give the profits to an anti-human trafficking organization—I figured it was likely the latter of the three.
It was mostly women at our events. Which wasn't surprising. Demographics-wise, women were the bigger fans of true crime content. I wasn't exactly sure if anyone did any studies on why that was, but I had my own theories about how we all lived our lives acutely aware that, at almost any moment, we could become one of the women—and it was usually women—on a true crime podcast or documentary. Maybe we watched it to see what other new, awful, twisted ways someone might hurt and kill us. Maybe we did it to figure out how we could avoid becoming one of those women. Or, hell, maybe we just did it because we wanted to figure out how to commit the perfect crime.
But, yeah, it was mostly girls around, ages ranging from what looked like late teens to their late twenties. Blake was our only resident straight male. His friend Marc and Marc's boyfriend Lawrence made up the rest of the male demographic. Once in a while, a new guy would come, but when he figured out we were all genuinely here to have fun solving a fake crime, and not trying to hook up, he generally never came back.
"I think we should bring theme nights back," Marc declared after helping me set up the snack table.
"We ran out of ideas," I reminded him.
"So we bring back the classics. All us regulars each already have the outfits hanging in our closets. Give us an excuse to drag them out again. The Gatsby night was still our best night ever."
"You're not wrong," I agreed.
"Oh now, who is that fine piece of man meat?" Marc asked, wiggling his brows.
I didn't ask who he meant.
I didn't even have the self-respect to act like I wasn't waiting for said fine piece of man meat.
I spun so fast on my heel that my vision struggled to catch up with the movement for a long second. But when it cleared, I was face-to-face with him.
The man I knew only as Finn.
If asked, I couldn't tell you what it was about this man in particular that drew me in. He wasn't what I would call my type at all. That's not to say he wasn't gorgeous. He was, with his dirty-blond hair and matching, well-maintained beard, and light green eyes. There was an almost rugged quality to his features, with that sort of bone structure that spoke of the midwest, to corn-fed and farm-raised genes. He was tall, too, and broad-chested, fit without looking like he worked at it too hard.
And it all added up to... not my type.
And yet there was no denying that the thrumming of my pulse was something very closely resembling attraction.
I guess that wasn't a horrible thing. My 'type' had really offered me nothing but bitter disappointment in the past. Those alt-rock guys in their edgy all black looks had great taste in music, sure, but went through women like water, were the types to leave you on read for months, then call you at three a.m., completely bombed after a concert, and wanting some ass.
I hadn't given anyone some ass in a really long time, to be honest. Maybe that was why I was practically drooling over some random hot guy with the lovely, yet tortured light green eyes.
I'd been focusing too much on my career to think about men.
Until, of course, the universe dropped one in my path.
"Girl, get a room," Marc demanded, making me turn to watch him watching me. "You look like you've already eye-banged that man across the room and through the floor," he added, making a smile tug at my lips.