The Lies That Define Us (Us 2)

“Honey, you’re mad but—”

“Mad? Mad doesn’t even cover it! I’m fucking livid! I

can’t even look at you right now I’m so pissed off! I’m out of here!”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. Why don’t we talk about this?”

I had to get out of there at that point. I left and just kept walking. The whole situation is laughable. I saw the divorce coming but not this. All this wandering and I find myself in the middle of downtown. Live music drifts to me from a few doors down. A nice, loud environment will keep me out of my head, drowning all of my thoughts away.

Let’s see if the bars in Ashland can come close to the ones back home in Santa Barbara.

I step into the bar and realize that my sweat pants and Converse don’t quite fit into the Irish pub atmosphere; I stick out like a nun in a strip club. I’m way too hungry and way too angry to care about these people’s opinions. Luckily, no one even turns in my direction.

All of their attention is fixed on the stage.

I find where the live music is coming from and get a better look at the guy performing. There’s a teeny stage pushed back in the far corner. He’s alone up there and performing an acoustic version of All Time Low’s “Somewhere in Neverland.” He has more of a gravelly voice than Alex Gaskarth, but it’s still sexy as hell.

If Alex isn’t available to me, I will gladly take this guy in his place. The song is one of my favorites and pretty fitting for my current mood. If he wants to be my Peter Pan, I won’t think twice about running away to Neverland or anywhere else with him, just as long as it’s far away from here.

Obvious fan girls are cheering and dancing right up against the stage. I guess trashy groupies look the same no matter where you go—lack of clothing and plenty of fuck-me heels to go around.

They’re all vying to be the next notch in his bedpost and it’s kind of pathetic, even if he is smoking hot. Although, I’m not much better, imagining the dirty words his husky voice would whisper into my ears.

He hops off the stage, making his way over to the bar and pushing his way through all of his groupies as they hang off of him. Surprisingly, he continues behind the bar. Apparently, he’s a man of many talents.

Claiming one of the bar stools as my own, I wait for him to make his way down to me. This guy is hot. Like scorching hot. I could tell while he was onstage, but now that he’s closer, it’s obvious why he has all the groupies. He’s obviously talented but they probably couldn’t care less about that.

His rich chocolate brown hair is styled up into a faux hawk, and he has a sleeve tattoo down his right arm. It’s hard to tell from this distance what his tattoo is, but I can make out the sun. He has small gauges in his ears, not like some of the massive ones that some dudes wear. They’re sexy on him, as is his lip piercing. I’m sure I’m not the first girl to have thoughts about nibbling on it. He exudes confidence, which most likely stems from the attention from the band sluts.

He isn’t tall but not too short either. I’m guessing my head would fall right about at his shoulder, maybe a little over, which is perfect since I’m on the short side. I would fit nice and snuggly under his arm.

Where the hell did that thought come from?

This is some random bartender and I don’t need to be imagining how perfectly our bodies will fit together. The last thing I need is to find a new boyfriend while I’m here. As soon as Mom gets her shit together, I’m on the next plane out of here. Running away from your problems is not the answer.

The bartender is making drinks and shamelessly flirting with the bitches that were all over him just moments before. I try not to make my staring obvious but apparently I’m not being as discreet as I thought because his attention soon moves toward me. He has gorgeous emerald green eyes that I can’t turn away from. We stay in a staring contest and it makes me feel like he’s looking straight into my soul. Making his way down the bar toward me, he looks me up and down with a slight smirk that shoots a spark of electricity through my body and down to my toes.

“Are you sure you walked into the right place, babe? I’m pretty sure this isn’t your scene.”

Ugh, asshole much? The weird trance breaks and I kind of shake my head. I act unfazed, although he voices my earlier concern.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m capable of taking care of myself. Since you’re behind the bar and it’s your job to serve me, I would like a burger and a beer.”

Without even asking for my ID, bartender hottie replies, “At least you know how to eat. If you had asked me for a salad, I would have told you that you’re in the wrong place. Since you ordered real food, though, I’ll bring that right out to you, princess.” Winking, he turns away to put my order in.

Why do the hot ones always have to be assholes? Thinking they are God’s gift to the planet and we should bow down in their presence. I can’t help myself, though, and I continue to steal glances at him. He has a Jake Ryan from Sixteen Candles thing going for him and it’s starting to break down my walls.

I vowed to never have a one-night stand but maybe Chloe’s right. Everyone should have at least one in their life. He’s rougher around the edges than Jake with his piercings and tattoos. Jake had more of a preppy clean-cut vibe and this guy is all bad boy. I find him staring right back at me. It shocks and embarrasses me but I can’t break the connection. I’m mesmerized by those piercing green eyes again. Apparently, his eyes are my kryptonite.

He walks back over to me with my food and places a drink in front of me. I take a drink and the cold, bubbly, sweet liquid slides down my throat. I let out a sigh. It’s been way too long since I’ve had a Shirley Temple. It’s delicious, but I still have to give him shit for screwing up my drink order.

Channeling my best friend, Chloe, I give him the ultimate bitch face. “Um, I’m pretty sure I ordered a beer not a Shirley Temple.”

Secretly, I would much rather drink the Shirley Temple. Beer is nasty. But it seemed like a good idea with the whole being-in-a-pub thing. It was either a beer or whiskey and that wasn’t happening. I had a Jack and Coke at a party one time before I was smart enough to stick to vodka and it tasted like someone had peed in my Coke.

So gross.

Jake—his name until I find out what it really is—smirks at me again. “Babe, I don’t even have to check your ID. You aren’t twenty-one.”