I wait.
And wait.
And wait for one of the four freaking bartenders to notice me, or give me the time of day, or do their damn job!
Not a one of them comes to ask for my drink order. I grow more agitated by the second, this feeling of being overlooked the entire night wearing on me, assaulting my self-confidence in a way it never has before.
I’m cute, goddammit! What the hell is everyone’s problem?
Goddamn these jeans.
Curse you.
6
Noah
“Dude, what the fuck is your problem?” Wallace ambushes me the second Miranda strays to the bar, her feelings obviously hurt, his drunken eyes wide.
“I don’t have a problem.”
“Why the hell were you so rude? Why didn’t you fucking say anything or introduce yourself—you looked like a prick.”
“She thinks you’re me, so what’s the point?”
He throws his arm up, pointing to her back as she stands alone, patiently waiting for the service that probably won’t come. She’s simply not important enough to rush for and she’s dressed like a goddamn school teacher in that cute, peasanty shirt and blue jeans.
Jeans. In a nightclub.
I snort.
She’s a sassy one, clearly not giving a crap what anyone thinks. Or she didn’t realize how dressy this place is.
It’s one thing for me not to care—I’m not here to pick anyone up, not here to fuck anyone for the night. I’m also not here because I want to be. I was dragged here and by the looks of it, she was, too.
You should go back to your booth in the corner, little girl.
No one is helping her at the bar, but I turn my attention back to Wallace, who will not get out of my face.
Annoying fucker.
“What the hell do you expect me to do, tell her in the middle of the damn nightclub that I lied?” My arms cross defensively. “I don’t think so.”
“At least go talk to her—you were a total ass.”
“You’re always an ass. What’s your point?”
“She’s cute and until you gave her the green weenie, she was flirting with you.”
Flirting with me? “Are you out of your fucking mind? She was being polite. End of story, case closed.”
“You’re as high as I am drunk—she was making eyes at you, idiot.”
“Stop. This isn’t a middle school dance, so kindly climb out of my asshole.”
“You’re so blind.” He shoves me. “Go over there.”
I slap his hand away. “Drop it, would you?”
Now I do feel like we’re in middle school, arguing on the side of the fucking gymnasium about which girls we’re going to ask to slow dance.
He shoves me again, big paws pressed in the center of my chest. “Go over there.”
“Get off me, Wallace.”
“Git.”
“Stop!” I’m whining like a fucking pussy, slapping at his hands while he drunkenly pushes me closer and closer to the bar where Miranda is standing and I groan when my shoulder bumps into hers.
“Shit. I’m so sorry.” The apology rolls off my tongue. “He’s drunk and being an ass.”
Her eyes wander to Buzz, the big oaf hightailing it back to the group of our buddies, laughing like a moron. Her lips part. They’re glossy and plump. Smiling. “Him? Being an ass? Shocking.”
I have no idea what to say.
The music is loud, the song awkwardly romantic, and neither of us speaks for a long moment, Miranda’s hip pressed against the bar top.
I press forward, resting my elbow on the polished wood, shirt sleeve rolled to my elbow. Put out my forefinger to signal that I want some goddamn service.
Immediately, a bartender flies over, setting a napkin down in front of me. I lift two fingers and she sets another napkin beside it.
“What would you like?” I ask the nymph standing next to me.
“I was just going to get a mojito.” Her long, silky hair gets brushed behind her ear. “I’m not really much of a drinker,” is her excuse for the fluffy drink.
“One mojito, and one vodka tonic, heavy ice, three olives.”
“You got it Mr. Harding.”
Mr. Harding.
Miranda doesn’t catch my last name and even if she had, she would have no way to associate it with Noah.
Me.
She crosses her arms and scowls. “This is so unfair! I was standing there for at least five minutes and not one of them looked at me.”
She has no idea who I am—and I’m not talking about the fact that I am Noah.
She has no idea I am famous.
She has no idea that around here, in this town?
We are gods among men.
Leo, Davis, Buzz, and the others? Heroes.
Tripp Wallace, Buzz’s brother, is here, too. Tripp plays for the Chicago Blues, the professional football team, another local—and national—star.
So, of course, the fucking bartenders are going to zoom in my direction to help me—they recognize me, as does everyone here. They want to be seen with the men who are going to take their team to the goddamn national championship.
Her? Not so much.
“This place is full of small dicks, bartending staff included.” I can feel the smirk on my face as I insult every person in the club.
“Yourself included?”
“No. I’m only here because I was forced out of the house. This isn’t my scene.” I take the drink in front of me—the one Tiffany the bartender just set down—and sip while Miranda assesses me.
“What is your usual scene?” She takes a drink of her mojito, watching me over the brim of the glass, her eyes wide and sober.
“Home. The backyard. I jog a lot.” Work out a lot, too, because I have to, and practice—obviously.
“What’s so great about your backyard? Mine is all public access—there are people everywhere. Does your apartment have a community center?”
Uh, no.
It makes sense that she would assume I live in an apartment since we’re in Chicago and most everyone does, especially the people our age. Little does she know I’m outside of town, in a gated community, in a 4 million dollar house. By myself.
At 24 years old.
She would shit herself.
But also…
Maybe she wouldn’t give a crap, which I have a feeling would be the case. She
