“Arranged marriage? Okay, so why the break?”
I can feel the tears coming on, the Redheaded Sluts turning into my worst enemy. I’m not usually an emotionally unstable human being, but German liquor has its way of unleashing a beast within me.
“I just… I just… it doesn’t feel right.” The lonesome tear escapes, trickling down my cheek. I can’t remember the last time I cried. I am not a crier. My mother says it’s improper to cry and unladylike. You move on from whatever is upsetting you. Rich girls don’t cry, they go spend money on something extravagant and unnecessary.
Two girls attempt to enter the bathroom until Tiffany tells them to back the hell off.
“If it doesn’t feel right, then why not break up for good? You’re sexy. That guy at the bar was eating you up.”
“It’s so complicated. My father is…” I close my eyes trying to think of the words. “He has always controlled our family.” I cry softly as I lean against the wall looking into Tiffany’s concerned eyes. “I was bred to be Sebastian’s wife, that’s what Father told me. He gave me a month to go do whatever the hell I want, but come September first, I need to be walking down the aisle as the new Mrs. King.”
Tiffany rests her hand on my arm, then brings me in for that uncomfortable stranger hug. I welcome it this time, resting my head on her shoulder, wondering why life is so unfair. With her large boobs squashed against my chest, she pulls away minutes later and hands me a tissue.
“And Sebastian? What did he say when you wanted to leave? If my fiancé, Derek, heard me say that, he’d think I was cheating on him or something stupid.”
“I think he understood,” I say with honesty. “He feels the pressure, too. I mean, I love him, but it’s like he’s my brother.”
Tiffany scrunches up her face. On closer inspection, she has rather full lips. Collagen fillers, no doubt, considering her boobs felt rock hard against my chest.
“Ew… so you’re like screwing your brother?”
“What? No… I just mean we’re comfortable, but there’s no spark. No fireworks.”
Tiffany places her hands on my shoulders, staring me down. “You’ve got this, girl. I believe in you. Don’t let any man tell you what to do. You’re a strong, independent woman.”
There’s something to be said about an empowering speech inside a dingy bathroom while incredibly drunk. Tiffany made me feel like I’m worth a million dollars. With my newfound confidence, I straighten my posture, check the mirror to make sure I don’t have panda eyes, then give her the nod to continue partying the night away.
Tiffany cries boredom not long after, suggesting we find another bar. The thought of walking anywhere makes me want to cry again. My feet are throbbing in my new heels, but thankfully, we stumble into an Irish pub only a few establishments down the road.
This place has a different vibe. For one, it’s less crowded than the other bar, but the people here are much rowdier. There’s a lot of yelling, cheering from random crowds of people, and nineties music playing over the speakers.
I turn around to find Tiffany has disappeared, and her friend, Michelle, is already at the bar chatting to some guy.
So much for partying the night away.
It’s only just hit eleven, not even midnight. I’m not ready to completely call it a night, so I head straight to the not-so-crowded bar to order myself another drink.
“Hit me up,” I slur, slapping my hand against the woodgrain countertop. It’s sticky, and the area has a stale stench of beer.
“What would you like me to hit you up with?”
I have no idea. The thought of drinking another Redheaded Slut makes me want to hurl again. I scan the bar unable to focus on the names on the glass bottles. There are a lot of them standing side by side in a range of different colors and shapes. The green one looks pretty. Just ask for the pretty one.
Beside me, a guy snickers, and I notice his tall glass of beer. There’s a lot of froth making it appear barely touched.
I gesture to the glass. “What he’s having.”
The bartender raises his brow. “You sure about that?”
“Yes,” I reply with an enthusiastic grin. Clearing my throat, I attempt to pull out my best Irish accent. “Just to top off the evening, thanks, sir!”
The guy beside me hides his smirk behind the giant glass. I turn to face him, making it obvious his smirk is annoying me. Ignoring me, he keeps his eyes focused on the wall-mounted television. From the side you can see his sharp jawline covered with a slight stubble. His hair, a darkish blond, is slightly longer giving him a casual look. It’s always the hot ones who are assholes.
I fold my arms across my body in defiance. “What’s so funny?”
“Your attempt at an Irish accent.”
His accent is strong. I may be drunk, but he sounds distinctively Australian.
Either way, it doesn’t matter, he’s an asshole for laughing at me. A hot asshole.
“Well, your attempt at an Australian accent is just as bad.”
He cocks his head to the side, shaking it as his lips press into an annoying smirk. Ignoring me, he tightens his grip around the tall glass, drinking the remnants of his beer before ordering another.
“Typical American girl,” he mutters.
I stand taller, practically stumbling, until he catches me around my waist, annoyed at my clumsy fall.
“Excuse me?” I pull his hands off me, staring into his deep green eyes. “That’s very presumptuous of you.”
“That’s a big word for someone intoxicated.”
“Intoxicated is a big word for someone who is a jerk.”
“Oh, so now I’m the jerk? I thought I was the hot asshole?”
Holy crap! Did I say those words out loud? I knew it was a stupid idea to go out. Not only have I made a fool out
