Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 95559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 382(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 382(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
“Apparently we are,” I inform him. “Tonight. Do you want to join us? The more the merrier.”
“Depends on where you’re going,” Nolan replies. “I’m a soon-to-be NHL superstar with a reputation to uphold. I can’t be seen at any old dive bar.”
Millie rolls her eyes at him before answering. “We’re going to The Crease. That good enough for you? If not, too bad, we’re not changing our minds.”
Devon and Nolan share a loaded look between them before Devon chips in. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“Sure,” I say. “Why not? It’s not like we’re the first people to go out on a Friday night and have a couple of drinks. Plus, after the week I’ve had, I could do with a few drinks and a good night out.”
“You got ID?” Nolan asks us.
“Yep.” Millie tells him, popping the p. “Courtesy of me. And before you get all Mr. Protective-Panicky-Pants, we all know you were buying cheap beer with one when you were seventeen, so you can’t tell us it’s not a good idea.”
Nolan holds his hands up in defense before replying. “Hey, I wasn’t going to say anything other than, I’m in. A couple of beers tonight sounds good, actually. Right, Dev?”
“Yeah, why not.” Devon says after giving Nolan another knowing look.
“Great,” I tell them both. “In which case, see you later tonight. Hope you scrub up well, boys.”
Millie and I are in my room, putting the finishing touches on our outfits. Despite the fact we’re not going anywhere fancy, we’ve both decided to dress up, and I’m wearing a tight-fitting backless dress in emerald-green, while Millie has opted for a baby-blue halter-neck. After putting the finishing touches to my lightly-curled hair and having a quick make-up tutorial from Millie—I’m now an expert at the cat eye—we put on our heels and make our way downstairs where Devon and Nolan are waiting. Jude isn’t joining us tonight as he’s on a date with some girl he picked up recently. I’m under no illusion my brother is a saint, but I also don’t need to know the ins and outs of his sex life.
As we enter the kitchen, Devon emits a low appreciative whistle, and we lap it up as we twirl around so they can see the fruits of our labor. Boys have it easy; all they need to do is have a shower and shave, pull on some pants and a shirt and run hair product through their hair and they’re done. Girls, on the other hand, need to set aside at least two hours of preparation time to shower, shave, wash, dry and style their hair, cleanse, tone, moisturize, and then pile on the layers of make-up. Some might consider the process too much, but we do what’s required to make us feel comfortable and confident, and right now, I feel like a queen.
After Millie takes a couple of photos and uploads them to her Instagram account, we get in a cab and make our way to the Boardwalk. Although I’ve been here before, I’ve not yet walked to the far end where The Crease is situated. Devon holds the door open for us and I follow Millie in and to a table opposite the bar. Saul and Brad are already there—seemingly Nolan put a call in to them and decided to make a night out of it—and they already have a round of shots lined up on the table. We all say “Cheers!” and down the liquid—which turns out to be tequila—before slamming our glasses on the table. As I’m about to put mine down, I have a strange feeling of being watched and I slowly turn around to find the pair of meadow-green eyes which frequent my dreams, angrily staring in my direction. I instantly know the night is about to get interesting.
Biting the bullet, I offer to buy the next round and walk over to the bar, where Kyler is serving. If I’m going to buy drinks, he might as well be the one who serves me. Even though he sees me approaching, he serves another customer first, making me wait a while to place my order. I take the time to study him. He’s wearing his usual attire of black jeans, this time with a dishcloth tucked into the back pocket and a black shirt rolled up at the sleeves. He’s scowling a little and doesn’t give the impression of being the friendliest bartender in town, so I can only assume his drink-making skills are top notch.
Finally, he finishes serving his customer and places both hands on the bar, head bent, and takes a deep breath before looking up at me and then walks over.
“What are you doing here, Thea?” he asks, his voice low and measured and not very welcoming.
“Ordering drinks, of course.” I tell him, even though it should be obvious given I’m standing at the bar.