"If I don't hear from you by 9 PM, I'm calling the cops," Jessie declared, her tone half-serious, half-joking. She had always been like this--protective to a fault. When we were younger and dating random guys from the internet, it was a ritual for her to call me before a date. "I'm serious! Just because we're not 22 anymore doesn't mean they don't wanna kidnap us still!" she added with a laugh that didn't entirely mask her concern.
"I'm pulling in now," I said, cutting her off before she could spiral further. "I'll let you know how it goes. Loveyoubyeeeeee." I hung up quickly, hoping to avoid a lecture.
As I put the car in park, I flipped the visor down, checking my reflection in the little mirror. My makeup looked fine--just a little shimmer on my eyes to brighten them, a little color on the lips. I didn't want to overdo it, especially since I'd just seen him a few hours ago.
The sun was gone now, the disappearing glow casting a warmth over everything. In the mirror, I noticed the sun had kissed my skin today, leaving a soft, natural blush on my cheeks. It made me look alive and vibrant.
"What do you think you're doing, Carina? This probably ain't for the best." I muttered to myself, shaking my head as I snapped the visor back up. "I suppose this is kinda how Grandma and Grandpa met back in the day."
It was a weak attempt at convincing myself this wasn't completely insane. Meeting up with a man I'd just met on the street? Who does that? Still, I couldn't help but smile a little as I grabbed my purse.
There are worse ways to die,
I thought wryly, stepping out of the car.
The moment I stepped into The Hound's Hideaway, I knew it was my kind of place. A guitar hummed through the speakers, the drum's steady thud setting the mood. The air carried the scent of beer, aged wood, and something metallic--like rebellion itself. Neon signs flickered overhead, casting the space in moody blues and reds.
The bar thrummed with that pre-show electricity, the kind that makes your skin tingle, even if you don't know the band yet. The walls were alive with stories--concert posters peeling at the edges, scrawled graffiti, and murals that looked like they were painted in the middle of a whiskey-fueled night. The stage was nothing more than a raised platform in the corner, but it had character: scuffed amps, cables patched with duct tape, and a mic stand leaning like it had witnessed one too many late-night screams.
The people were as much a part of the scene as the music. Up by the stage, I weaved through the crowd, brushing past a group of college kids in flannel and Doc Martens, their laughter infectious. Near the bar, a couple in their forties--she in a black dress and combat boots, him in a worn band tee--sipped their drinks like they owned the place. A group of bikers roared in laughter from a corner booth, silver chains catching the dim light. Toward the back, a retiree in sneakers nodded along to the music while chatting with a twenty-something in a patched denim vest.
People from every walk of life--punks, preppies, bikers, rockers, and even a few buttoned-up professionals--had converged for one reason. The music. Then the lights dimmed. The guitarist hit a crunchy riff, and the first wave of sound rolled over me. It was raw, loud, unapologetic--exactly what I didn't know I was hoping for.
I weaved through the crowd and made my way to the bar, my nerves growing with the electric atmosphere. A bartender caught my eye before I could call out--a raven-haired woman with a neon-pink nose ring that matched her shimmering lip gloss. She moved with practiced ease, pouring drinks while keeping up with the chaos like it was second nature.
She leaned in, her voice cutting through the noise. "What can I getcha, babe?"
I hesitated. "Do you have wine?"
She barely glanced at the bottles behind her. "Two reds, two whites."
I leaned closer. "Okay, don't judge, but... can you make me something that
looks
like wine but isn't? I don't want to look like a total loser in front of my date."
Her lips curled into a knowing smile. "Gotcha." With a wink, she disappeared down the bar.
Seconds later, she slid a stemmed glass toward me, filled with something pale and golden, the liquid catching the light just right. She leaned in conspiratorially. "White cran-apple."
Relief flooded me. "You're a lifesaver." I mouthed, sliding my card across the counter.
"Tab's open. I'll keep you covered."
I took a sip, the crisp, sweet taste settling my nerves. The music surged, and the crowd pressed in on all sides--friends laughing, strangers nodding to the beat, a few brave souls already headbanging near the stage.
But I was still on the outside, scanning the room for him.
This was ridiculous. Agreeing to meet a stranger in a bar I'd never been to? What had I been thinking? But his easy smile from earlier on the street, the confident way he'd asked me out like it was the most natural thing in the world--it had been impossible to say no.
And now, here I was, clutching a fake glass of wine and trying to spot someone in the dim, chaotic lighting. My nerves returned full force, bubbling up like carbonation in a soda, threatening to spill over.
Then I saw him. Dark jeans and a pair of blue Nikes.
He leaned casually against the far wall near a high-top table, impossible to miss. Even in the dim light, his presence commanded attention.
He wasn't alone. Another man stood beside him, shorter but equally imposing, hands moving in sharp gestures as he spoke. Victor listened, arms crossed, his stance relaxed, like he had all the time in the world.
My nerves spiked.
Should I go over?
I lingered near the edge of the crowd, half-hidden behind a high-top table, debating whether to turn around and leave before he noticed me.
But then, as if sensing my hesitation, his eyes shifted. Even in the dim light, they glinted sharp and green, zeroing in on me like he'd known I was there all along.
A flicker of recognition crossed his face, followed by a grin-- slow, deliberate--equal parts invitation and dare.
My heart kicked up a notch. This was trouble. My heart thumped in my chest as his gaze held mine, one eyebrow quirking in what could only be described as a challenge.
He didn't wave me over, didn't say a word. But something about the way he stood, so sure and unmoving, told me he was waiting. Waiting to see what I'd do next.
I swallowed hard, clutching my glass tighter. My feet felt like they were glued to the floor, but I forced myself to take a step forward. And then another. My stomach churned with nerves, but his steady, almost amused expression held me captive, drawing me in like a magnet.
