Page 19 of Arrogant Puck

I smile back, unsure how to respond. She offers me a shot glass filled with something clear.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Courage,” she says, smiling at me a little too much.

I drink.

It burns on the way down, and I cough once, embarrassed.

She laughs. Not unkindly.

She’s staring at me with eyes that are too curious. I have to swallow the lump in my throat.

“Ready?” she perks up.

I nod, wondering what the hell I just got myself into.

The bar is tucked behind a row of warehouses. Neon-pink lighting spills out of the windows. There’s a line out front, mostly women, dressed like they have something to prove.

Emma flashes the bouncer a grin, and we’re waved inside like regulars. I walk past him, confused, but follow Emma in anyway.

The bass hits first. Then the warmth, thick and heady, like perfume and sweat and sex. The lights flicker violet and blue, strobing across shoulders and eyes and the curve of mouths too close together.

I trail behind Emma to the bar. She orders two drinks—something dark and citrusy. The rim of my glass is sticky.

I sip. It’s strong.

I nurse it while we sit along the back wall. I’m watching everything: the way people move, how easy it is for strangers to touch each other here. How no one hesitates. But then I realize that there’s a lot of women and beautiful men here. I glance around wondering where the hell I am, but Emma just smiles at me.

I feel a little dizzy. From the drink or the noise or the fact that I’m here, doing something I wouldn’t have done six months ago.

“Ever been with a girl?” Emma asks casually, loud enough to be heard but quiet enough not to draw attention.

I blink. “No.”

She doesn’t tease. Doesn’t smirk. Just sips her drink.

“You ever think about it?” she asks after a beat.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I’ve never… I mean, it’s not that I’m against it.”

“But?”

I stare at the ice in my glass. “I think I’m just… not.”

She nods, unfazed. “That’s fair.”

I wait for something else—pushback, pressure. My heart races fast. But she turns to watch the dance floor instead, like she asked out of curiosity, not expectation.

I breathe a little easier.

Until someone slides into the space beside me. A woman. Short hair. Leather jacket. Eyes like a dare.

“Hey,” she says to me. “You’ve got a killer mouth.”

I glare at her, startled. “What? My mouth?”

She leans in. “Wanna dance?”

---