Page 8 of Scarlet Thorns
The interior of The Scarlet Fox is nothing like the sports bars and trendy cocktail lounges Stanley prefers. This place feels like a secret, all dark wood and burgundy velvet, soft jazz flowing from hidden speakers. The lighting is warm and intimate, casting everything in golden shadows that make the space feel like a sanctuary.
The bartender notices me immediately— tall, dark-haired, with an easy smile that reaches his eyes. His rolled-up sleeves reveal forearms marked with intricate tattoos, and there’s something about his presence that feels both professional and genuinely welcoming.
“What can I get you?” he asks, sliding a cocktail napkin across the polished bar.
“Something strong,” I say, my voice still rough from crying. “Something that will help me forget the last two hours of my life.”
He studies my face for a moment— not in a creepy way, but with the practiced assessment of someone who’s seen plentyof heartbreak walk through these doors. “Whiskey neat, or something with more sugar to take the edge off?”
“Whiskey. Definitely whiskey.”
He pours two fingers of amber liquid into a crystal glass and sets it in front of me. The first sip burns, but it’s a clean burn that cuts through the fog of hurt and anger clouding my thoughts.
“Rough night?” he asks, wiping down glasses as he looks up at me.
“Jealous boyfriend drama,” I say, taking another sip. The alcohol is already warming my chest, loosening the tight knot of tension between my shoulder blades.
Something shifts in his expression—a flicker of understanding that goes beyond casual bartender sympathy. “Ah. One of those.”
“One of what?”
“Guys who think their insecurity is your problem to solve.” He leans against the bar, lowering his voice slightly. “Been there. Not fun.”
The whiskey is making me bold, or maybe it’s just the relief of talking to someone who doesn’t immediately dismiss my experience. “How do you know it’s his insecurity and not my actual guilt?”
“Because guilty people don’t cry like you’ve been crying. They get defensive or angry.” He gives me a casual glance over his shoulder. “You look like someone who’s been kicked while they were already down.”
The observation hits harder than it should. I drain the rest of my whiskey and push the glass toward him for a refill.
“I’m Jack, by the way,” he says, pouring another generous measure.
“Ilona.”
“Nice to meet you, Ilona. And for what it’s worth, jealous boyfriends usually reveal more about themselves than about their girlfriends.”
The second whiskey goes down easier, spreading warmth through my limbs and blurring the sharp edges of tonight’s confrontation. Jack continues polishing glasses, occasionally making small talk with other patrons, but his attention keeps returning to me with a kindness I desperately need.
“You know,” he says after I’ve finished my second drink, “we’ve got a private event in the back tonight. Might be exactly what you need to lift your mood a little.”
I raise an eyebrow, the alcohol making me braver than usual. “What kind of event?”
Jack’s smile is mysterious, almost conspiratorial. “Nothing too special. Just… something different. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. But it might help you remember that you’re in control of your own choices.”
The words resonate more than they should. Control. When was the last time I felt truly in control of anything? Stanley controls where we go, what we do, how we spend our time together. My body is controlling me with pain I can’t predict or prevent. Even my own emotions feel like they’re running the show tonight.
“Different how?”
Instead of answering directly, Jack glances around the bar, then gestures for me to follow him. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
The whiskey has made my legs slightly unsteady, but I slide off the barstool and follow him through a doorway I hadn’t noticed before. We walk down a dimly lit corridor that feels like stepping into another world entirely. The walls are lined with rich fabric, and the lighting shifts from warm gold to something more mysterious— deeper shadows punctuated by strategic pools of light.
The corridor ends at a hallway lined with doors, each marked only with a number. The atmosphere here is different— charged with possibility and secrets.
Jack stops and turns to face me, his expression serious but kind. “This is our Masked Night event,” he says quietly. “Anonymous encounters, entirely by choice. You get paired with someone at random.”
I suck in a sharp breath. “Paired with someone? What does that mean?”
He gives me a cheeky grin. “Whatever you want it to mean. But there are no obligations, no expectations beyond what you decide in the moment.”
