Page 68 of Knot So Sweet
Maybe Meredith's right.
"I'll be ready in five." Racing up the stairs, I call over my shoulder, "And I get first dibs on the jukebox."
The Watering Hole looks exactly like what happens when a farmhouse gives up on respectability and decides to become a dive bar instead. Neon beer signs flicker against wood-paneled walls covered in faded photos of local landmarks from the 1980s. The jukebox in the corner predates my birth, all chrome and colored lights, currently belting out "Livin' on a Prayer" like it's personally invested in everyone's dreams.
I slide onto a cracked vinyl barstool, the kind that sticks to the back of your thighs if you move wrong, and take inventory. Two farmers in mud-caked boots argue good-naturedly about corn prices at a corner table, their alpha posturing disguised as agricultural debate. A trucker with "Mama Tried" tattooed across his knuckles nurses a beer while texting someone, his leather-and-diesel scent marking him as unmated and probably planning to stay that way.
Three women in grain-elevator uniforms down tequila shots and increasingly loud laughter, their beta energy cutting through the thick cloud of competing pheromones like a breath of fresh air. In the back corner booth, an omega sits nestled between two alphas from what looks like the Miller pack, their protective scents mixing with her sweet vanilla as one traces gentle circles on her shoulder while the other murmurs something that makes her laugh softly. The territorial edge in the air suggests they're newly bonded.
"Two whiskey sours," Meredith tells the bartender, a silver-haired woman whose name tag reads "Dolores".
"Make mine a double," I add, earning a raised eyebrow from Meredith. "Mrs. Henderson wasn't exaggerating about today being rough."
Dolores slides our drinks across the bar with practiced efficiency.
I take a sip and nearly moan with pleasure. "The worst."
Meredith settles onto the stool beside me. I take another sip, the whiskey warming my chest. "All this feels new to me again."
"What?"
"Having a friend, and having drinks with them." I pause, tracing the rim of my glass. "Mark didn't like me having friends. Said they were a bad influence, filled my head with ideas."
Meredith's expression darkens. "What kind of ideas?"
“Crazy stuff like having opinions and making my own decisions. Which is why, when I had money, the first thing I did was file a protective order against Mark.” I laugh, but there’s a brittle edge to it.
“Good for you!” Meredith says, patting me on the back. She’s the first person I’ve told about it. Even the alphas don’t know, mainly because I still have my guard up. But I’m letting it down, little by little.
Fuck. Who am I kidding? It’s not just coming down, it’s gone. I hate to admit it, but there is no guard. I’m practically an open door at this rate. I’ve been with all three of them, and I can’t get enough.
The grain elevator women burst into laughter at something, and one of them stumbles toward the jukebox to feed it quarters. Soon "Girls Just Want to Have Fun" blasts through the speakers.
"Perfect song choice," I mutter, raising my glass in a mock toast. "Here's to girls who want to have fun without asking permission first."
Meredith clinks her glass against mine. "To making your own damn decisions."
"Amen to that." I drain half my drink in one go, feeling deliciously reckless. "I'm sure by tomorrow morning, half the town will know I was here drowning my sorrows."
"Probably." She grins. "But they won't hear what we're talking about. They'll think you're plotting your next move."
I signal Dolores for another round, lifting my hand with more confidence than I feel. The trucker at the bar catches my eye and raises his beer bottle in greeting.
"You ladies having a good evening?"
"Better than this morning," I call back with a grin. "Though the bar isn't set high."
He chuckles and returns to his phone, shaking his head.
Around our third round, liquid courage has loosened both our tongues and lowered our defenses. The bar feels warmer, the conversations louder, the jukebox crooning like it knows our secrets.
Meredith drags her fingertip through the wet ring her glass left behind. "Can I tell you something?" she asks, suddenly serious.
"Honey, we're three drinks in at a dive bar on a Thursday night. You can tell me anything short of where you hid the bodies."
She laughs despite herself, but her smile fades quickly. "I had a pack once."
The vulnerability in her voice makes me lean closer, my snarky attitude softening. "What happened?"
