Chapter 4

Iactually let my hair down.

It took me over an hour to tame my curls, not realizing how long they had grown. The longer they grow, the looser they become which isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

My mother always hated my hair. It’s not the dead straight blonde like hers or my sisters. I was born with reddish-brown hair—a shock to my parents. Over the years, the color shifted from darker to lighter, even blonde for my high school prom.

As a child, my mother would demand her expensive hairdressers to straighten the curls to stop it looking like a mop as she often referred to it. Somehow, their style influenced my own over the past few years, unbeknownst to me. I always wear it into a tight bun similar to my mother and sisters.

Having it out, drifting past my shoulders and against my back feels nice for a change. I also don’t mind the color—copper brown which complements my Californian tan.

I didn’t want to burden Lana with a complete wardrobe borrow, so I headed to the closest mall to purchase a black clutch and some strappy heels which tied around my calves. The shop assistant said they were very in. The latest trend, in fact.

What I do know is my mother would have a heart attack if she saw me dressed like this. And, to be honest, that means I’m on the right track.

There are a few bars in Manhattan Beach, local joints with a bustling nightlife. I settle for a bar not too far from home so if the night is a bust, I won’t have to walk miles in these shoes, which I believe are spawns of the Devil. They began to pinch as soon as I left home, my poor baby toes in agony from the very few steps I’ve taken.

I settle for a Cuban bar and restaurant. The music blares across the speakers, something Latin yet enjoyable and sets the mood. The noise of the patrons overpowers the Hispanic beats, and amongst the crowd, I began to feel nervous being here on my own.

Maybe this wasn’t the best idea.

I can hear Lana yelling, “Put yourbig girl pantieson.”

Just breathe.

Three.

Two.

One.

At the bar, I squeeze my way between two gentlemen to order a glass of champagne. Then, it hits me like a ton of bricks—that’s my mother’s drink.

If I want to be wild, I need to think wild.

Tequila, it is.

The bartender is busy, leaning forward while serving each customer. I try to catch his attention, waiting for what feels like forever, only to have him serve me when a group of ladies push me forward.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry, babe!”

The woman is wearing a sash that says Bride to Be and a crown on her head. It’s quite comical and very cliché. Nicholas would turn his nose up at women who partied singlehood, though God forbid if men didn’t have a bachelor party with strippers to farewell their freedom.

“It’s okay.” I smile, keeping the conversation amicable. “You have to celebrate your final days of freedom, right?”

“Right?” she squeals, embracing me in a huge hug.

There’s something to be said about being embraced by a stranger. It’s awkward, uncomfortable, and you don’t know when it’s too soon to pull away.

“Girls,” she hollers to the group of women behind her. “Meet our new recruit… sorry, what’s your name?”

“Gabriella.”

“Gabriella is partying with us!”

“I don’t think that’s such a good?—”

She pulls me into that awkward embrace again, grabbing a shot from the tray her friend ordered, then passing it to me. “You have to celebrate with me… married life is going to be sooo boring.”

I contemplated asking why she would even consider getting married if she thought it will be boring but decide to leave well enough alone given I’m one to talk. She is drunk, and nothing good can come from the conversation. At least I’m no longer alone, and that, in itself, is rather comforting.

She motions for me to drink, raising my hand toward my mouth until I’m forced to chug the thing down—a Redheaded Slut shot. Instantly, I taste the sweet cranberry followed by something else potent.

Oh dear God, it tastes like hell on fire.

“Yeah, girl, you did it!” She throws her arms around my body, squeezing me tight, barely allowing me to breathe.

Her friend orders another round.

I shake my head, willing to stop, but Tiffany, as her friend calls her, demands we do another round before hitting the dance floor.

Time begins to feel like a blur. The music changes as requested by Tiffany. We dance away to some Mambo, then she begs the DJ to throw in some Beyoncé, and somewhere during Tiffany’s request for Brittany Spears “Toxic,” the room begins to spin, and I can’t control my laughter.

“You okay, Gabbie?”

I hate that nickname, but when drunk on Redheaded Sluts, she can call me a crack whore, and I will oblige.

“Yeah, is it just me, or is the room spinning?”

Tiffany giggles, hiccupping loudly as well. “Me too! So, get this… there’s a guy at the bar, he kinda asked about you.”

I turn to face the bar. A cute guy dressed in chino slacks and a button-up white shirt grins. Definitely handsome, especially when he smiles from a distance.

“Oh, well, I’m kind of taken.”

“Really? Boyfriend?”

“Um… fiancé. But we’re kind of on a break.”

Tiffany stops dancing immediately. Without warning, she grabs my hand, weaving in and out of the crowd until we’re inside the bathroom as I barely keep up with her. Thankfully, there is no line. What the hell is happening?

“Spill the beans. All of it.”

“What beans?” I ask, confused, trying my best to ignore the unsavory sensation swirling in the pit of my stomach.

“The engaged but on a break situation.”

“Not much to spill,” I tell her, leaning against the wall for support. The tiles on the wall are mosaics. They appear to be spinning around and around, making it hard to think. “I’ve known Nicholas forever since our families are close. Basically, my father arranged our marriage.”

“Arranged marriage? Okay, so why the break?”

I can feel the tears coming on, the Redheaded Sluts turning into my worst enemy. I’m not usually an emotionally unstable human being, but German liquor has its way of unleashing a beast within me.

“I just… I just… it doesn’t feel right.” The lonesome tear escapes, trickling down my cheek. I can’t remember the last time I cried. I am not a crier. My mother says it’s improper to cry and unladylike. You move on from whatever is upsetting you. Rich girls don’t cry, they go spend money on something extravagant and unnecessary.

Two girls attempt to enter the bathroom until Tiffany tells them to back the hell off.

“If it doesn’t feel right, then why not break up for good? You’re sexy. That guy at the bar was eating you up.”

“It’s so complicated. My father is…” I close my eyes trying to think of the words. “He has always controlled our family.” I cry softly as I lean against the wall looking into Tiffany’s concerned eyes. “I was bred to be Nicholas’ wife, that’s what my father told me. He gave me a month to go do whatever the hell I want, but come September first, I need to be walking down the aisle as the new Mrs. King.”

Tiffany rests her hand on my arm, then brings me in for that uncomfortable stranger hug. I welcome it this time, resting my head on her shoulder, wondering why life is so unfair. With her large boobs squashed against my chest, she pulls away minutes later and hands me a tissue.

“And Nicholas? What did he say when you wanted to leave? If my fiancé, Derek, heard me say that, he’d think I was cheating on him or something stupid.”

“I think he understood,” I say with honesty. “He feels the pressure too. I mean, I love him, I think, but it’s like he’s my brother or something.”

Tiffany scrunches up her face. On closer inspection, she has rather full lips. Collagen fillers, no doubt, considering her boobs felt rock hard against my chest.

“Ew… so you’re like screwing your brother?”

“What? No… I just mean we’re comfortable, but there’s no spark. No fireworks.”

Tiffany places her hands on my shoulders, staring me down. “You’ve got this, girl. I believe in you. Don’t let any man tell you what to do. You’re a strong, independent woman.”

There’s something to be said about an empowering speech inside a dingy bathroom while incredibly drunk. Tiffany made me feel like I’m worth a million dollars. With my newfound confidence, I straighten my posture, check the mirror to make sure I don’t have panda eyes, then give her the nod to continue partying the night away.

Tiffany cries boredom not long after, suggesting we find another bar. The thought of walking anywhere makes me want to cry again. My feet are throbbing in my new heels, but thankfully, we stumble into an Irish pub only a few establishments down the road.

This place has a different vibe. For one, it’s less crowded than the other bar, but the people here are much rowdier. There’s a lot of yelling, cheering from random crowds, and nineties music playing over the speakers.

I turn around to find Tiffany has disappeared, and her friend, Michelle, is already at the bar chatting to some guy.

So much for partying the night away.

It’s only just hit eleven, not even midnight. I’m not ready to completely call it a night, so I head straight to the not-so-crowded bar to order myself another drink.

“Hit me up,” I slur, slapping my hand against the woodgrain countertop. It’s sticky, and the area has a stale stench of beer.

“What would you like me to hit you up with?”

I have no idea. The thought of drinking another Redheaded Slut makes me want to hurl again. I scan the bar unable to focus on the names on the glass bottles. There are a lot of them standing side by side in a range of different colors and shapes. The green one looks pretty. Just ask for the pretty one.

Beside me, a guy snickers, and I notice his tall glass of beer. There’s a lot of froth, making it appear barely touched.

I gesture to the glass. “What he’s having.”

The bartender raises his brow. “You sure about that?”

“Yes,” I reply with an enthusiastic grin. Clearing my throat, I attempt to pull out my best Irish accent. “Just to top off the evening. Thanks, sir!”

The guy beside me hides his smirk behind the giant glass. I turn to face him, making it obvious his smirk is annoying me. Ignoring me, he keeps his eyes focused on the wall-mounted television. From the side, you can see his sharp jawline covered with a slight stubble. His hair, a darkish blond, is slightly longer, giving him a casual look. It’s always the hot ones who are assholes.

I fold my arms across my body in defiance. “What’s so funny?”

“Your attempt at an Irish accent.”

His accent is strong. I may be drunk, but he sounds distinctively Australian.

Either way, it doesn’t matter, he’s an asshole for laughing at me. A hot asshole.

“Well, your attempt at an Australian accent is just as bad.”

He cocks his head to the side, shaking it as his lips press into an annoying smirk again. Ignoring me, he tightens his grip around the tall glass, drinking the remnants of his beer before ordering another.

“Typical American girl,” he mutters.

I stand taller, practically stumbling, until he catches me around my waist, annoyed at my clumsy fall. His hands are gripping onto me tight, and I ignore whatever the hell is happening between my legs from a simple touch.

“Excuse me?” I pull his hands off me, staring into his deep green eyes. “That’s very presumptuous of you.”

“That’s a big word for someone intoxicated.”

“Intoxicated is a big word for someone who is a jerk.”

“Oh, so now I’m the jerk? I thought I was the hot asshole?”

Holy crap! Did I say those words out loud? I knew it was a stupid idea to go out. Not only have I made a fool out of myself, I am now starting to feel incredibly ill and lightheaded.

Just power through, one more drink, and you’ll be fine.

“Bartender,” I yell impatiently. “My beer?”

Pulling a glass from the tray, he tilts the nozzle of the tap and pours me a beer, placing it right in front of me. I pull out my purse, only for the asshole to throw a twenty on the countertop.

“It’s on me,” he tells the bartender.

“Um… no.” I take the twenty, shoving it into his shirt pocket. His hard chest lays flat beneath my palm, and for some unknown reason, I take my time pulling away. “I can pay my own way. I am an independent woman, and no man will tell me what to do.”

Thank you, Tiffany.

“Calm down, okay? I just want to see you chug a beer. In fact, I’ll place all the money in my wallet you can’t finish that schooner without throwing up all over those sexy shoes of yours.”

I scan my shoes, noticing him eyeing them at the same time.

“Arrogant much? You’re on! Show me what you got.”

He pulls out two hundred dollars from his wallet, placing it flat on the bench.

Damn! Now I have to prove him wrong.

Something about him irritates me. Perhaps it’s his arrogance or the way he expects me to cave like a girl. He has no clue who I am, so I can be anyone right now. And anyone is the girl who chugs the whole glass without hurling on the sidewalk.

Either way, I have no choice but to finish. I won’t back down.

Not to this arrogant jerk.

Bringing the glass to my lips, I see him out of the corner of my eye staring at me with amusement.

C’mon, Gabriella, you can do it.

Three.

Two.

One.

And drink.