1. Chapter 1

Chapter one

8th August 2017

“ K illian!” he shouts, waving his hand in front of my face.

I shake my head, clearing the fog that has settled over my thoughts, and turn to see Ethan grinning at me, clearly amused.

Ethan and I go way back. We’ve known each other since childhood, growing up on the same street, with our mothers being the closest of friends. Our bond was forged early, partly due to the closeness of our birthdays—just a month apart, with me being the older one at twenty-six.

Last year, however, brought a heavy change when Ethan's parents were tragically taken from him in an unexpected accident. It was a blow that affected both of us deeply. Despite the hardships, our friendship has remained a constant source of support and strength, an anchor in the stormy seas of life.

“I’m good,” I assure Ethan, but Jasper, who’s standing on the other side of him, raises an eyebrow sceptically. It’s clear he’s not buying my attempt to brush off whatever’s on my mind.

Ethan and I first crossed paths with Jasper back in high school. We were the trio that always found a way to slip away to the back of the field, escaping the mundane routine to get high. Those summer days were the best—sun blazing down, the heat rising, and rock music blaring from a portable speaker. The thrill of the moment was only heightened by the attention of the girls who’d chase after us, their laughter mingling with the music. But amidst all that chaos, my focus eventually narrowed onto one particular girl who captured my attention more than the rest. She was special, and she changed everything for me.

"Are you sure?" Jasper asks, his tone laced with doubt.

"I'm sure," I reply, though my mind is far from convinced. I’m deep in contemplation about the twists and turns my life has taken.

Ethan lets out a hearty chuckle and gives me a friendly slap on the back. “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, brother. You’re a free man now. Sure, you were tied down to that absolute psychopath for a few months, but those days are over. Now’s your chance to let loose, party hard, and chase after as many women as you want.”

His words are meant to lighten the mood, and I appreciate the attempt. Still, it’s hard to shake the lingering weight of recent events.

The smug grin on Ethan’s face tells me he’s already picturing the wild escapades he’d dive into if he were in my shoes. But honestly, the idea of sleeping around doesn’t appeal to me. Sure, I get a lot of attention, but that’s not what I’m after. What I truly want is a simple, happy life with someone special to share it with—not just a series of fleeting encounters.

As for Ethan’s description of Heather—calling her a psychopath might be a bit harsh, but it’s not entirely off the mark. She was needy and demanding, with trust issues and a fiery temper. If she didn’t get what she wanted, she’d have a meltdown. Once, in a particularly dramatic outburst, she even slashed both tyres on my motorbike.

Reflecting on it, I suppose “psychopath” isn’t too far from the truth. I stayed with her longer than I should have, partly because I didn’t want to face the loneliness of being single. If I’d have had my head screwed on right, I would have ended that relationship sooner. But now, with the dating scene being what it is, finding someone truly meaningful seems like an overwhelming challenge. It makes me yearn for the days when meeting someone meant face-to-face encounters and genuine courtship, rather than swiping left and right in a digital sea of potential matches.

Unlike me, Ethan stays far away from dating apps. He has no interest in pursuing a relationship and thrives on the attention he naturally attracts. Standing at six foot three with dark blonde locks that cascade effortlessly, ocean blue eyes that never fail to capture attention, and a heavily tattooed athletic physique, it’s no wonder he draws so many admirers.

Jasper, on the other hand, also attracts a fair share of attention, though he’s as disinterested in acting on it as I am. With his pastel blue hair, deep brown eyes, a beard and adorned with tattoos, including some on his face, Jasper is undeniably striking. Despite his good looks and charm, he’s searching for something long-term, unlike Ethan who prefers flings. At least Jasper seems to have his priorities straight.

I can't entirely fault Ethan’s approach, though. He suffered a crushing blow a few years ago when he discovered his then-girlfriend—whom he had planned to propose to—cheating on him with one of our former friends, Thomas. To make matters worse, Thomas and Stacey vanished, and we later learned they had married and moved across the country. The betrayal left a deep mark on Ethan. After the revelation, he went on a three-day drinking binge, only to return with a facade of normalcy. It’s clear that experience has shaped his reluctance to commit; the fear of opening his heart to someone new only to have it shattered again is a painful memory he struggles to shake off.

Feeling the cold breeze against my face makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end as I take a drag from my cigarette, waiting to get into Laser, the most talked-about nightclub in this otherwise forgettable town. The term "hottest" is a bit of a stretch—Laser is more of a sweaty, overcrowded hotspot frequented by university students who drink far more than they can handle. Still, it’s the most decent option around.

The club’s entrance policy is notoriously strict. It’s known for occasionally letting in underage patrons, but recently they’ve cracked down hard. The rules are simple but rigid: if you’re a woman, you can get away with just about anything in terms of attire. For guys, though, it's a different story. If you're not wearing the right shoes, your outfit is questionable, or you simply give off a weird vibe, you're not getting in.

As we wait, a young woman ahead of us catches my attention. She looks barely eighteen and is wearing a ridiculously short, tight pink leather dress that leaves little to the imagination. She adjusts her dress to ensure her cleavage is prominently displayed and approaches the bouncer with a flirtatious smile, presenting her ID.

The bouncer takes the ID, glancing at it before turning his eyes back to her with a smirk. “This is fake,” he says, his tone almost amused.

Her mouth drops open in disbelief. “It’s not!” she protests, crossing her arms beneath her cleavage, clearly hoping to distract him with her assets. The bouncer remains unmoved, his gaze firmly fixed on her face.

“Come back when you have a real ID and are actually over eighteen,” he replies, tossing her fake ID back to her.

She snatches it up, huffing with indignation, and storms off in her impractical high heels, her steps echoing sharply on the pavement as she joins a group of other disappointed girls who had already been turned away.

It never ceases to amaze me how people think they have a chance. If one ID is fake, it's almost a given that the others in the group are too.

As the line shortens, our turn approaches. When the bouncer finally looks at me, a smile tugs at the corners of his lips. He recognises me, and his expression softens slightly as he waves us through.

“Killian! Long time no see! How are things?” Sam calls out with genuine warmth.

Sam is one of my regular clients at the tattoo parlour, always coming in for new ink despite already being heavily covered. He never misses an opportunity to fill in the little gaps, and during our sessions, we chat about everything from life and hobbies to his family. He often tells me about his wife, Abigail, and their two kids, Tyler and Madison. We bond over our shared love for rock music, which always plays softly in the background. Overall, he’s a great guy and someone I consider a friend.

As I approach, Sam extends his hand. We exchange a quick handshake, followed by what we call a "bro hug"—a hearty pat on the back.

“I’m good,” I reply. “How’s the wife and kids?”

“Same old, same old,” he responds with a smile. “Anyway, I’m due for a new session for some fillers. I’ll give you a call this week to set it up if that’s alright with you?”

“Absolutely!” I grin. “Just shoot me your availability, and I’ll find a slot for you.”

“Sweet!” Sam says, opening the glass door. “And hey, you guys head straight in. Let the woman at the counter know you’re with me—she’ll hook you up with a discount.”

“Thanks, Sam,” I say with a smile as I walk past him, Ethan and Jasper following closely behind. We push through the glass doors and head inside, eager to enjoy the night.

As we make our way deeper into the club, we navigate through a corridor adorned with glittery black walls and pink strobe lights. The faint hum of rock music grows louder as we approach the main area. We pause outside a booth where a woman in her early twenties sits behind a small counter on a stool. Her tight top and layers of makeup make her stand out, though not necessarily in a flattering way.

“Tenner each,” she says, her gum popping loudly as she chews with her mouth wide open.

I have a pet peeve about people chewing with their mouths open. It’s one of those little things that just gets under my skin.

Ethan steps up, clearly unfazed. “We’re with Sam. He told us to mention it.”

The woman looks Ethan up and down, rolling her eyes dramatically. “Fine,” she says with a huff, tapping away on the screen. “Fiver each.”

I reach for my wallet, but Ethan is already tossing fifteen pounds onto the counter. “I’ll cover this. You two can buy me a drink,” he says with a grin.

“Deal,” Jasper chuckles, as I slide my wallet back into my pocket.

The woman looks up at me, chewing her gum noisily. “Hands,” she commands, causing me to grimace. Her attitude is already grating on my nerves.

“What’s your problem?” she snaps when she notices my reaction.

“Nothing,” I reply curtly, eager to get this over with.

“Give me your hand, then,” she says with a sarcastic edge.

What the fucks her problem?

I extend my hand, but she immediately frowns and sighs. “A hand I can stamp that hasn’t got a fucking tattoo on it.”

“Both of my hands are tattooed,” I respond, turning my right hand over to show a clear patch of skin on my wrist. “So, I guess you’ll have to stamp the inside of my right wrist.”

She rolls her eyes again but reluctantly stamps my wrist, then turns her attention to Ethan, who is now leaning casually against the counter.

“Am I going to have the same issue with you?” she asks, her tone dripping with disdain.

“Nope,” Ethan replies with a playful wink.

Unfortunately for him, her expression doesn’t soften. “Not in a million years, pretty boy.”

As the woman stamps their hands, I glance down at my wrist to see the club's logo—a lightning bolt with the name “Laser” in the middle—blending seamlessly with my existing tattoos. I idly wonder if having a club logo tattooed would earn you free entry for life. Not that it’s a practical idea—though I do have a fair share of tattoos that some might consider ridiculous.

A gentle nudge brings me back to the moment. I look up to see Ethan nodding towards the club entrance, signalling that it's time to go in. As we approach the next set of doors, the thundering rock music becomes almost unbearable, the kind of volume that could burst your eardrums if you’re too close to the speakers.

The crowd inside is thick and pulsating. Every step forward requires us to manoeuvre through a sea of people dancing, chatting, and drinking heavily. The strobe lights above cast shifting rainbow patterns across the packed dance floor, adding to the chaotic atmosphere.

Once we finally break free from the dense crowd, the air around us feels stifling, almost suffocating. It’s clear the place has probably exceeded its capacity, but who cares about safety when the party’s this wild?

We make our way to the bar, where I take in the mirrored wall lined with bottles of vodka and trays of lime and lemon wedges, prepared for a night of heavy drinking. From what I can see, they’re anticipating a busy night—there must be at least twenty to thirty boxes of vodka stacked behind the counter.

As we wait to be served, I notice Ethan’s gaze fixed on something—or rather, someone. I turn to see a waitress with six-inch heels, a short black leather skirt, and a tiny pink top that barely covers her chest. Her purple hair is styled in a high ponytail, and her cherry red lipstick stands out as she balances a tray of shots. It’s clear Ethan has found his target for the night.

To snap Ethan out of his trance, I nudge him with my elbow. He glances at me momentarily before turning his attention back to the waitress, who’s selling shots to a group of young guys who can’t seem to tear their eyes away from her cleavage.

“She’s hot,” Ethan says, making me chuckle.

“That’s the whole point of her job. Sex sells ,” I reply.

Ethan’s eyes light up as he adds, “ She can sell me whatever she wants. I’m buying.” He licks his lips, and I can’t help but shake my head at his eagerness.

As if she can hear him across the bar, the waitress turns and locks eyes with us, her gaze lingering on Ethan. With a confident strut, she makes her way over, stopping right in front of him. She smiles, taking him in with a deliberate, slow look. “Looking for me, handsome?” she asks, her voice dripping with seduction.

Ethan grins widely. “Well, I wouldn’t say no to you,” he replies, biting his lip and letting his eyes roam over her.

She closes the distance between them, now standing extremely close. She places a hand on his chin, gently lifting his face so he meets her eyes instead of focusing on her body. “My eyes are up here, handsome. Play your cards right, and you might get to see more. I get off work in two hours. If you’re still around then, you can buy me a drink, and we can see where the night takes us,” she says, releasing his chin with a teasing smile.

Ethan smirks, his eyes still locked on her. “Oh, I’ll be here alright, beautiful.”

“I count on it,” she says, winking at him before turning to strut her way over to another group waiting to buy shots.

Ethan turns to me, his excitement evident as he grabs my shoulders. “Guess who’s getting laid tonight, Killian?” he grins, and I shake my head, chuckling slowly.

“Yo, what can I get you?” a voice shouts, pulling my attention to the bartender leaning over the bar to be heard over the blaring music.

Leaning in, I shout back, “Three beers, any.” He nods and moves down the bar, opening a fridge and pulling out three bottles.

Returning with the beers, he grabs a bottle opener and pops the tops off, setting them on the bar. “Twelve,” he shouts.

I hand him a twenty, and after a brief moment, he returns my change, which I slip back into my wallet before stuffing it into my back pocket.

Just as I reach for the beers, Ethan grabs both bottles and hands one to Jasper. I lift my beer to my lips, feeling the cold liquid slide down my throat. The bitterness of the beer makes me grimace at the bottle. “God, this stuff is shit,” I mutter.

“Isn’t it always?” Ethan chuckles, taking a swig and scanning the crowd, clearly in high spirits.

Turning my attention back to the club, I see the DJ perched on a small platform in the centre of the room. The surrounding dance floor is packed with people, their bodies moving in sync with the pounding music. Staff members are constantly weaving through the crowd, collecting discarded bottles and cups to prevent any hazards.

Across the dance floor, I spot a couple engaged in an enthusiastic make-out session. Their kiss is rough and clumsy, their tongues clashing as the guy's hand makes its way to her rear, giving it a hefty squeeze. A club photographer, ever on the lookout for candid shots, snaps a quick picture. The girl pulls away, flashing a bright smile at the camera, prompting the photographer to take another shot of them both posing. As soon as he moves on, they resume their passionate embrace.

Another nudge from Ethan draws my attention to the far corner of the club. Two men are trading punches, while a girl frantically tries to separate them. It’s a reminder of how alcohol can escalate situations—nights out often end in one of two ways: either you're stumbling drunk and vomiting, or you’re left with bruises and bloody noses. Tonight, it looks like it's going to be the latter for those involved.

As the bouncers escort the fighting men out, something—or rather, someone—catches my eye. In the corner of the room, a brunette is dancing with her friends.

As I watch her sway her hips to the rhythm of the music, my gaze takes in every detail from head to toe. She wears tight blue skinny jeans with intentional rips, a short black netted top that reveals a hint of the black bra underneath, and a pair of black heels that accentuate her every movement. Her long, chestnut-brown hair cascades in waves down to her hips, catching the strobe lights as she dances.

When she briefly turns in my direction, I don’t get a clear view of her face, but I can’t miss the intricate tattoos that cover her arms. Black and grey floral designs snake their way down to the tops of her hands, adding a layer of mystique to her already captivating presence.

Despite the throngs of women around her, some dressed in more revealing outfits, there’s something about her that pulls me in, commanding my full attention. It's not just her looks but the way she moves, the way she seems to lose herself in the music, creating a magnetic aura that makes her stand out amidst the chaos of the club. She’s a true enchantress, and I can’t help but feel drawn to her.

As she dances, she spins, and that's when I finally catch a glimpse of her face. It feels like the world around me slows down, the vibrant chaos of the club fading into a blur as the light above cascades down, illuminating her with a celestial glow. In this moment, she seems almost otherworldly, as if stars have gathered in her eyes and angels themselves are highlighting her presence just for me.

Her smile blossoms, and as it does, so does mine. The way her lips curve, the warmth in her expression—it all amplifies the natural flush in her rosy cheeks, which contrasts beautifully against her sun-kissed skin. She’s more stunning than I ever remembered, more captivating than I could have imagined. In the midst of the crowded, noisy nightclub, she stands out like a beacon, her beauty shining through every beat of the music.

Laelia Jayne Marie Thorn.

My first love.