Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Ismooth a hand down my gown. I’ve chosen the location of this birthday carefully. This is no rave, no wild club, no particularly intense house party like when I turned twenty. Compared to all my former birthdays, this place is ridiculously respectful.

This hotel bar is already full despite the relatively early hour, populated by people whose bank accounts make my trust fund look like pocket change. If Devan tries to manhandle me out of here, it will do more than raise eyebrows.

If he comes at all.

I twist on my barstool and pick up my glass of scotch. It’s expensive and peaty and oh so pretty as I swirl it in my glass. I don’t drink scotch often. It’s filled with too many memories and even the good ones are a sharp knife; a breathless moment of release, followed by shockingly intense pain. Even now.

This might all be for naught. Devan has the uncanny ability to sense when I’m about to tip over the edge. I feel that way right now, but it’s entirely different than my birthdays since my parents died. I ignore the doubt that arises at that thought. It is different. This is closure that I desperately need. A period at the end of so much grief.

Before, I was flinging myself headlong into a bonfire just to feel something.

Tonight, I’m leaping out of a plane and praying my parachute isn’t about to malfunction.

I take a sip of the scotch, letting it play over my tongue. It tastes like bittersweet memories, and my throat gets a little tight in response.

“You’re too pretty to be drinking that, darling.”

I bite back a sigh of impatience. The trio of men sitting at the table in the corner have been watching me from the moment I walked in. They’re all about ten years older than me, and all sporting wedding rings. This foolish soul clumsily slipped off his before he worked up the courage to approach me.

I don’t have many standards, especially when I get to feeling too tight for my skin. But there are lines even I won’t cross. Hurting myself with my actions is one thing; hurting someone else is something else altogether. I refuse to do it.

“Are you about to tell me that only old men drink scotch?” I hold this stranger’s gaze as I lift the glass to my lips and take a long swallow. “Guess I’m not your type.”

He stares, alcohol obviously dulling his senses and making it take time for my words to penetrate. Slowly, understanding dawns. His already red face flushes a red so dark, it’s nearly purple. “You’ve got a mouth on you.”

“Most people do.”

His eyes snag on my lips, painted a crimson to match the gown that hugs my body like a second skin. “Bet you know what to do with it.”

I’m already tired of this conversation, already bored with this man who thinks a dull pick-up line and a short temper are the least bit attractive. “You’ll never know.”

I turn back to the bar, but I can’t help watching him out of the corner of my eye. If he reacted strongly enough to a simple comment about my obvious lack of interest, I doubt he’s going to take a clear rejection now. The bartender is occupied with a pair of pretty women on the other side of the room. There will be no help from him. Not that I need help, but getting into a confrontation will ruin my chances of this night playing out how I’ve planned. I don’t know if and when Devan will show up, and the last thing I need is him riding in to save me when I don’t need to be saved.

Not this year.

The man draws himself up, and this time I can’t stifle my sigh. Confrontation, it is. If I take care of this quickly, hopefully it won’t derail the rest of the night. “Look, you seem like a nice guy—”

“Do you know who I am? You can’t talk to me like that.” He leans forward, getting in my space.

I stare at the bottles populating the wall across from me. They’re all top shelf and expensive, even though the presentation is a bit dull. Kind of like this guy. I shrug. “It’s a free country. I didn’t ask you to come over here. I can talk to you however I damn well please.”

“You little bitch. You think you’re hot shit, don’t you?” His voice goes high and angry. “Look at me when I’m talking to you, bitch.”

The air in the bar shifts. I shiver, the small hairs lifting on the back of my neck. Oh no. I thought I could take care of this before Devan arrived. I’d half convinced myself he wouldn’t show up at all. Looks like I’m wrong on both counts.

“Are you listening to me?” The man reaches a rough hand to wrap around my arm.

He never makes contact.

I feel him at my back half a breath before Devan grabs the stranger’s wrist. “The lady said she wasn’t interested.” His voice is low, but clear. He also sounds fucking furious.

Damn it.

“Who the fuck are—“ he curses as Devan tightens his grip, causing the man’s hand to splay out. “Fine. Fuck. She’s ugly, anyway.”

“Leave.” The quiet violence in Devan’s tone makes me shiver. If I were smarter, I wouldn’t find that so attractive. I certainly wouldn’t be quietly delighted by him defending me, even though it’s going to make accomplishing my goals for tonight that much more difficult.

He came.

Victory makes me lightheaded. So much so that I nearly miss his next words. “Get up. We’re leaving.”

Leaving. Because he’s not here for me, not really. He’s here to bundle me up and cart me to safety like he’s done for the last six years. I can’t let that happen, and him interceding just now is only going to make this look like it’s just another birthday.

I have one chance to get things back on track. I can’t yell or get dramatic or cause a scene. That will just confirm to Devan that he’s right and I’m in trouble. The only option is to not give him anything to work with. The bartender finally returns to the bar itself and I motion him over with a smile. “Another, please.”

“Hazel.” The warning in Devan’s tone makes my thighs clench together. “You’re going home.”

No. I am most certainly not going home. Not alone. “Can’t go home,” I say breezily. “Home is a few thousand miles away.” At least one of them.

“You have an apartment a few blocks from here.”

Of course he knows that. He’s the executor of the trust fund I inherited with my parents’ death. He’s been painfully responsible with it; from what my financial advisor tells me, I have even more money now than I did upon my parents’ death because of Devan’s careful investments. He never meets with me about money. All my requests go through the financial advisor. Not that Devan tells me no often. He doesn’t tell me anything at all.

That would require speaking to me.

I check the diamond watch on my wrist. Not much longer now.

“Hazel.”

“Have a drink with me, Devan.” I lift my glass. “For old time’s sake.”

“Hazel.” Something filters into his tone, something besides barely restrained irritation. Devan looks around, seems to clock how many people are watching us. “You’re going to be difficult, aren’t you?”

I smile, though my chest hurts a bit. “I’m told I’m always difficult.”

He turns back to me, that strange look still lingering in his dark eyes. Finally, he sighs. “One drink and then I’m putting you in a cab.”

Yeah, I don’t think so. I almost laugh, but he won’t appreciate it. I’ve only won the first encounter; it will take a lot of doing to win the war itself. The bartender chooses that moment to appear with the second drink. He sets it on the bar and moves off without a word.

I sip my scotch. “You know, it’s very stalkerish that you keep figuring out where I am on my birthday. Seems like a lot of work without much payoff.”

Devan glares at his drink as if it insulted his mother. “Don’t play innocent, Hazel. It doesn’t suit you. All I have to do is look you up on social media. You post your location for the entire world to see.”

“Oh. That.” I smile against my glass. I always, always post leading up to my birthday and tag my location. I have ever since that first birthday in Mallorca. “It makes sense for me to post so often. I make a lot of money on social media sponsorships. They like to send me places. Nothing strange about that.” It wasn’t something I was overly into in my teens, but there’s a certain high that only a perfectly curated social media feed can deliver. I’ve even started designing them for other people and making a good living at it. Not that I need the money, but I like the work.

“You’re a menace.” He says it so softly, I don’t think he means for me to hear it.

He has no idea.

We drink in silence for several long moments. Or, rather, I drink and Devan watches me. Now that the time is upon me, my courage wavers. Just because Devan has been such a huge, if contained, part of my life doesn’t mean he feels the same way. I very well could have imagined that spark that seems to sizzle between us whenever he gets too close. Just like I could have misinterpreted what happened on my last birthday…

I close my eyes and steel my nerves. No. I didn’t misinterpret. I’m nearly certain of it, but there’s really only one way to find out and it involves shooting my shot in a way he can’t ignore. “I’m not getting in a cab, Devan.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m actually not.” I twist on my barstool to face him, only stopping when my knees connect with his. The tiniest of touches, but it shoots through me like a bomb going off. “It’s almost my birthday.”

“I’m aware.” His thigh tenses, but he doesn’t otherwise move... Not even to shift away.

“You’re early. Normally you don’t show up until the day of, and you at least let me have some fun before you show up to act like the birthday Grinch.” Though I doubt what happened last year could be called fun by any definition of the word. Fun is light and fluffy and maybe a little chaotic. My last birthday was fiery and burrowed beneath my skin in a way I’m afraid I’ll never escape. I’ve certainly fantasized about it often enough.

Best not to think about that if I want to keep my focus.

“Strange way to say thank you.”

“Because I’m not saying thank you,” I snap back. “I never asked you to come looking for me, and I never asked you to save me.”

Devan stares at the wall of bottles behind the bar. “You needed saving.”

As much as I want to argue, it’s the truth. I was free falling for a long time after my parents’ death, and even when I finally found my feet, the one day of year certain to send me into a tailspin is my birthday. Every single fucking year. So maybe he’s a tiny bit right about my needing saving. “There may have been a few times when you were helpful.”

He finally meets my gaze, and my breath catches in my throat. He’s so fucking handsome, I can barely stand it. A thick body that might give really good hugs or might just allow him to rip someone’s head clean off. Dark hair that’s a little too long and showing no signs of graying, despite the fact that he has to be in his early forties at this point. A really well-maintained beard that smelled like cloves last year when I had my face buried in his neck while he carried me.

I can’t read Devan’s expression clearly. All I know is that it’s intense. He speaks in a low voice, saying so much with only a single word. “Amsterdam.”

“Amsterdam,” I agree on a sigh. Twenty-two. Bar-hopping with a bunch of people I’d just met that night, too many drinks; one of which ended up getting dosed with something. I don’t remember Devan showing up. I don’t remember much of anything at all after taking shots with a group of guys I’d declared my new best friends. The next thing I knew, I came to, draped over a toilet with Devan’s hands in my hair, holding it away from my face as I puked my guts out. That’s the only time he’s stayed longer than to just deliver me to a plane back home. He took care of me.

He’s been taking care of me for a long time, though not in a guardian kind of way.

I force myself to hold his gaze. I spent too many years being a total train wreck, but I’m not that girl anymore. Realistically, I have a lifetime of work ahead of me but I’ve made a lot of progress since twenty-two. I’m putting in my time in therapy, working through all the baggage I’ve been dragging behind me for far too long.

Then what is tonight about?

I ignore the little voice that sounds remarkably like my therapist. Tonight is about closure. Shutting the door on one part of my life and opening a different door into the future. And…maybe… Maybe I’ve still got a wild streak, because I want this. I want it more knowing I shouldn’t have it. “This isn’t Amsterdam. That was a bad birthday.”

Devan leans forward the tiniest bit, his dark eyes drilling into mine. “Have there been any good birthdays, Hazel?”

I flinch a little. It’s a fair question. My first instinct is to avoid it, but that’s not fair to either of us. Instead, I take a slow breath and straighten my spine. “I’m hoping this one will be the first.”

Devan holds my gaze and takes a long drink of his scotch. He jolts a little. For just a moment, he looks less like a personified storm cloud and more like an actual human. “This is Caol Ila.”

That thick feeling in my throat comes back. It feels good and it hurts all at the same time, and somehow that makes everything better. How can a person appreciate the good things if they’ve never felt the sting of loss? I’ll never know. I never got the opportunity to know. “Mmhmm.” My smile trembles a little around the edges. “Dad’s favorite.”

“Yeah.” The faintest smile touches his lips. “Yeah, it was.” For the millionth time, I wonder how this man became my guardian. I understand that he and my father served in the army together and that bonds a person, but is it really how someone chooses who should raise their child should the worst come to pass? And my mother, the pacifist? I can’t imagine her signing off on this choice, especially considering Devan was never around, but obviously she did because here we are.

We finish our drinks in silence, and he sets his glass down with a clink. “Let’s go.”

“Pass.” I start to motion to the bartender, but Devan catches my hand in a firm but impossible to escape grip. Not that I’m trying to escape. But giving in too easily won’t do, either. I eye where he holds me. “Devan, what time is it?”

He doesn’t release me as he checks his watch. “Twelve-fifteen.”

I smile. This time, it feels really. Really, truly real. “That means you’re no longer the executor of my trust fund. Happy birthday to me.” Now’s the time for courage, to put it all out there. For better or worse, I’ll have no regrets. I lean forward and lower my voice. “Do you know what I’d like for my birthday?”

“What?” He asks warily.

“You.”