We arrive at our destination, distracting me from my thoughts, and he holds the door open for me.
When I step through, I’m immediately in my element. Dark, grungy atmosphere with torn leather barstools. A broken dartboard half hanging off the wall. Signs advertising beer and shot combos in chalk scrawls.
This is much more my speed. It just… speaks to me more.
I can relax in places like this.
We take a seat at the bar. I exhale. “Thank god, I prefer the bar.”
“I figured,” he smirks. “And me too.”
He orders us two beers and the bartender brings them over quickly, plonking them down on the sticky bar surface.
We clink beer glasses and cheers. “To your first experience in Ravelle,” he smiles at me. “The first of many.”
I smile, feeling lighter. “To Ravelle, and this.” I pause. “You know what? I really needed this. Thank you so much for getting me out of Miami.”
“I want to hear all about it,” he says, looking at me with the fiery intensity I’ve come to expect. “First, let me get some food going, and then I’m all ears.”
He waves the bartender over again and places an order for what ends up sounding like the entire menu. The list is limited in a place like this, but I still feel spoiled.
There’s an extensive list of ways you can order their ‘famous’ wings, most of them slathered in all manner of sauces, and yet he orders the grilled wings crispy, with extra of their spiciest sauce on the side.
Which is funny, because that’s exactly how I like them. “That’s my favorite style,” I say.
He smirks. “I know.”
“How?”
“Because I pay attention.” He pauses. “So… tell me about Miami.”
And I unload.
Adrian.
His sadistic roommate.
The way I feel like a burden and an embarrassment most of the time, but how he’ll breadcrumb me when he wants to parade me around.
The whole time, Soren leans forward, his eyes locked on mine. He doesn’t try to interrupt, just listens intently and waitsfor me to finish.
When I get to the covert surveillance systems and the complete betrayal of my trust, something shifts. It’s almost like the surface of Soren cracks. “He did fucking what?! Cameras?!” His eyes have gone dark, as if there’s a full-on storm brewing behind them. “You shared your deepest, darkest secrets with a medical professional, and some fuckwit is there listening to you. Has it available—recorded?”
“Yeah,” I frown. “I still don’t think I’m over it.”
“I’d have killed the fucker if it was me,” he growls. “In fact, I still might.”
A shiver runs through me. With the look in his eyes, he’s not joking.
The food comes then, the server announcing the wings with a certain reverence that feels like a mismatch with the grungy dive bar ambience. “We’re known for these,” she rasps. “You know we win the Bloody Mary contest in Ravelle each and every year, and its garnish is one of our famous wings.” She beams with pride, her nicotine-stained snaggletooth catching the flicker of the grimy overhead light.
My mouth twitches.
Stop it, Ivy. Behave yourself.
The last thing I need is to start a fight in a Ravelle dive bar because I can’t help myself from being a smartass.
“Try the wings,” Soren says, pushing the plate toward me. “Trust me, they’re really good.”