"Oh come on dood, every guy's had at least one story about catching a surprise under the skirt!" Nick's voice, a gravelly baritone aged by whiskey and cigarettes, cut through the ambient hum of the bar like a blunt saw.
"Nah, can't say I have." I took a slow pull of my beer, watching Nick launch into another one of his 'adventures.' Nick was a man of strange tall tales—usually involving encounters with the kind of bizarre women you only find after 2:00 AM. He leaned heavy against the scarred mahogany of the bar, nursing a bourbon and already eyeing a woman across the room who looked like she'd either ruin his life or just max out his credit cards.
I rolled my eyes, standing up and hitching my blue jeans higher on my hips. "Gonna go drain the snake." I gave Nick's back a firm pat, the rough wool of his flannel scratching against my calloused palm. I started to turn, but the air suddenly left my lungs. It was that sharp, stinging hitch in the chest I hadn't felt since eighth grade, when Bobby Miller punched the wind out of me behind the gym.
A girl walked past. She didn't just walk; she drifted, her presence pulling the light of the room with her. She glanced my way through soft, lavender-rimmed glasses. Her eyes were a startling collision of colors—a deep forest green that bled into a crashing sea-foam blue. For a heartbeat, she held my gaze.
She wore a soft, obsidian-black sweater dress that clung to her with a devotion that could make a grown man weep. She was short, barely clearing five-foot-two, but she carried herself with a gravity that demanded space. Her hips were a landscape of warm, generous curves that shifted with a rhythmic, mesmerizing grace.
Her hair was a chaotic waterfall of burnt orange and sunset red curls, one heavy lock veiling half her face like a secret. Behind that curtain, her skin was the color of a ripe apricot, dusted across the bridge of a button nose with a constellation of dark brown freckles. Her face was soft, round, and framed by the most pillowy, velvet-pink lips I'd ever seen. She had to be two hundred pounds of pure, unadulterated woman, and every inch of her worked in perfect, voluptuous harmony.
I saw a flicker of genuine intrigue spark in that "forest-and-sea" eye before she looked away, quickening her pace toward a corner booth where two other women waited. My mouth, previously wet with beer, felt like I'd been chewing on a handful of desert sand.
"You checkin' those ladies out, huh Kyle?"
Randel, my other shadow, slung a heavy arm over my shoulders. He poked my cheek with the rim of his cold beer glass. With his unkempt brown curls and a permanent three-day stubble, Randel looked like he lived in the back of his truck, but he had a heart of gold and the observational skills of a hawk.
"Chill, man. Just taking a peek," I muttered, crossing my arms. I couldn't look away from the trio.
The other two were powerhouses in their own right. The one on the left was a literal Amazon—tall, with a mane of dark, intensely polished curls that looked like they required a permit to maintain. She had a muscular, sturdy build that suggested she could probably bench-press me if I asked nicely. She wore sharp, hexagonal frames and a crimson top cinched by a black leather corset that highlighted a dangerously narrow waist. Her leather pants looked painted on, ending in heels that looked less like footwear and more like urban weaponry.
Then there was the third—a shy, spindly thing. She was tall but fine-boned, with hair that transitioned from deep chocolate roots to bleached-blonde tips. Her face was all sharp angles and big, wary eyes. She was buried under layers of oversized black streetwear, but as she shifted her legs, I caught the silhouette of limbs that went on for miles.
My showstopper glanced back at us from between her friends, a hot flush of crimson creeping up through her freckles. The Amazon in the corset noticed. She arched a perfectly manicured brow at me, her gaze a physical challenge. I didn't blink; I just let a slow, cocky smirk spread across my face.
"Eyin' up the brunette?" Randel teased.
"Nah," I murmured, my eyes locked on the girl in the middle. "The brunette is just the bodyguard."
"Wait... the hand grenade?" Randel actually choked, spraying a fine mist of pilsner.
"Fuck you, Randel." I snorted out with a mocking laugh.
"Hey, man, whatever floats your boat," he laughed, slapping my back so hard I stumbled a step. "Just see if you can send the 'deadly' ones our way, yeah?"
I ignored him and started walking. I'm not a vain man, but I know what I'm working with. I'm six feet of solid frame—190 pounds of "working-man" muscle. I keep my jawline clean, my salt-and-pepper hair cut tight, and I actually believe in the power of a good moisturizer. I'm the 'pretty boy' of the crew, a thirty-year-old in a well-fitted flannel and broken-in denim who knows how to hold a room.
As I approached the booth, the Amazon stood up. She moved with a liquid grace that caught me off guard, planting one hand on her hip and the other on the table, creating a physical barrier between me and the redhead. She looked me up and down, her dark eyes narrowing like a predator assessing a threat. Up close, I could see the edge of a tattoo peeking out from her collar—a splash of sunset colors: red, pink, and orange.
"Whatchu want?" Her voice was midrange, with a slight, melodic nasality that practically screamed 'theater kid' or 'lead singer.'
"Hey, ladies," I said, putting on my best "low-pressure" smile and directing a wink toward the girl in the middle. Her freckles seemed to darken as she suddenly found her cocktail very interesting. "Just wanted to see if you three were looking for some company tonight?"
The tall brunette curled her lip in a snarl. "And what makes you think we'd want your company, hm?"
"Hey, can't blame a guy for trying, right?" I held my hands up in a playful surrender.
She seemed to soften, just a fraction. The tension in her arm on the table eased. She leaned back, still skeptical but no longer looking like she was going to tackle me. "What's your name?" she grumbled.
"Kyle," I said, offering a hand and another wink. "And yours?"
She stared at my hand like it was a suspicious package. She opened her mouth to deliver what I assumed would be a witty rejection, but the redhead beat her to it.
"S... Sérafine," she whispered.
She looked up, her forest-and-sea eyes meeting mine again. There was a tiny, electric sparkle in them that made my pulse thud against my ribs.
"Sérafine," I repeated, the name feeling like silk on my tongue. "That's a hell of a name."