Chapter 7: After Valentine
The bar, ‘The Anchor’, was the antithesis of the crochet shop. Where that had been pastel and quiet, this was a roaring cave of dark-stained wood, sticky floors, and the aggressive hum of a dozen overlapping conversations fighting with a classic rock playlist. Neon signs for cheap beer cast a toxic, buzzing glow over everything. It smelled of spilled lager, fried food, and the faint, ever-present ghost of cigarette smoke clinging to clothes, even though smoking inside had been banned for a decade.
Alexandra Hawk occupied a corner booth like a queen holding court, her black leather jacket creaking as she leaned back against the scarred vinyl. The yarn bag from ‘The Cozy Nook’ was tucked securely under the table, its pastel softness a secret against the leg of her boot. Surrounding her were five friends, a collection of bodies and personalities that orbited her gravitational pull.
Theo, wiry and perpetually cynical, was already on his third pint, his fingers drumming a restless tattoo on the table. Next to him, Jamie, broad-shouldered and loud, was arm-wrestling a resigned-looking guy named Leo from their mechanics course. Across from Alex, Maya and Kai, a couple who bickered with the comfort of an old married pair, were debating the merits of different bike chains.
Theo’s voice cut through the din, a sharp, fake-cheery blade. “So, children,” he announced, raising his glass. “The Hallmark holiday of forced romance has passed. Let’s go around the horn. How was everyone’s absolutely magnificent, soul-affirming Valentine’s Day?”
A collective groan rose from the table. Jamie released Leo’s hand with a final slam, making the glasses jump. “Fuck off, Theo. My Valentine’s was a six-pack and a transmission rebuild.”
“I got a text from my ex saying ‘happy v-day, loser’ with a fucking gif of a crying clown,” Maya muttered, stabbing the ice in her drink with her straw.
Leo just rubbed his wrist, smiling faintly. “My cat puked on my laptop. So. Pretty romantic.”
Theo’s gaze, glittering with schadenfreude, landed on Alex. She hadn’t contributed to the chorus of misery. She just sat there, one arm slung over the back of the booth, a slow, utterly self-satisfied smirk playing on her lips. She took a slow drag from her cigarette—the bartender looked the other way for her—and exhaled a plume of smoke towards the ceiling.
“Oh, but wait,” Theo purred, leaning forward. “We have an anomaly. A statistical outlier in our midst. Alexandra. You are, disgustingly, not single. Do not tell me you partook in the commercialized circus.”
All eyes shifted to her. Alex let the silence hang, stretching it until it was taut with their curiosity. She tapped ash into a small, dented tray.
“Nah,” she said, her voice a low, rough contrast to Theo’s needle-sharp tone. “I don’t do the circus shit. No overpriced prix-fixe meals, no shitty balloons.” She took another drag, the ember flaring. “I just stayed in. With Angel.”
Jamie rolled his eyes. “Let me guess. You watched a documentary about, I dunno, concrete or some shit, and called it a night.”
Alex’s smirk widened. She leaned forward now, elbows on the sticky table, the leather of her jacket pulling tight across her shoulders. The booth seemed to shrink, the focus narrowing to her. “We watched a movie. For about twenty minutes. Then we got… distracted.”
Theo’s eyebrow shot up. “Distracted.”
“Mmhmm.” Alex’s voice dropped, becoming more intimate, a dirty secret shared in the loud room. “See, I got him that fancy yarn he likes. He was all happy, blushing and shit, talking about what he was gonna make. It was cute.” She paused, letting the image of Angel’s soft, focused joy settle. Then her tone shifted, the words becoming crude, deliberate bricks she laid one after the other. “So I figured, he’s happy. I’m happy. Wanna make each other happier. Told him my Valentine’s gift was that I got to fuck him as long as I wanted. No safeword, no breaks. Just until I was done.”
A beat of silence. Maya had stopped murdering her ice. Leo looked politely at the ceiling. Kai coughed.
“Jesus, Hawk,” Jamie muttered, but he was leaning in too.
“How long was that, exactly?” Theo asked, his cynicism now fully submerged in voyeuristic interest.
Alex leaned back again, the picture of indolent conquest. “Four hours. Maybe a little more. Lost track of time after the second.” She took a final drag and crushed the cigarette dead. “Started in the living room. Finished in the shower. Water got fucking cold.”
She watched their faces. The disbelief, the shock, the prurient fascination. It was a performance, and she was a master. Her hand came up, miming a grip in the air. Her own hips gave a slight, unmistakable, thrusting roll against the vinyl seat. “He’s so fucking small. I can just… manhandle him. Pick him up, put him where I want him. Had him on his back on the rug, legs over my shoulders, and just… went to town. He sounds like a fucking broken squeaky toy when he gets close.”
The table erupted. Jamie let out a bark of laughter, slapping the table. “A squeaky toy! Fuck!”
Maya was giggling into her hand. Leo had gone pink. Theo’s smile was razor-thin, impressed and slightly horrified.
“Four hours?” Kai asked, her practical mind cutting through. “What did you use, industrial lube?”
Alex shrugged, a fluid roll of muscle. “Enough. The point wasn’t… gentle.” Her black eyes were bright with the memory, with the power of the telling. “The point was he took it. Took everything I gave him. Cried a bit. Begged prettily. But he never told me to stop.” She let that hang, a testament to something darker and more complex than pure pleasure. “After, he couldn’t walk straight. Had to carry him to the shower. He was shivering, all wrapped up in me, mumbling in Japanese. Don’t know what he was saying. Sounded like thanks, maybe. Or a prayer.”
The laughter died down into a quieter, charged awe. The image was too vivid, too raw. It wasn't just sex they were imagining; it was a total consumption.
“Fuck, Alex,” Theo said, his voice quieter now. “That’s… intense.”
“It’s Tuesday,” she replied, picking up her whiskey and knocking it back. The burn was clean, familiar. “He’s probably at home right now, making some fucking giant squid with that new yarn. Walking funny. Smiling.”