Chapter 2: Liquid Courage
The dive bar was a welcome cacophony after the focused intensity of the tattoo parlor. A cloud of smoke hung perpetually under the low, stained ceiling, catching the glow of flickering neon beer signs that cast red and blue ghosts across the faces of the evening’s patrons. The air was thick and lived-in, a deep brew of stale beer, fried food, and the subtle, sweet hint of spilled whiskey. The low thrum of a dozen conversations provided a constant bassline, punctuated by the sharp clack of pool balls from the back and the occasional roar of laughter from a crowded booth.
Alex pushed the heavy door open, its groan lost in the din, and guided Angel inside with a hand pressed firmly against the small of his back. She moved through the chaos with the ease of a predator in its own territory, her tall frame cutting a path. Angel, still engulfed in her hoodie, instinctively pressed closer, his shoulder brushing against her arm as his eyes, wide and a little startled, scanned the crowded room.
“Easy, pretty boy,” Alex murmured, her voice a low rumble meant only for him. “Just assholes and alcohol in here. Nothing to worry about.”
They reached the scarred wooden bar, its surface sticky in patches despite the bartender’s tired-looking rag. Leo, a man with a bald head gleaming under the lights and sleeves of faded tattoos crawling up his thick arms, nodded at them as he filled a pint glass with amber liquid.
“Hawk,” he grunted, sliding the beer to a waiting customer. “Heard you were getting new ink.”
“Yeah? Who’s flappin’ their gums?” Alex leaned against the bar, pulling a pack of cigarettes from her jacket pocket. She didn’t light one, just tapped it against her knuckles.
“Miles texted. Said you were being your usual charming self.” Leo’s eyes, small and sharp, flicked to Angel, and his expression softened almost imperceptibly. “Hey, kid.”
Angel offered a small, fleeting smile, his fingers nervously plucking at the oversized cuff of the hoodie.
“Gotta show off the new art, then,” Alex said, her grin sharpening. She shrugged off her leather jacket, the movement fluid, and then tugged the sleeve of her t-shirt up to her shoulder. The skin around the fresh script was angry and red, making the black letters of ‘Angel’ stand out in stark, proud relief against the older, settled tattoos.
Leo let out a low whistle, leaning forward to get a better look. “Bold move, Hawk. Permanent.”
“That’s the fuckin’ point, Leo.” She beamed, her black eyes glittering with a possessiveness that was both fierce and tender. She glanced down at Angel, whose blush was visible even in the bar’s dim light. He was staring at his name on her skin with a look of profound, overwhelmed awe.
He tugged gently on the hand that wasn’t sporting the new tattoo, and Alex leaned down, her black hair falling forward to curtain their faces.
“Can you… can you order for me?” he whispered, his voice barely a breath against the noise. “My usual?”
“Yeah, of course.” She straightened up. “Two. My whiskey, neat. And his… pink nightmare.”
Leo nodded and turned to assemble the “pink nightmare,” which involved a lot of fruit and a tiny paper umbrella.
They took their drinks—Alex’s a short, dark glass of amber liquid, Angel’s a frothy, vivid pink concoction in a tall glass—and weaved through the maze of tables towards a raised booth in the back corner. Three people were already crowded into it, and a chorus of greetings erupted as they approached.
“Hawk! ‘Bout time!”
“Who’s the victim on the skin this week?”
Alex slid into the booth, pulling Angel in after her so he was sandwiched safely between her and the wall. She took a long swallow of her whiskey, the burn a familiar comfort. “This is Angel,” she said, her tone leaving no room for further questions about his identity. She introduced the others with a lazy wave of her hand. “That’s Marco, Jax, and Shay.”
Marco, lanky and sharp-faced, grinned. Jax, built like a wrestler, just nodded. Shay, a woman with a shaved head and a spiderweb tattoo climbing her neck, gave Angel a curious, appraising look.
“So, Angel,” Marco started, his eyes crinkling. “How’d you get tangled up with this one?” He jerked a thumb at Alex.
Angel took a small sip of his drink, the paper umbrella brushing his nose. “We have a class together,” he said softly. “Art History.”
“Art History?” Jax laughed, a loud, booming sound. “Hawk, you barely passed high school English.”
“I appreciate the finer things,” Alex retorted, slinging her arm along the back of the booth behind Angel’s shoulders. Her fingers absently played with the soft strands of his platinum hair. “Like his legs in those thigh highs.”
Angel ducked his head, the blush returning full force.
The conversation ebbed and flowed around them, a familiar rhythm of teasing, shared stories, and casual profanity. Alex was in her element, loud and brash, holding court. But her attention was a split-screen; one part on her friends, the other entirely on the boy tucked against her side, monitoring his comfort level in the way his shoulders relaxed incrementally, the way he’d take a tiny breath before speaking.
Somehow, the topic slid, as it often did with this group, towards sex. Shay was recounting a disastrous date with a man who’d been all talk.
“He talked a big game,” she said, swirling the ice in her glass. “But when it came down to it? Total disappointment. Underwhelming, to say the least.”
Marco snickered. “Size isn’t everything, Shay.”
“It’s not,” she agreed dryly. “But confidence without the equipment to back it up is just sad.”
Jax’s eyes, a little glassy from drink, landed on Angel, who was trying to become one with the booth’s upholstery. “Speaking of size,” he chuckled, his words slightly slurred. “You’re a little thing, ain’tcha? Don’t look like you could handle much.”
The table went quiet for a beat. Alex’s relaxed posture didn’t change, but the air around her cooled by several degrees. Her fingers stilled in Angel’s hair.
Angel shrunk further into the hoodie, his gaze fixed on his pink drink.
Alex took a slow sip of whiskey, her black eyes locking onto Jax. Her voice was calm, a low and dangerous purr that cut through the bar’s noise. “Don’t let the packaging fool you, Jax.” She set her glass down with a deliberate click. “I fuck him with a twelve-inch most days. He takes it like a champ.”
The silence at the table was absolute. Marco’s jaw went slack. Shay’s eyebrows shot up towards her hairline. Jax just blinked, his intoxicated brain struggling to process the blunt, graphic imagery.
Angel made a small, choked sound beside her, his entire body flushing a spectacular, deep crimson. He looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. He buried his face against Alex’s shoulder, the fabric of her t-shirt muffling his mortified groan.
Alex didn’t look away from Jax, her sharp grin back in place, a challenge in her eyes. The moment stretched, tense and electric.
Then, Marco burst out laughing, a loud, wheezing sound that broke the spell. “Jesus Christ, Hawk! You can’t just say shit like that!”
Shay shook her head, a slow, impressed smile spreading across her face. “Well. That’s one way to shut down a conversation.”
Jax, thoroughly put in his place, mumbled something into his beer and took a long gulp.
Alex finally turned her head, her attention returning to the boy trembling with embarrassment against her. She leaned down, her lips close to his ear, her voice dropping back to that private rumble. “Hey. Look at me.”
He shook his head, still buried in her shoulder.
“Angel.” Her tone was gentle but firm. He slowly lifted his head, his blue eyes swimming with humiliation and something else… a flicker of heat. “They’re just idiots,” she said, her thumb stroking his burning cheek. “And I don’t say anything that isn’t true. You know that.”
He gave a tiny, jerky nod.
“You wanna get out of here?”
He nodded again, more decisively this time.
Alex tossed back the rest of her whiskey and slid out of the booth, pulling Angel up with her. She nodded to her friends. “We’re out. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“That leaves a lot of room, Hawk!” Marco called after them.
She didn’t look back, her focus entirely on navigating Angel through the crowd and back out into the cool, cleansing night air. The bar door swung shut, muting the chaos into a distant rumble.
On the sidewalk, Angel took a deep, shuddering breath, the color in his face finally starting to recede. He wrapped his arms around himself, the hoodie sleeves dangling past his hands.
Alex lit a cigarette, the flame of her lighter a brief, orange flower in the darkness. She took a drag and exhaled slowly, watching him. “You mad?”
He was quiet for a long moment, watching the traffic lights change down the street. “No,” he said finally, his voice soft but clear. “I’m not mad.” He looked up at her, his expression a complex mix of shyness and a dawning, warm confidence. “It was just… a lot. In front of everyone.”
“They don’t matter.” She flicked ash onto the pavement. “Only you matter.” She reached out and hooked a finger under the collar of the hoodie, pulling him gently towards her. “And I meant what I said. Every word.”
This close, she could see the faint freckles dusting his nose, the way his dark blue eyes held the reflected lights of the city. The scent of his shampoo—something like cotton candy—cut through the smoke.
“I know,” he whispered.
He rose on his toes, his hands coming up to rest on her chest, and kissed her. It wasn’t a shy peck this time. It was soft, but sure, a silent acceptance of everything she was, everything she’d said in that loud, crude bar. When he pulled back, his blush was back, but it was different now. Warmer.
“Take me home, Alex,” he said, his voice barely audible.
A slow, genuine smile spread across Alex’s face, erasing the last of the bar’s tension from her features. She dropped her cigarette and crushed it under the heel of her boot.
“Your wish,” she said, her voice a low promise as she took his hand, her thumb stroking over his knuckles, “is my fucking command.”