Chapter 3: The Bar and the Boss
The fluorescent lights of the office hummed like a trapped insect, drilling into Vera's skull with a persistence that felt personal. She'd been staring at the same spreadsheet for three hours. The numbers blurred together, rows and columns dissolving into meaningless patterns, and every time she blinked she saw his hands. His mouth. The way his jaw had tightened when he came.
She shifted in her chair, crossing her legs under the desk. The ache was still there—a dull, persistent throb between her thighs that refused to fade no matter how many times she told herself it was just muscle memory. Just biology. Just the inevitable consequence of getting fucked through a mattress by a man who'd barely said a word.
Her phone buzzed. She grabbed it before the second vibration, her heart lurching in a way that made her feel pathetic.
Bree: Lunch?
Vera exhaled. Not him. Of course not him. He didn't do lunch. He did 3 AM texts and parked SUVs and the kind of silence that said more than words ever could.
She typed back: Cant. Drowning in spreadsheets.
Bree: You okay?
Vera stared at the question. The cursor blinked at her, patient and mocking. She thought about the truth—that she'd spent the entire morning replaying every filthy second of last night, that she'd had to change her underwear twice because she kept getting wet just thinking about the way he'd growled her name, that she was seriously considering texting him back and asking him to come to her office and fuck her against the filing cabinet.
She typed: Fine. Busy.
Bree sent back a thumbs up. Vera didn't respond.
The afternoon crawled. She made it through two meetings, three cups of coffee, and one awkward conversation with her boss about the quarterly projections. She nodded at all the right moments. She smiled at all the right jokes.
Inside, she was somewhere else entirely.
She was on her back, his weight pressing her into the mattress. She was on her stomach, her face buried in the pillow, his hand fisted in her hair. She was standing in her bathroom, the cold water running over her skin, his taste still on her tongue.
At 4:47, her phone buzzed again.
Unknown: You're distracted.
Her heart stopped. Then started again, twice as fast. She glanced around the office—cubicles stretching in every direction, coworkers typing and chatting and existing in their oblivious little bubbles. No one was looking at her.
She typed back: How would you know?
His response was immediate: Because I'm distracted too.
She bit her lip. Hard. The copper taste of blood flooded her mouth, and she welcomed it. It was grounding. Real. Something that wasn't him.
She typed: That sounds like a personal problem.
He replied: It is. And I'm going to solve it tonight.
Vera's fingers hovered over the keyboard. She should ask what he meant. She should demand answers. She should do a lot of things.
Instead, she typed: I have plans.
He replied: So do I.
She didn't respond. She shoved the phone in her drawer and forced herself to focus on the spreadsheet. It didn't work. Nothing worked. But she made it to 5 PM without spontaneously combusting, which felt like a victory.
The Uber dropped her off at her apartment at 6:15. She had exactly one hour and forty-five minutes before Bree expected her at the bar. One hour and forty-five minutes to figure out what the hell she was doing.
She showered again. Not because she needed to—she'd already showered that morning—but because the hot water felt like absolution. She stood under the spray until her skin turned pink, until the bathroom filled with steam, until she couldn't see her own reflection in the mirror.
Then she got dressed.
The dress was black satin and lace, a mini that barely covered her ass. She'd bought it two years ago for a Halloween party and never worn it again. It was too much. It was perfect. She pulled it over her head and adjusted the straps, watching herself in the mirror.
The phoenix tattoo on her back rose from the fabric like it was trying to escape. The octopus on her hip curled its tentacles just above the hem. She looked like trouble. She looked like she was asking for it.
She was.
The boots were next—black leather, laced to her knees, with a four-inch heel that made her legs look a mile long. She'd bought them on a whim last winter, convinced she'd never have the courage to wear them. Tonight felt like the night.
She grabbed her leather jacket from the hook by the door. It was old and worn and smelled like cigarettes and cheap perfume. She pulled it on and didn't bother with a purse. Just her phone, her ID, and a crumpled twenty stuffed in her bra.
The blunt was waiting on the fire escape, where she'd left it three days ago. She climbed out the window, her boots scraping against the metal grate, and sat on the edge with her legs dangling over the alley below.
The first hit burned her throat. The second made her cough. By the third, she was floating, the tension in her shoulders finally loosening, the constant hum of anxiety in her chest fading to something manageable.
She watched the sun set over the rooftops. Orange and pink and purple, bleeding into each other like watercolors. Beautiful. She didn't care.
Her phone buzzed in her jacket pocket.
Bree: Where are you?
Vera took another hit before checking the time. 7:42. She was late.
She typed back: On my way.
She wasn't. She was still sitting on the fire escape, the blunt burning down to a roach between her fingers. She didn't move. Not for another ten minutes. Not until the sky went dark and the streetlights flickered on and the cold started to seep through her jacket.
Then she climbed back inside, grabbed the bottle of vodka from the freezer, and took a long pull. It burned going down, a different kind of burn than the weed. Sharper. Cleaner. It settled in her stomach like a promise.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and headed for the door.
The bar was called The Rusty Nail, a dive that had been on the corner of 9th and Vine for thirty years. The windows were grimy, the neon sign flickered like it was dying, and the floor was sticky with decades of spilled beer. Vera loved it. It was the kind of place where you could be anyone, where no one asked questions, where you could drink until you forgot your own name.
She pushed through the door and was hit by a wall of sound.
The jukebox was grinding out something from the 90s—Nirvana, maybe, or Pearl Jam—loud enough to vibrate the glasses on the bar. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of stale beer. A few heads turned when she walked in. She ignored them.
Bree was at the bar, already three shots deep, her blonde hair a mess of waves around her shoulders. She spotted Vera and let out a shriek that cut through the noise.
"You made it!"
Vera grinned. "Did you think I wouldn't?"
Bree threw her arms around her, pulling her into a hug that smelled like tequila and vanilla body spray. "I wasn't sure. After last night, I thought maybe you'd... I don't know. Hate me."
"I don't hate you." Vera pulled back, meeting her friend's eyes. "I'm still processing. But I don't hate you."
Bree's face crumpled with relief. She grabbed Vera's hand and dragged her to the bar. "Good. Because I have a plan."
"A plan?"
"Shots. Many shots. And then dancing. And then more shots."
Vera laughed. It felt good. Normal. Like the last twenty-four hours hadn't happened.
"Lead the way."
Two hours later, Vera was drunk.
Not sloppy drunk. Not falling-off-the-barstool drunk. But warm and loose and fuzzy around the edges, the kind of drunk where everything felt possible and nothing mattered. She'd lost count of the shots somewhere around seven. Bree had matched her, drink for drink, and they'd spent the last hour on the dance floor, moving together in a tangle of limbs and laughter.
The jukebox had shifted to something faster. Hip-hop, maybe. Vera didn't know the song, but she didn't care. She let the bass vibrate through her body, let Bree's hands find her hips, let the crowd press in around them like a living thing.
Her hair was wild. Her skin was slick with sweat. The dress had ridden up at least two inches, and she didn't bother pulling it down. Let them look. Let them want. She felt powerful. Untouchable.
She spun around, her boots slipping on the sticky floor, and caught Bree's eye. Her friend was grinning, her face flushed, her mascara smeared just a little.
"I love you," Bree shouted over the music.
"I know," Vera shouted back.
They danced until Vera's legs ached. Until her feet throbbed in the boots. Until the sweat dripped down her spine and pooled at the base of her back. And then, when she couldn't dance anymore, she grabbed Bree's hand and pulled her toward the back of the bar.
The tables were in a dim corner, tucked away from the main crowd. Damien was already there, sprawled in a booth with his arm draped over the back. He looked up when they approached, a lazy smile spreading across his face.
"There they are," he said. "The party girls."
Vera flipped him off. "Don't start."
She was about to slide into the booth across from him when she saw who was sitting beside him.
Her heart stopped.
He was there. Right there. Sitting in the corner of the booth like he'd been there all night, like he belonged there, like he hadn't fucked her senseless less than twenty-four hours ago. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing those forearms that had pinned her to the mattress. His whiskey glass was half-empty, the amber liquid catching the low light. And his eyes—those dark, knowing eyes—were fixed on her like she was the only thing in the room worth seeing.
Vera froze mid-laugh.
The world tilted. The music faded. For a second, she was back in her apartment, naked and trembling, his voice in her ear. Then she blinked, and she was here, standing in a dive bar with her best friend and her best friend's boyfriend and the man who'd made her come so hard she'd forgotten her own name.
She forced a grin. It felt like stretching a mask over her face.
"Well," she said. "This is a coincidence."
He didn't say anything. He just smiled—slow and knowing, like he'd been waiting for her to arrive, like he'd known exactly when she'd walk through that door. He lifted his whiskey glass and took a sip, his eyes never leaving hers.
Then he patted the empty seat beside him.
Vera's pulse spiked.
She should say no. She should grab Bree and run. She should make an excuse and leave and never look back.
She walked toward the booth and slid into the seat beside him.
His thigh pressed against hers. Warm. Solid. Real. She could smell him—sandalwood and whiskey and something underneath that was just him, just the scent of his skin. Her body remembered it. Her body wanted more of it.
"Vera," he said. Just her name. Just that. But the way he said it—low and rough and intimate—made her stomach flip.
"Hi," she said. Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.
Bree slid into the booth across from her, slightly breathless. Damien was already signaling the waitress for another round. The table was covered in empty glasses and crumpled napkins and a half-eaten basket of fries.
"So," Bree said, her eyes darting between Vera and the man beside her. "You two have met."
Vera shot her a look that could have melted steel. "You could say that."
The man beside her chuckled. Low. Dark. It vibrated through her body like a second heartbeat.
"We've met," he said.
Bree's eyes widened. Damien smirked into his beer. Vera wanted to sink into the floor.
The waitress appeared with a tray of shots—tequila, by the look of them—and distributed them around the table. Vera grabbed one before the waitress had even finished setting it down.
"Cheers," she said, and downed it in one gulp.
The burn was familiar. Welcome. She grabbed another.
"Slow down," the man beside her murmured. His hand found her knee under the table. Just resting there. Just claiming space.
"Says who?"
"Says me."
She looked at him. Really looked. The dim light carved shadows across his face—the sharp jaw, the straight nose, the mouth that had been between her legs not twenty-four hours ago. He was watching her with that same patient intensity, like he had all the time in the world.
"I don't take orders," she said.
His fingers tightened on her knee. "You did last night."
Her breath caught. The music thumped. Bree was saying something to Damien, laughing at something, oblivious to the current running between the two people across from her.
"That was different," Vera managed.
"Was it?"
She didn't answer. She couldn't. His hand was sliding higher, inching up her thigh under the table. The dress was short. It wouldn't take much.
"Vera," Bree said, breaking through the haze. "You okay? You look flushed."
"Fine," she said, her voice too high. "Just... hot."
The man beside her smiled. His fingers reached the hem of her dress.
"I need some air," Vera said, standing abruptly. The table rattled. A glass tipped over. She didn't care.
She pushed through the crowd, her boots catching on the sticky floor, her heart pounding in her throat. The back door was ahead—she'd seen it earlier, a metal door propped open with a brick, leading to an alley behind the bar.
She burst through it and gulped down the cold night air like she was drowning.
The alley was dark and narrow, lined with dumpsters and broken pallets. The brick wall was cold against her back as she leaned against it, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
She heard the door open behind her. Didn't turn around.
"Following me now?" she asked.
His footsteps were slow and deliberate. She could feel him getting closer, the air shifting around him, the heat of his body radiating toward her.
"I told you I'd chase you," he said.
She turned.
He was standing a few feet away, his hands in his pockets, his sleeves still rolled up. The light from the bar spilled through the door, catching the edge of his face, the line of his jaw, the intensity in his eyes.
"You knew," Vera said. "You knew I'd be here."
"I hoped."
"Bree set this up."
"Bree wants you to be happy."
Vera laughed. It came out bitter and broken. "She doesn't know you. She doesn't know what you do."
His expression didn't change. "What do I do?"
"I don't know. Business. That's what Damien says. But I'm not stupid."
"No. You're not."
He took a step closer. She didn't move.
"What are you?" she asked.
He was close enough now that she could smell him—sandalwood, whiskey, and underneath it all, the faint trace of something dangerous. Something that made her pulse race and her thighs clench.
"Does it matter?" he asked.
"No."
He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered on her cheek, tracing the curve of her jaw.
"You're drunk," he said.
"Not that drunk."
"Enough."
"Enough for what?"
He didn't answer. He just looked at her—really looked—his eyes tracing every feature like he was memorizing it. The green eyes. The swollen lips. The flush spreading across her chest.
"I've been thinking about you all day," he said.
"Join the club."
"What did you think about?"
Vera's breath hitched. The alcohol was still humming through her veins, loosening her tongue, blurring the edges of her inhibitions.
"I thought about your mouth," she said. "About the way you looked at me. About the way you said my name."
"Say it again."
"What?"
"My name. You don't know it, do you?"
She realized with a start that she didn't. He'd never told her. He'd just been him—the man in the shadows, the one with the rolled-up sleeves and the knowing eyes and the mouth that could ruin her.
"No," she admitted.
He leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear. "Leo."
Leo. Two syllables. Simple. Strong. It suited him.
"Leo," she whispered, testing the word on her tongue.
His hand found her hip, pulling her closer. Her body pressed against his, every curve fitting into the hard planes of his chest and thighs. The dress rode up. His hand slid underneath, finding bare skin.
"I want to fuck you again," he said. No preamble. No pretense. Just the truth, raw and simple.
"Here?"
"Here. Now. Against this wall."
Her breath caught. The alley was dark and hidden, tucked away from the street. No one would see. No one would know. Just her and him and the concrete rough against her back.
"Yes," she said.
His mouth found hers.
This kiss was different. Harder. Hungrier. His tongue pushed past her lips, claiming her, owning her, tasting the tequila and the weed and the desperation on her breath. She moaned into his mouth, her hands fisting in his shirt.
He grabbed her thighs and lifted her, her back scraping against the brick as he positioned her against the wall. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her heels digging into his back, her dress bunched around her hips.
No foreplay. No teasing. Just his hand between them, the sound of his zipper, and then—
He thrust into her.
Vera cried out, the sound swallowed by his mouth. He was rough and sudden and perfect. She was already wet—she'd been wet since the moment she saw him in that booth—and he slid in deep, so deep she could feel him in her throat.
"Fuck," she gasped against his lips.
He said nothing. He just started moving, his hips driving into her with a rhythm that was fast and brutal and exactly what she needed. The brick wall scraped against her back with every thrust. The dress was ruined, the lace tearing where it caught on the rough surface. She didn't care.
"You feel that?" he growled. "Feel how fucking wet you are for me?"
"Yes—"
"All night. You've been thinking about this all night."
"Yes—"
The obscenity was lost in the sounds of the street—the distant traffic, the thump of the jukebox through the bar's walls, the wet slap of his body against hers. His hand found her hip, gripping hard, holding her steady as he pounded into her.
"You walked into that bar wearing this dress," he said, his voice rough in her ear. "You knew I'd be here. You wanted me to see you. To want you."
She couldn't deny it. She'd worn the dress for him. The boots for him. She'd walked into that bar hoping he'd be there, hoping he'd look at her the way he was looking at her now—like she was prey, and he was starving.
"You're right," she gasped. "I wanted you to—"
He cut her off with a kiss, his tongue forcing its way into her mouth, owning her from both ends. She shattered and nearly came just from that—the taste of him, the feel of him, the way he claimed every part of her.
"Not yet," he said, pulling back. "Hold it."
"I can't—"
"You can. You will."
His hand snaked between them, his thumb finding her clit. He circled it with brutal precision, matching the rhythm of his hips, driving her higher, higher, higher—
"Leo—"
"Say it again."
"Leo—"
She came.
It ripped through her like lightning, her body convulsing around him, her nails raking down his back through his shirt. He didn't stop. He fucked her through it, his hips never faltering, his thumb still working her clit until she was twitching and gasping and begging him to stop.
Then he came.
A low groan. A final, brutal thrust. His hips stuttered, his body shuddering against hers. She felt him pulse inside her, hot and thick, filling her up. He held her there for a long moment, both of them gasping for breath, the cold air biting at their exposed skin.
Then he pulled out.
She slid down the wall, her boots landing on the grimy asphalt, her legs barely holding her up. Her dress was ruined. Her hair was wrecked. She could feel him leaking out of her, starting to run down the inside of her thigh.
Leo leaned close, his breath hot on her neck. "I'll see you inside."
He tucked himself back into his pants, buttoned his shirt, and walked back through the door like nothing had happened.
Vera stood in the alley, her back against the rough brick, her body still trembling, her mind completely blank.
The door swung shut behind him. The music from the bar swelled and faded. The streetlight buzzed overhead. She reached down and cleaned herself up the best she could, running a hand over her ruined dress, and then she started to laugh.
She laughed until tears ran down her face. She laughed until her stomach ached. She laughed until the bouncer stuck his head out the door and asked her if she was okay.
She wasn't okay.
She was better than okay.
She walked back into the bar.