Chapter 6: The Breakup Bar
The bar had changed in a week, or maybe it hadn't and Adam had just forgotten how to see it. The same jukebox warped the same slow jam into something melancholy and stretched. The same sticky floor caught his boots with every step. The same neon sign buzzed overhead, a sickly pink that made everyone look feverish. He'd chosen the corner stool this time, his back to the wall, his eyes on the door.
He was on his second whiskey when she walked in.
The cold air rushed in with her, curling around her bare legs before the door swung shut. She wore a dress the color of cheap wine, short enough to be a rumor, and her dark hair fell over her shoulders in waves that caught the neon light. She scanned the room, her gaze passing over the regulars, the pool table, the row of empty stools, until it landed on him.
Her smile was small. Private.
She crossed the room with a languid grace that made the bar seem slower, dimmer, smaller. She didn't stop at the stool beside him. She didn't hesitate. She slid directly onto his lap, her thighs bracketing his, her arms looping around his neck with the casual intimacy of a habit they hadn't earned.
"Hi," she said.
Adam's hands found her waist by instinct. The whiskey in his stomach turned warm. "Hi."
"You're here."
"You knew I would be."
Lindsey tilted her head, studying him with those dark, unreadable eyes. "I hoped you would be. That's different." She reached for his glass, took a sip of his whiskey, and winced at the burn. "You've been thinking about me."
It wasn't a question.
"Every night," he admitted, the words coming easier than they should have. "Every morning. Most of the afternoons."
She laughed, low and pleased. "That's a lot of thinking."
"You're a lot to think about."
Her fingers traced the collar of his shirt, finding the edge of the mark she'd left a week ago. The bruise had faded to a pale yellow, barely visible against his skin, but her touch found it like it had been waiting. "It's almost gone," she murmured. "That's a shame."
"You could always make a new one."
She looked at him then, really looked, and something shifted in her expression. The playful mask slipped, just for a second, revealing something rawer underneath. "Is that what you want?"
"I want you to stop asking me that."
Lindsey's breath caught. She pressed closer, her chest against his, her lips brushing the shell of his ear. "I've been thinking about you too," she whispered. "About the way you moan when I ride you. About how your hands shake when you hold my hips." She shifted on his lap, deliberate, grinding down with a pressure that made his vision blur at the edges. "About how you said my name like it was the only word you remembered."
Adam's hands tightened on her waist. He could feel himself hardening against her, impossible to hide, and she knew it. She always knew. The smug little smile she wore told him so.
"Feel that?" she breathed. "That's what you do to me. Just by existing."
She grabbed his hand and shoved it under her skirt.
His fingers found the soaked fabric of her underwear—barely there, a scrap of black lace that offered no protection. He could feel the heat of her through it, the slick evidence of how much she wanted this. She gasped as his fingers pressed against her, a sharp intake of breath that she tried to hide against his shoulder.
"I'm so wet for you, Adam," she whispered, her voice cracking on his name. "Just feel it. Please."
He did. He felt everything—the way she twitched under his touch, the way she ground down against his palm, the way her breath hitched with every movement of his fingers. He pushed the lace aside and found her bare, slick and swollen, and she moaned loud enough that the bartender glanced over.
"Shh," he murmured, though the warning was half-hearted.
She bit her lip, her eyes fluttering closed. "I can't help it. You feel so good."
"You need to be quiet."
"Make me."
He slid one finger inside her, and she muffled a moan against his neck. She was so tight, so hot, and she clenched around him like she was trying to pull him deeper. He added a second finger, curling them just the way he remembered she liked, and she shuddered in his arms.
"Adam," she breathed. "Adam, Adam, Adam."
Her hips moved against his hand with a rhythm that was half desperation, half promise. The slow jam on the jukebox scratched and warped, the singer's voice dissolving into static, and the bar around them faded into nothing.
"Not here," he said, though his voice was rough and unconvincing. "Not like this."
"Then take me somewhere," she gasped. "Take me back to your place. Let me show you what I've been thinking about all week."
He pulled his hand out from under her skirt, and she whimpered at the loss. His fingers were slick with her, glistening in the neon light, and she watched him bring them to his mouth with dark, hungry eyes.
"You taste good," he said.
"Come home with me."
"I don't think I can drive."
"Then don't." She slid off his lap, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward the door. "We'll figure it out."
The night air hit them like a slap. She pulled him down the street, her heels clicking against the pavement, her dress riding up with every step. She didn't seem to care who saw. She didn't seem to care about anything except getting him somewhere private.
They made it half a block before he stopped her.
"Lindsey."
She turned, her face flushed, her chest heaving. "What?"
"Are we going to talk about this?"
"This?" This thing we keep doing."
She stared at him for a long moment, then laughed—a short, breathless sound. "Adam, there is no us. There's just this. There's just right now."
"What if I want more?"
The words hung in the cold air between them. She looked at him, really looked, and for a moment he saw something like fear flicker in her eyes. Then it was gone, replaced by that wall she kept building between them.
"Don't," she said softly. "Don't do this. Don't ruin it."
"Ruin it?" He stepped closer, his hands finding her waist. "How is wanting more ruining it?"
"Because I can't give you more." Her voice cracked. "I can't be that for you. I can't be the girl who brunches and meets your friends and pretends the world is a nice place. I'm not made for that."
"Who says you have to be?"
She shook her head, pulling away from him. "You don't understand."
"Then explain it to me."
She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold despite the heat still radiating from her skin. "I'm not good at this," she said, gesturing vaguely between them. "At feelings. At being normal. The only way I know how to connect with someone is like this—with my body, with my mouth, with the sounds I make when you're inside me. It's the only thing I'm good at."
"That's not true."
"It is." She met his eyes, and there was no hiding from the pain in hers. "When I'm with you like that, I know exactly who I am. I know what I'm supposed to do. I know how to make you feel good, how to make you lose yourself, how to make you forget everything else. But when we're standing in the light, like this?" She gestured at the empty street, the flickering streetlamp, the cold concrete. "I don't know who I am anymore."
"Then let me help you figure it out."
She shook her head, a small, sad smile on her lips. "You can't. No one can. This is just who I am."
"Bullshit."
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
"That's bullshit, Lindsey. You're not just a body. You're not just the sounds you make or the way you move. You're so much more than that, and I know you know it, because I've seen the way you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention. I've seen the way you light up when I say something that makes you laugh. I've seen you, Lindsey. All of you. And I want more."
She stood frozen, her breath coming in shallow gasps, her eyes glistening in the streetlight. For a long moment, she didn't say anything. Then she stepped forward, closing the distance between them, and pressed her forehead against his chest.
"I don't know how," she whispered.
"That's okay." He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. "We can figure it out together."
They stood like that for a long time, the cold night wrapping around them like a shroud. The street was empty. The only sound was the distant hum of traffic and the thud of their hearts beating against each other.
Finally, she pulled back, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "Your place or mine?"
"Mine."
"Good." She took his hand, lacing her fingers through his. "Because I have plans for you, Adam. And they start with me on my knees."
He laughed, a surprised, genuine sound. "That's not exactly figuring it out together."
"No," she agreed, pulling him toward the corner where the street met the main road. "But it's a start."
They crossed the street in silence, the cold air biting at their exposed skin, each step a negotiation neither of them fully understood. His hand stayed in hers, her fingers cold but gripping tight, like she was afraid he'd vanish if she let go.
The walk to his apartment was ten minutes that felt like an hour and a second all at once. She didn't fill the silence with chatter the way most girls did. Instead, she just walked beside him, her heels clicking a steady rhythm against the pavement, her thumb tracing lazy circles on the back of his hand. He could feel the tension radiating off her, the same current that hummed beneath her skin every time they touched.
"You never told me your apartment had a fire escape," she said suddenly, her voice light but measured. "Or that you can see the water from your kitchen window."
He stopped mid-stride, turning to look at her. "How do you know that?"
She smiled, small and secret. "You mentioned it once. Last month. When you were half-asleep and thought I'd already left." Her smile widened. "You talk in your sleep, Adam. It's adorable."
"I do not."
"You moan my name. You also said something about wanting to kiss me on the roof. Something about the stars reflecting in my eyes. It was very poetic." She squeezed his hand. "You're a romantic under all that whiskey and brood."
He shook his head, but he couldn't stop the smile tugging at his lips. "I'm going to stop drinking around you."
"Please don't." She tugged him forward, resuming their walk. "Drunk Adam says the sweetest things. Sober Adam just glares at me across bar rooms."
"I don't glare at you."
"You do." She bumped her shoulder against his. "You glare at me like I'm a problem you're trying to solve. It's very intense. Very brooding. Very—" she paused, searching for the word— "you."
"And yet here you are. Walking to my apartment."
"Here I am," she agreed. She was quiet for a moment, then: "You meant what you said back there?"
He didn't have to ask what she meant. "Every word."
"Even the part about wanting more?"
"Especially that part."
She stopped walking. They were half a block from his building now, the streetlamp casting a pool of yellow light around them. Her face was half in shadow, half illuminated, and she looked suddenly young and frightened and impossibly beautiful.
"I'm going to mess this up," she said quietly. "I'm going to say the wrong thing or do the wrong thing or push you away because it's easier than letting you in. I'm going to break your heart, Adam. I'm going to break both our hearts."
"Maybe."
She blinked. "Maybe?"
"I'm not asking for a promise, Lindsey. I'm not asking for forever." He stepped closer, his hands finding her waist. "I'm asking for tonight. I'm asking for tomorrow. I'm asking for the chance to see if this can be more than a dark corner and a locked door."
"You're a fool."
"Probably."
She laughed—a real laugh, bright and surprised and utterly herself. "I warned you. I told you I wasn't good at this."
"Then let me be good at it for both of us."
The smile faded from her face. She looked at him with those dark, searching eyes, and he could see the war happening behind them. The fear and the want and the hope all tangled together.
"Okay," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "Okay."
His apartment was exactly as she'd imagined it from his drunken half-confessions. Sparse furniture, clean lines, a stack of books on the coffee table that she'd never expect him to read. The big windows faced the water, the lights of the city glittering beyond like scattered stars.
She walked to the window, her reflection ghostly in the glass. "You have a nice place."
"It's quiet."
"Quiet is good." She turned to face him. "My place is never quiet. There's always someone yelling in the hallway or playing music through the walls or—" she gestured vaguely— "living." A pause. "It's exhausting."
He crossed the room, stopping just behind her. He didn't touch her, but he could feel the heat of her body, the electric charge that always hummed between them.
"Lindsey."
She turned. Her face was open in a way he'd never seen before, the walls she always kept up nowhere in sight. "Yeah?"
"What happens now? With us?"
She considered the question, her lips pressing together. Then she said: "I don't know." A beat. "I've never had an us before. I've had warm bodies and goodbyes and mornings I couldn't escape fast enough. But never an us."
"Me neither."
She reached up, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "So we're both new at this."
"Apparently." He caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. "We can figure it out as we go."
"Figure it out." She smiled, crooked and real. "That's the best offer I've had in years."
He pulled her closer, her body fitting against his like she'd always been there. She tilted her head up, her lips parting, and he kissed her—softly at first, then deeper, tasting the whiskey on her tongue and the promise of more.
She pulled back, breathless. "Adam."
"Mm?"
"I need you to know something." Her voice was serious, her eyes intense. "I'm going to be terrible at this. I'm going to make mistakes. I'm going to say cruel things when I'm scared and run when I should stay. But I'm also going to try. For you. I'm going to try so hard."
"That's all I ask."
She kissed him again, harder this time, her hands fisting in his shirt. The kiss turned desperate, hungry, all the words they'd said forgotten in the heat of their bodies. He walked her backward until her knees hit the couch and she pulled him down with her.
She straddled him, her hair falling like a curtain around them, her hips already moving in that rhythm he knew so well. But there was something different now. Something softer. Something real.
"Look at me," she whispered. "When I come, I want you looking at me."
He did. He held her gaze as she moved, her breath hitching, her eyes never leaving his. And when she shattered, his name on her lips, he was right there with her, drowning in her.
Afterward, they lay tangled on the couch, her head on his chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his skin. The city lights flickered beyond the window. The quiet settled around them like a blanket.
"I'm still scared," she admitted.
"I know."
"But I'm not running."
He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "That's all I ask."