Chapter 8: Bourbon and Bad Decisions
The hum of the amplifier was a ghost in Clare’s ears as Finn led her down the fire escape, the city air a cold slap after the suffocating heat of the studio. Her skin still tingled where his teeth had been, a secret map of possession hidden under her thrift-store coat.
“I need a drink that tastes like a bad decision,” Finn announced, his breath misting in the neon-lit alley. He hadn’t asked if she wanted to go; he’d just taken her hand and started moving, a force of nature she was helpless to resist.
The bar was exactly as he’d described it: a dive called The Anchor that looked like it was sinking into the pavement. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of stale beer and industrial cleaner. The floorboards were sticky, the vinyl on the booths was split like overripe fruit, and a jukebox in the corner glowed, playing a mournful country song about a truck.
Finn guided her to a small table in the back, his hand a steady pressure on the small of her back. He ordered two whiskeys, neat, without looking at the bartender. When the glasses arrived, amber liquid catching the dim light, he pushed one toward her.
“Drink it. It’ll stop the shaking.”
She hadn’t realized she was still trembling. She wrapped her hands around the glass, the warmth seeping into her palms. She took a sip, the whiskey burning a clean, harsh path down her throat. It did help.
He watched her, his eyes unreadable in the gloom. “You’re too quiet.”
“I’m… processing.” She traced a water ring on the table. “What you did in the studio… it was… a lot.”
“Good a lot or bad a lot?”
“Necessary a lot,” she said, and the truth of it settled in her bones. It had scraped her clean. For a little while, the endless, buzzing anxiety had been silenced.
A slow grin spread across his face. “That’s my girl.”
They drank in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the whiskey loosening the knots in her shoulders. The bar was a world away from Leo’s minimalist apartment, from the soundproofed room. It was grimy and real. She liked it.
“He’s probably at home right now, realigning all his books by color and spine height,” Finn mused, swirling his whiskey.
Clare’s brief contentment evaporated. “Don’t, Finn.”
“Why not? He’s the one who walked out. He’s the one who made you feel like you’d failed some fucking test.” His voice was low, but there was an edge to it, sharp as the knife from the night before.
“It’s not that simple. He provides… structure. Something you and I both know I need.”
“Structure?” Finn leaned forward, his chair scraping against the floor. “Is that what we’re calling it? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks a hell of a lot like a cage. He doesn’t want a partner, Clare. He wants a project. Something to manage and improve.”
“That’s not fair.” Her voice wavered. “He cares.”
“He cares about the version of you that fits on his spreadsheet.” Finn’s eyes flashed. “I care about the one who screams loud enough to blow out my speakers. The one who looks at a five-dollar bill and sees a new pair of rainbow stockings instead of lunch.”
The mention of the stockings, the memory of them binding her wrists, sent a fresh wave of heat through her. She looked away, toward the jukebox, her chest tight. “I just wish it didn’t have to be a choice. Why does it have to be a choice?”
“Because it is.” His voice was flat, final. “You can’t live in both worlds. His world of quiet order, and my world of…” He gestured around the bar, at the chaos and the noise and the beautiful, imperfect mess of it all.
Frustration bubbled up in her, hot and sudden. “Your world of running away? Of using noise and… and sensation to avoid anything that feels too real? What happens when the feedback stops, Finn? What’s left then?”
The words hung between them, sharp and dangerous. She saw him flinch, a barely perceptible tightening around his eyes. She had crossed a line, poking at the wound she knew was there, the one he never let anyone see.
For a long moment, he just stared at her, his expression unreadable. The playful musician was gone, replaced by someone older, harder. The jukebox clicked, and a new song began, a driving rock beat that felt suddenly aggressive.
He stood up so abruptly his chair nearly toppled over. He leaned across the sticky table, his hands planting on either side of her glass. The scent of whiskey and his own particular smell, of skin and clean sweat, enveloped her.
“You want to know what’s real?” he whispered, his voice a low, rough vibration that cut through the music. His eyes burned into hers, all pretense of lightness gone. “This is real.”
He closed the final inch between them, his mouth capturing hers. It wasn’t the tender kiss from the studio. This was a bruising, possessive claim. It tasted of whiskey and anger and a desperate, raw need that stole the air from her lungs. One of his hands came up to cup the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair, holding her still.
When he finally pulled back, they were both breathing heavily. The entire bar seemed to have fallen away.
He rested his forehead against hers, his voice dropping to a intimate, gravelly whisper that was for her alone. “His name doesn’t belong in your mouth tonight. His rules don’t exist here. Tonight, you’re mine. All of you. The messy, screaming, beautiful parts. Understood?”
She could only nod, her blood singing a frantic, agreeing rhythm in her veins. The choice, for now, was made.