Page 7 of Liberty

Chapter 4

LIBERTY

I thrummedmy fingers on the bar, waiting for the bartender to look in my direction. It didn’t take long, not like I imagined it would when I was poured into a dress at least two sizes too small and wearing heels that made it nearly impossible to walk without support. I loathed going out, especially in clothes like this, but a promise was a promise.

Michelle came up beside me, a smirk on her face. I leaned onto the counter as the bartender headed toward us. “Never again am I letting you dress me.”

“Come on, Lib. You look great.”

“I look like a hooker you would find under the bridge handing out five dollar blowjobs. I’m terrified if I sneeze, I’ll pop a boob out.”

Her eyes fell to my cleavage, which was generously on display thanks to the dress I had to nearly grease my way into. “I’ll admit, that might be an actual possibility. But that doesn’t mean the dress looks any less hot.”

“I would rather look homeless in my yoga pants and stained hoodie than hot right about now.” I leaned forward, ordering Michelle and I both a drink.

When the drinks were ordered, and the bartender was gone, Michelle brought her lips to my ear and nearly screamed so I could hear her, “We are supposed to be celebrating. You own a freakin’ house, babe!”

Own? Well, not technically for a few more days. But it felt weird. I didn’t earn it. I didn’t even know the guy who wrote my name on the will. Yet, here I was, about to take keys to a property I couldn’t even begin to understand how to handle. “I’ll probably sell it.”

That was the first time I admitted it out loud, and the shock on Michelle’s face told me she would not let that happen, not without a fight. “Absolutely not. That thing is ancient. Historic. You can’t just sell a piece of history.”

Watch me. “If it’s historical, I bet it’s worth a lot of money then?”

“That part of town? Definitely.” Good to know. I mean, living in the city, I didn’t doubt it, but it’s nice to know I had an income if I needed it. “Don’t you get that look in your eyes; you are not selling the joint. Think of how much money you will save living there rent-free.”

“Or, you could think about how much money I would lose as I slowly sank into unforeseeable debt and sorrow because the taxes on a place like that would be atrocious.”

“You’re such a pessimist.”

“I’m a realist, major difference,” I clarified. The bartender sat our drinks in front of us, and we picked them up. I turned, intending to leave when I plowed into a solid body. “Oomph. I’m sorry.”

I patted the chest of the giant whose body I just rammed into, trying to ignore the fact that he now wore at least seventy-five percent of my drink. Fucking hell, but drinks were expensive. I couldn’t just be throwing money around to pay for these things, especially not now with taxes to pay and a job that’s, well, less than stable.

Artist life. I may never be stable.

A hand came to my bicep, gripping the skin harder than needed as he took a step back. “I apologize. That was my fault. I hadn’t realized I was standing so close.” His palm brushed from my bicep to my wrist and held. “Let me buy you a fresh drink.”

“Um –” I had a rule. I never let a guy buy me a drink because that comes with expectations. Expectations I wasn’t willing to meet. Somehow, sleeping with a guy for an eight dollar beverage like most girls tended to do seemed to put me at lower pay than a hooker. Now, if I was going to sleep with a guy because he paid me compliments and bought me a drink, he needed to make it worth it. Like adding dinner or something. God knew I was starving, and there was no way I could eat in this dress.

“She would love one,” Michelle answered for me, and I scowled at her before turning back to the hunk of beef. “I would love one, thanks.”

He raised a finger and nodded to the bartender before pointing at me. Wait, this hunk could order without using words? What kind of superpower was that? As if the bartender knew what he was asking, he procured a cocktail. Hunk leaned forward, crowding into my space as he grabbed the glass from behind me. Without a word, he took the almost empty glass from my hand and placed it on the bar.

“Here you go. I’m sorry, I was being awfully rude. I haven’t even introduced myself. My name is Daniel.”

Um, I guess he sort of looked like a Daniel. “Pleasure. I’m Libby. Thanks for the drink.”

I moved to step by him, but his body was blocking my exit. The bar was solidly at my back, allowing me no way to escape. “Excuse me.”

Polite. To the point. Nothing says, let’s go to bed together. Yet, Daniel apparently read that wrong. “Where is your table? Maybe I can hang out with you both for a while.”

Or maybe you couldn’t. But Michelle beat me to it. “That would be great. Follow me.”

What a fucking traitor. Like seriously. Could she not read my face? Instead, she was intent on working toward one goal, getting me laid. It had been a while, probably too fucking long. But my life was too complicated to worry about sneaking out after a one-night stand or someone calling me . . . or not calling at all.

Michelle turned toward our table, walking through the crowd, leaving them parted for me to follow. Daniel’s looming presence was strong at my back, making me very much aware that not only was he following us, but he was walking too close to me. Did personal space mean nothing to these people?

As if my question on personal space invited people closer, a group of girls fell into us all, pushing my body into Daniel’s again. Opportunist. That’s what he was. He used that exact moment my body clashed with his to place his arm around my waist, his palm wide as he discreetly, or maybe non-discreetly depending on who you asked, ran his palm lower. I was thankful that I broke every rule and put on panties. Panty lines be damned, but I was thankful it was one extra barrier between his palm and my skin.

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