Page 9 of Choke

A shiver runs down my spine before I can stop it.

“Hey man, do you want a drink or not?” Jay asks, his tone unfriendly. I offer him a somewhat apologetic glance, my regret about this entire situation intensifying.

“Just water’s fine, thanks,” Adrian says, his voice low and even.

Jay must not have caught what he said because his eyebrows push together.

I set my drink on the bar and offer, in a tone audible to human ears, “Just water, Jay.”

I slide some cash across the bar toward him and swivel my stool toward Adrian. His right hand and forearm are against the bar, while his left hand is on the arm of my chair. My turning to face him means he’s pulled closer as his left arm moves with the stool.

Holy fuck.

The air between us turns electric. He’s too close. Too warm. The bar is loud, but I hear his breathing over it, steady and measured. We lock eyes, and he’s inches away from me. His intense, smokey scent hits me as his dark eyes roam over my face. My heart rate skyrockets and my breath catches a little, flushing my cheeks. I quickly scan the space behind him, taking in the other patrons before looking back at him and realizing how much he truly stands out here. He’s different from the rest—not just in his size but in how he carries himself. He doesn’t slump or blend in. There’s a quiet discipline in his movements, his intense eyes, massive hands, and thighs that strain against his jeans. I don’t think I’ve ever seen legs this big. In contrast, the local men I see regularly look weathered and tired. Many of them work in the farm fields that scatter the area, and years of summer sun exposure have aged them. But him? He looks rugged and intensely beautiful. My mouth suddenly feels dry, like I’ve been starved of water for years. I slowly lick my lips, looking at my drink on the bar, but unable to reach for it.He is so fucking close.His eyes flick to my lips, and the expression on his face makes my cheeks heat again.

It’s strictly his proximity, nothing more.

He must read my reaction because his full lips twitch upward as if the response amuses him. He slowly leans back into his seat, his arm brushing mine, and it’s as if I’ve brushed against an open flame. My entire body feels like molten lust, and I’m not sure I’ve ever been this attracted to someo—

“First name basis with the bartender,” He says, smirking. “Do you work here, or is he your boyfriend?”

It’s so smug and assuming.

It annoys the fuck out of me.

“Can’t it be both?” I ask. My tone oozes irritation.

I reach for my drink, willing my hand not to tremble. This guy is intimidating and cocky. And a douchebag.

He shrugs casually before continuing.

“I can’t picture allowing my woman to work in a place like this,” His smirk widens as if he’s waiting for me to prove him wrong.

You mean the place you and your buddy troll for teenagers?

The place you drop shitty pickup lines?

My mind is writing the script for me to lay into him when another guy comes up behind him and throws an arm over his shoulder. I watch Adrian’s energy shift. His smug confidence disappears, replaced by a tension in his shoulders, the muscles in his jaw tightening and causing his cheek to tick. His grip on his glass of water tightens, and his eyes flick to the bar, then to my drink—like he’s searching for an escape or debating whether to throw a punch.

That’s a fascinating reaction.

“Adrian Liberty—you guys killed it today!” The drunk guy shouts, spitting in Adrian’s ear.

Adrian leans away, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand.

“Thanks,” He says dryly, his tone heavy with sarcasm.

The guy launches into hockey chat—perfect. He must talk for 3 minutes without pausing, using terms I don’t get for a sport I can’t stand, slurring his words the entire time. Adrian pivots toward the guy and sticks out his hand. The mess of a man grabs his hand with a broad smile.

“Thanks, man, but as you can see, I am in the middle of a conversation. Could we continue this a little later?”

The man offers apologies for the interruption and additional compliments, but at the same time, it clicks. I should have known. It’s not just his build. It’s the arrogance—how he moves, smooth but weighted like he’s trained it for years. I scan him again, and this time, I see the details I missed: calloused knuckles, a faint scar splitting his lip, a silvery-white line tracing his brow.

I stifle a groan and the urge to roll my eyes — a hockey player.

Of course.

I look around and see the jerseys; they’re everywhere. White and blue with some animals on the front. I can’t believe I didn’t notice them before. Also, people are staring at him as if he is someone. Adrian Liberty. I’ve never heard the name, but he has a lot of people’s attention. The air feels thick, the stench of cigarettes suddenly overwhelming, and I need to get the fuck out of here. I push back my stool; it scrapes and sticks to the filthy floor. I am up on my feet with my jacket on and tip belt in my hand when Adrian’s attention turns back to me, and surprise crosses into his expression. His eyes search mine as if gently asking me to sit back down.

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