Page 3 of The Fangirl and the Grump

“I’ll have a cosmo,” Madison says, pushing up to the bar beside me.

She hunches her shoulders a bit to make her cleavage pop and licks her lips seductively, and the bartender earns my everlasting respect by simply nodding and moving his gaze from her face to Pressley’s.

“What about you, beautiful?”

Pressley lets out a nervous giggle before ordering her usual––a strawberry daiquiri––and Sloan asks for a whiskey-soda. We turn to survey the rest of the place while we wait for our drinks. Much like the online photos, it’s rustic and quaint with wooden dining tables on one side and smaller cocktail tables closer to the bar. It’s not overly crowded, but there are enough people filling the tables to make the place lively and energetic. A guy in ripped jeans and a t-shirt is setting up a guitar on the small stage in the corner, promising a night of live music for our entertainment.

“One tequila sunrise and two shots.”

I spin around and eye the drinks with a grin before meeting the bartender’s eyes. “Thanks, uh, what’s your name?”

“Bram,” he says with a smile.

“Thanks, Bram,” I say, digging through the pocket wallet attached to my phone case for my credit card.

“It’s on me,” Madison says, handing over her own card with a sultry smile. “Why don’t you start a tab for us, handsome?”

Bram nods and turns to put her card by the register before placing a martini glass in front of her. She makes a show of enjoying her first sip, but his attention has already reverted to Pressley as a second mixologist hands him a tall daiquiri topped with a paper umbrella.

“One strawberry daiquiri for the lady,” he says, shooting Pressley a wink.

She blushes prettily, and I bump my hip against hers. “Want one of these?”

She looks at the two shot glasses I motion toward with a scrunched nose and narrowed eyes. “No way. That’s all you.”

Shrugging, I pick up a shot and toss it back. Ignoring the gag reflex the alcohol triggers, I chug the second one before biting the lime Bram offers me on a napkin. The citrus cuts the burn, and I pick up my cocktail, lift it toward him in thanks, and hook my arm through Pressley’s before dragging her toward an empty table.

Sloan and Madison follow, and the latter wipes the chair down with her cocktail napkin before sitting. Sloan leans back and watches the condensation drip down her glass with a frown. Pressley drinks her daiquiri while shooting covert looks at Bram the bartender. And Madison makes snide comments about every local and obvious tourist in the place while I drain my drink in one long pull on the straw.

Fun, right? Yeah. Sure.

If I’m going to survive this night without exploding, I’m going to need another drink. Maybe two. Or three.

Maybe then, I’ll forget what a shit show my life has become.

ChapterTwo

Trace

Ifind an empty stool at the bar and slide onto it, a tired sigh blowing through my lips. The tourists are always out in full-force on Friday nights, and tonight is no exception. I hate it, what this town has become, even though I know the tourism keeps Evening Shade’s economy afloat as well as lining my own pockets.

It’s not real. None of it. And I really miss the life I had before this town went werewolf crazy.

“Trace. Good to see you, man. What are you having?”

“Hey, Bram,” I say, reaching across the bar to pound fists with the one real friend I have left in this town. “I’ll take a bottle of the pale ale.”

Bram nods and turns to pull a bottle from the small ice chest built into the shelf behind him. Twisting off the top, he sets it in front of me before holding up a finger to signal he’ll be right back. He moves down to help a pretty blonde who blushes as she orders a strawberry daiquiri, and I notice he’s turning on the charm with her.

He was the same in high school, his classic, jock-like good looks and charisma doing him all kinds of favors when it came to hooking up with girls. I was always more reserved––almost introverted––and we were drawn to each other like opposite ends of a magnet in tenth grade. We’ve been tight ever since, especially once our other friends slowly trickled out of town to make new homes in other parts of the country.

Small town life isn’t for everyone, I guess.

“She’s cute,” I say with a smirk after Bram hands her the drink and moves back toward me, “for a CursedCub, anyway.”

My smirk falls into a frown with the moniker. Ever since those damn movies hit the big screen, Evening Shade has been inundated with fans clamoring to see the place, imagining hot guys shifting into wolves and finding soulmates.

Blech. So cheesy. And ridiculous.

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