Inevitable Detour (Inevitability Book 1)(6)

I’m in the middle of taking a drink from my bottle of beer, and I practically spew Corona Light all over the polished-wood bar.

“Um, right,” I mutter. I nod to her margarita and say, “Just how much tequila is in that drink, anyway?”

I’m only half-serious, but Haven replies without missing a beat. “Three shots of Patrón.”

“Sheesh, good thing we walked here,” I mumble.

Haven doesn’t disagree. “For sure,” she says with the glass halfway to her mouth.

After taking a sip, she adds, “So, what are your plans? Are you going to defy or comply with Mr. and Mrs. Brant?”

I let out a long sigh. “I’d like to defy,” I admit. “But you know I’d get cut off. That would mean no more school, no more anteing up my share of the rent for our cute apartment—”

“They wouldn’t stop paying for your classes,” Haven interrupts, her voice soft despite her cutting me off.

“That’s probably true,” I say. “But I’d definitely be back in the dorms.”

Haven shudders. “I know, sweetie. Your parents probably would cut out anything they deemed unnecessary.”

“Which would mean most everything,” I say, sighing.

With a genuinely apologetic tone, Haven says, “I shouldn’t have said anything, Essa. Besides, all is not lost. You can always drive up to the Big Apple and visit for a few days.”

I don’t say anything, but I doubt a visit to New York will ever really happen. I’m too chicken to take a chance like that. What if something went wrong? My parents would flip.

For Haven’s sake, though, I smile and nod.

Haven smiles back and then motions for the bartender. “Hey, let’s do a shot,” she says to me. “We need to lighten the mood. We’re supposed to be celebrating tonight, right?”

“Right,” I agree, before I tip back my bottle and finish off what’s left of my beer.

Haven eyes me curiously.

Since it looks like I will, indeed, be abandoning my two-beer rule tonight, I declare, “Let’s get f*cked up.”

She replies, “Hell, yeah. I’m all for that.”

A mere minute later, we’re downing shots of tequila. Another round of shots follows, and then Haven and I hit the dance floor. I am officially drunk, so when Haven initiates a bump-and-grind routine with me, I roll with it.

Soon, half the bar is watching us—the male half. Haven leans in and whispers in my ear, “Hey, let’s give them a show.”

Before I know what a “show” involves, Haven’s lips are on mine. There’s nothing romantic or erotic about the kiss, however. My best friend’s lips feel warm and soft as they press against mine. I know the intent behind her action is born purely from affection, so I kiss her back. Soon, though, there’s whooping and hollering and calls to “touch each other’s tits.”

“Okay, that’s enough of that,” I murmur, breathless and dizzy as I take a step back.

Haven laughs. And we continue to dance, albeit with less grinding, until the song ends.

When the next song begins and it’s nothing we like, she grabs my arm. “Come on, Essa,” she says. “I think we need more shots.”

My head is spinning, and everything is kind of fuzzy. But who am I to ruin our good time? Intent on being a good sport, I heartily agree that more shots are what we need. On our way to the bar, though, a sense of uneasiness creeps over me. Even in my inebriated condition, I feel as if Haven and I are being watched. Some deep intuition warns me that these are not college-boy stares.

Glancing up to a raised portion of the bar overlooking the dance floor, I spot two men in business suits watching as Haven and I make our way through the crowd. The men, who are clearly older than us, try not to be blatantly obvious. When they catch me staring at them, they turn away quickly and engage in conversation. I assess them. Maybe they’re not so bad. They’re both nice-looking, and compared to the rest of the guys in the club, these men ooze suaveness and sophistication.

Feeling brave from the alcohol, and with clearly impaired judgment, I lean in close to Haven and whisper loudly in her ear, “Two hotties at three o’clock.”

Her eyes dart over to where the men are seated at a high table, giving them a commanding presence.

“Oh, hell, Essa,” Haven gushes over her shoulder to me. “Good pickup. Hmm, wonder what two guys like that are doing here. They’re not kids,” she continues, stating the obvious. “They must be at least thirty.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” I muse.

Stopping in the middle of the crowd, she spins to me, bounces on her toes, and says excitedly, “We should go talk to them. This could be your chance, Essa. Maybe you’ll like one of them.”

“Whoa, slow down,” I say.

This is a level of enthusiasm I don’t know what to do with. Personally, I’m nervous as hell at the thought of actually meeting these strange men. Suddenly wishing I’d kept my mouth shut, I step around Haven. Over my shoulder, I say lightly, “Jeez, Haven, didn’t you get enough of older men with Professor Douche Fuck?”

She catches up to me, leans in, and says quietly, “Aww, you’re just nervous.”

“Damn straight,” I reply.

“Trust me, Essa,” Haven continues. “If you’re fortunate enough to experience an older man—one who knows what he’s doing—then you’ll understand.”