Inevitable Detour (Inevitability Book 1)(8)

“I think I want him.” Haven sighs dreamily. “Just look at his smooth, confident ways. It’s like he really is Eric.”

“Great,” I mumble. “He’ll probably end up wanting to drink your blood or something equally kinky.”

“Ooh, let’s hope he’s kinky,” Haven purrs. “I will so let him do whatever he wants.”

Haven, despite her ill-advised fling with the professor and her girl-gone-wild behavior tonight, is not promiscuous. She’s just a girl hoping to mend her broken and stepped-on heart. Alas, if drinking and sex are what she needs to feel better, I can play along.

When we are about five feet from the men I’ve temporarily christened “Eric” and “Almost Farren,” I sadly come to the conclusion that the dark-haired man falls far short of the real Farren. He’s not as built as Haven’s muscular brother, nor does his face compare. His cheekbones and jaw aren’t as finely sculpted, his lips are too thin, and his eyes appear to be brown, certainly not green like Farren’s. The guy is a good-looking man, don’t get me wrong. He’s just no Farren Shaw.

With Haven in the lead, we saunter up to the high table. After a flirtatious greeting, the dark-haired man asks me, with a wave of his hand, if I’d like to take a seat. “Eric” asks Haven the same question, only he is gentlemanly enough to pull out one of the tall chairs for her. Haven sits down, straightens her skirt, and proceeds to engage the men in conversation. “This is Essa”—she gestures to me as I’m sitting down—“and I’m Haven.”

The blond man speaks first. “Nice to meet you ladies,” he says. “We noticed you dancing out there.” His ice-blue eyes slide to the dance floor. “Nice moves, by the way,” he adds with a smirk.

Clearly, he’s referencing the kiss Haven and I shared or possibly all our grinding.

Haven laughs, and after a pause, the blond-haired man holds out his hand and says, “I’m Eric.”

“No way,” Haven exclaims, touching his outstretched hand.

Her eyes meet mine, and though we try like hell not to giggle, a few snickers do escape. I mean, come on. What’s the chance of “Eric” really being named Eric? I almost ask him if he ever gets mistaken for the actor who plays Eric Northman on the show, but the dark-haired man speaks first when he says, “What’s so funny?”

His tone is devoid of humor, so I conclude it’s probably best not to share.

Twisting in my seat till I’m facing him, I breezily reply, “Oh, nothing.”

He smiles, his deep-set eyes crinkling at the corners. His smile softens his appearance, making him seem a whole lot friendlier than a few seconds ago. Still smiling, he says, “I’m Vincent, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you,” I reply.

After chatting for a few minutes, I warm up to Vincent. But maybe, like everything tonight, my soothed feelings are due to alcohol. Just as I’m thinking I should probably switch to water, a waitress comes around and Eric orders a round of shots for everyone.

“Patrón for the two of you?” He raises a blond eyebrow, directing his question to Haven.

Huh, interesting. For Eric to know what kind of shots we were taking earlier, he must have been watching us carefully. I can understand his noticing the kissing and the grinding on the dance floor—after all, he is a man—but this is a bit much.

Has Vincent been just as observant? I wonder. Apparently so, I conclude when he leans in close to me and asks, “Would you like a Corona Light to chase your shot?”

“Yeah, sure…” I trail off, uncertain anymore of what to think. Sure, I may be drunk, but, like at first, I have an unsettled feeling about these two men. Their ages, the way they are dressed… They just don’t fit. Why would they be hanging out in this college bar in this rural town? Clearly they are not from around here.

Emboldened by beer and tequila, I inquire, “So, since you two are quite obviously beyond college age, I sincerely doubt you attend Oakwood. Where are you from?”

Vincent glances over at Eric, like he’s waiting for some sort of guidance.

“It’s not that difficult of a question,” my drunken ass adds.

I immediately regret my words when Eric shoots me a look that leaves me ice-cold. I shudder, and not in a good way. “New York,” he replies, his tone flat.

Haven, not noticing anything is amiss, says excitedly, “Like, the city?”

Eric places his hand possessively and firmly on my friend’s black fishnet-covered knee. He gives me a smug smile and replies, “Yes, like the city.”

Haven takes no notice of his hand or the fact that his fingers are currently intertwining in the net pattern.

“My brother lives in Manhattan,” she tells Eric. “I’ll be staying at his place this summer. Maybe we could meet up sometime after I get settled in.”

Uh-oh, she’s smitten already.

“Yes, I think that could be arranged,” Eric replies as he smiles wolfishly at Haven.

I shudder again, and Vincent, taking notice, places a hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay, Essa?”

I wave him off. “Yes, yes, I’m fine.”

Eric and Vincent buy another round of shots, plus more drinks, and before long, I’m beyond hammered. When we finally stumble out of the bar—well, Haven and I stumble; our male companions appear more or less fine—Vincent asks how we plan to get home.