The attractive fortyish server shows us to a table for six and takes a handmade Reserved sign off it. “Thanks, Cheryl,” Connor says.
She pats him on the shoulder. “What can I get you two?”
“A Corona for me and a Jack and Coke for Livie. Right, Livie?”
I just bob my head, clenching my teeth and fighting the urge to announce publicly that I’m only eighteen and this establishment should know better than to serve me alcohol. I have the fake ID my sister gave me but I’m terrified to use it. I think I may pass out if she asks me to pull it out of my wallet.
Cheryl doesn’t card me, though. She simply nods and walks away, her eyes dropping to get a good look at Connor’s butt as she passes.
“Tonight should be a good night. We’ve got front-row seats for the band,” Connor says, gesturing to the stage directly in front of us.
“I thought you said they didn’t reserve tables here.”
Connor’s head ducks and I catch those dimples again. “We tip Cheryl well, so she takes care of us. She likes us.” Yes, I know which part of you she likes . . . I wonder what kind of tips Ashton gives her, but I bite my lip before I make another philandering pig comment. He is Connor’s best friend, after all. And a philandering pig.
Unzipping my jacket and hanging it over my chair, my eyes drift over Shawshanks. It’s a large, open space, full of dark wood and stained glass. One wall—entirely brick—displays an eclectic assortment of artwork hung haphazardly. Near the back is a wall-to-wall bar with at least twenty brass beer taps on display. A four-tiered shelf behind the bartender gives patrons countless liquor options to choose from. On the other end—the end we’re seated at—is a stage and dance floor.
“They bring great bands in,” Connor says, noting my gaze over at the instruments.
“Is that why it’s packed here?” Every table is taken, most of them by college-aged people.
Connor gives a half-shrug. “Once schoolwork really kicks in, it slows down a bit. People get pretty focused. But there’s always a party somewhere, someone letting off some steam. Usually at the eating clubs. We’d be at Tiger Inn tonight if they hadn’t shut down the taproom to fix a leak. Here.” He gestures to a chair. “Take this seat before—”
“—Tavish gets here!” Ty’s boisterous voice booms in my ear as two stalky arms wrap around my waist. He lifts me off the ground and swings me in a circle—past an approaching Grant and Reagan—to settle me back down facing the stage. Before I can regain my footing, Ty slithers into the chair I was about to fill. “And takes the best seat in the house!” he finishes.
“Hey!” Connor barks and I note the irritation in his voice, a rare scowl marring his normally contented face.
“It’s okay. Seriously.” I give Connor’s forearm a squeeze for good measure just as Grant leans in to kiss my cheek and smack Ty upside the head simultaneously.
“Hey, Livie!” Reagan calls out, unzipping her own jacket.
“Hi, Reagan. Missed you at the dorm,” I say, swallowing nervously as my eyes do a furtive glance around the room, looking for Ashton. I’m not sure how to act around him now. I can’t even guess how he’s going to act around me.
“I couldn’t make it back in time, so I met up with Grant and we took a cab here together.” Reagan shoots a secretive look to Grant as she takes a seat next to him.
“Oh yeah?” Biting the inside of my mouth to keep my grin in check, I ask, “How was your politics class?” Reagan is embracing an assortment of classes: in three different conversations, she’s told me she’s thinking of majoring in Politics, Architecture, and two days ago, History of Music. I don’t think Reagan has a clue what she wants to do after Princeton. I don’t know how she sleeps at night with that level of ambiguity.
“Very political,” she answers dryly.
“Hmm. Interesting.” Interesting, because one of her classmates, Barb, swung by our dorm room to drop off photocopies of notes for Reagan, who couldn’t make it to class. Reagan is obviously lying but I don’t know why. I suspect it has something to do with the lanky guy next to her. If I wanted to get back at her for . . . oh, everything . . . I’d call her on it in front of everyone. But I don’t.
“Who’s playing tonight?” Ty asks, banging the drink menu noisily against the table.
“Dude, that doesn’t make the waitress come any faster and it makes you look like a complete dick,” Grant mutters, snatching the thing out of his hand.
Apparently it does work, though, because Cheryl appears within seconds to place our order on the table. “What can I get the rest of you?”
Ty’s face looks ready to split, he’s grinning so wide. “What was that you said, Grant?”
“I said ‘nice gut.’ Eat another bag of chips.”
Ty’s grin doesn’t falter as he slaps his stomach in response. There’s nothing resembling a gut there. I take a sip of my drink as I survey each of them with curiosity. None of the guys have an ounce of flab on them, anywhere. Their bodies are all very different—Ty being on the shorter side and thick, Grant tall and lanky, Connor that perfect balance of height and build—but all are equally in shape. I’d imagine it’s due to the grueling workout schedule Reagan’s dad has them on.
“What’s everyone drinking?”
I hate that my heart skips a beat at the sound of that voice. I hate it because I’m usually also hit with the memory of his mouth on mine. It lingers like a sugary aftertaste, one I can’t seem to rid myself of—even with Connor sitting next to me. Tucking a strand of hair back behind my ear, I glance discreetly over my shoulder to find Ashton, his eyes scanning the crowd slowly, one hand absently scratching the skin above his belt. His shirt is lifted just high enough and his jeans are hanging just low enough that I can see the V-shape of his pelvis beginning. My breath hitches, recalling those same ridges in my room less than two weeks ago. Only he didn’t have a stitch of clothing on him then.
“You okay, Irish?”
As soon as I hear the name, I know I’ve been caught staring. Again. With a furtive glance over at Connor, I’m relieved to see that he’s occupied with Grant. I tilt my head back up to find Ashton’s knowing smirk.
“I’m fine,” I say, sliding my straw into my mouth, taking an extra-long sip of my drink. The Jack in it is potent, which is good because it means that warm tingle will start flowing through me quicker. And I’m going to need all the warm tingle that I can get tonight if Ashton’s going to be here. I’m also going to turn into an alcoholic if this keeps up.
“Hey, why did we start calling you Irish, anyway?” Ty asks as Ashton’s beautiful frame glides into the seat beside me. He sits with his legs bent and spread out, unconcerned that he’s encroaching on my space, that his knee leans against mine.
Good question. One I don’t necessarily have the answer for. I’m about to swallow my mouthful of drink and explain that “Cleary” is an Irish name, but Ashton butts in before I can get the words out to announce in a loud voice that the entire table and likely the surrounding ones can’t miss, “Because she told us that she wants to f**k an Irishman.”
Caramel-colored liquid explodes from my mouth, spraying all over the table, catching Reagan and Grant on the shirt as I start to choke. And I pray that I’ll choke to death. And if that doesn’t work, then I pray that someone slipped Drano into my glass so I can start convulsing and be done with this horror.