the first day of the rest of my life,
the day I met blue
Avery
It’s all I can do to stand here in line and not fidget. I’ve never done this before. Specifically, because I don’t belong here. And I don’t belong here because it’s illegal.
Illegal!
I don’t know what will happen if I’m caught. I should know the ramifications—I come from a family chock-full of attorneys, but who pays attention to attorney-talk at family get-togethers? Not me, that’s for sure.
“You gonna move up or what, honey?”
I glance over my shoulder at the chick behind me who looks totally legal. I give her an anxious smile as I note her beauty. The way she and her comrades are dressed screams I’m fun. I’m sexy. I’m a party in a miniskirt and heels.
I try to go for nonchalant, but, of course, it comes off a little throaty and awkward. “Yeah, sorry.”
Stepping forward, I silently grimace when I realize I’m up next.
Pull it together, Avery. Don’t be an awkward dumbass. Act your age plus one.
The three guys in front of me pay their covers and head inside The Knot. I heard this place is new—not that I’m familiar with the bar scene in Nashville. It’s located in an abandoned warehouse district … and for good reason. There’s nothing modern about it whatsoever. The structure looming over me feels very much like the Goliath to my David. The peeling paint and rawness make it edgy as hell.
The cool AC from inside teases me and, in my bandeau, it’s a balm on my skin. It might be the end of September, but we’ve had a few unusually warm days hit Tennessee, and the muggy air isn’t helping my already clammy palms. But just like it always does, the music—loud and pulsating from inside—strums my heart and soothes my soul.
Rubbing my hands over my skinny jeans before I reach into my pocket for my cover charge and ID, I take another step forward and come face-to-face with an enormous, menacing man with short, clipped, blond hair. His five o’clock-shadowed face scowls at me, proving he doesn’t give a shit if he skips a day or three with his razor.
I hesitate, but not because of his scowl or his colorful art winking at me from beneath his tee, or even how tight that tee is stretched to the limits across his chest and arms. No, I’m silenced by his eyes.
Cut like crystal, they’re sharp and beautiful and light. So blue, I could get lost in them. Just like always, when the words start to circle my brain, I yearn for something to write on. I’m so desperate, I’d settle for a bubble gum wrapper and broken crayon.
Anything … to document his rare color of blue.
It would be like winning the lottery for the person who got the chance to gaze into those eyes daily.
His words bite, pulling me out of my blue-eyed daze. “You have ID?”
I suck in a tiny breath and shove a twenty at him with the driver’s license. He takes it but those blues never leave me.
His head tips when his intense glare bores into me. “How old are you?”
I do what I practiced in the mirror a million times before I left my apartment. “Just turned twenty-two.”
“When’s your birthday?”
I’m proud of myself when I steady my voice. “October sixteenth.”
His brows rise. “What year?”
All these questions can’t be good, especially when he hasn’t even glanced at the ID.
I do the first thing that comes to mind and put a hand on my hip while throwing out the other one as I rattle off the year. Then I widen my eyes, adding, “Twenty-two years ago—obviously.”
He stands up straight, crosses his arms, and finally looks at my ID. After studying it for about a nanosecond, those blues come back to me, looking me up and down from top to bottom. “How tall are you?”
“Does everyone get the third-degree? The guys ahead of me sure didn’t.” I throw my words at him, doing my best to appear perturbed as opposed to petrified.
He says nothing but raises a brow waiting on my answer.
“Fine,” I huff. “Five-six.”
His eyes drop to my body again when he mutters, “How much do you weigh?”
I didn’t know what to expect tonight when I strutted my ass out of my apartment and drove across town to listen to a song. Just one song. Why does this have to be so difficult? But as I’m standing here being interrogated by the scary-hot sentry who’s doing everything he can to squash my dreams, I have a feeling I’m about to get bounced for the first time in my life before ever stepping foot into a bar.
Screw it. I’m here. I need to do everything I can to get into this building and fast. I stand up straight on my wedge sandals and answer with conviction. “One-twenty-seven.”
Like magic, a smirk appears over his scary face, making him slightly less frightening and I let out a breath of air, allowing the tension to disintegrate from my muscles. I feel even more at ease because when he smirks, a tiny dimple appears from within the scruff.
Smiling, I step forward, pleased I’ve passed his assessment. But instead of moving aside to let me through, he closes what little space is still between us and grabs my hand. His touch is surprising, firm, and controlled when he shoves my ID and my twenty back into my palm, curling his hand around mine.
Then he leans in, dropping his head to get to my level since I’m so much smaller. Before I know it, I lose his piercing blues when I feel his scruff drag across the sensitive skin below my ear.
When he speaks, his warm breath brushes my skin and, despite the Indian summer we’re experiencing, goosebumps creep over my body. “Sweetheart, if I got you outta those shoes, you wouldn’t be taller than five-foot-three and if you weigh a buck-ten dripping wet—paint me surprised. But it’s your eyes—they’re not hazel. They’re the perfect shade of dark, melted chocolate, so deep and dusky, I can almost see into your lying, underaged soul.”
I gasp and my fingers instinctively wrap around his hand that’s still in mine. I squeeze, letting my awkward anxiety seize me.
“See?” he keeps on, his words tickling my ear. “That little telltale confirms my instincts. You know you’re not twenty-two. I’d be surprised if you can vote.” He pulls away and when I look up at him again, his bright blues are searching my apparently dark, melted chocolate ones. He gives my hand a squeeze before letting go.
“I can vote,” stupidly spurts from my mouth.
His smirk swells, deepening his lush dimple making me want to poke it.
Or lick it.
Whatever.
“At least you’re legal for something—just not stepping foot into my club.” I’m not sure if it’s him knowing I’m legal to vote but before he speaks again, he unabashedly rakes his eyes over me, shaking his head and sighing. “Go home, little one.”
With that, I’ve officially been bounced by a scary-hot dude with a dimple. I’m sure he doesn’t know it, but in the process of bouncing me, he just crushed my one and only dream.
And dammit, there are no do-overs.