It’s been a shitty day.

Super shitty with shit on top.

A complete and utter dumpster fire.

The kind of day that would perfectly justify faking my own death and dropping off the map.

Not that anyone would care—least of all my brother.

The asshole who fired me.

You need a life, Lex. A real life.

When I told him that Cassie is my life and that taking her away from me was the same as killing me, he gave me the kind of look that made me want to gouge out my fucking eyes. The kind of look that told me exactly how pathetic and sad he thinks I am.

I know you love her, Lex—but you need a life. A real life. A life of your own.

In other words, not my life.

I left after that. Because I have a life. A real life.

I do.

And fuck him for saying I don’t.

I ended up here because I can drink for free, which is a moot point considering I’ve been nursing the same Beluga Noble for the past hour and a half. I really don’t want it, but I also don’t want to leave. I have a point to make and I’m not going anywhere until it’s sufficiently proven.

Jesus, it looks like Ed Hardy and Betsy Johnson had a baby and that baby threw up in here.

I hate LA.

My phone buzzes on the bar in front of me.

My brother.

Again.

I kick the call to voice mail and take a drink.

Shitty.

Fucking.

Day.

“Who the hell do I have to kill to get a drink in this god-forsaken place?”

I look up from my half-empty glass to find a woman standing a few feet away from me. Thick, chestnut brown hair pulled into a low ponytail. Olive skin. Dark, slim-fit jeans. A plain white T-shirt topped with a cherry red cardigan. A profile that has me doing a doubletake.

“What are you drinking?” I don’t really care, I only ask so she’ll look at me.

“Well—” She gives me a long-suffering sigh and looks at me like I hoped, aiming a pair of brown eyes at me, deep and dark enough to drown in. “I’m trying to drink a whiskey ginger, but I’ve come to accept that mine is a pretty lofty aspiration.”

Even though it’s been a shitty fucking day, I laugh. “What’s your name?”

She hesitates, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth to give it a chew. For a second, I’m sure she’s not going to answer me—which makes me like her even more. “Elle,” she tells me, letting go of her lip.

“Elle?” I cut her a quick smirk. I don’t know what her name is, but it isn’t Elle. “You just made that up.”

“I did not.” Her spine snaps straight—either because I caught her in a lie or because I insulted her. It’s hard to tell.

“So, Not-Elle...” I pick up my glass and take a swallow. The icy vodka slides down my throat, as smooth as silk. “Are you an actress?” I wait for her to tell me all about her bus ride from Nebraska and how she has an appointment with some sketchy agent or how she has an audition lined up with an even sketchier casting director she met online.

Instead, she looks at me like I just asked her if she enjoys nude sky-diving. “No.” She shakes her head but before I can ask her what she does do, she says, “What’s your name?”

“Lex.” Normally, I’d do what I accused her of—give her a fake name and try not to laugh while she tries to google me on the sly. Instead I tell her the truth. “Lex McLeod.”

“Lex?” Now she’s laughing at me. “That is not a real name,” she says, sliding onto the stool next to me.

I angle myself toward her and give her a grin. “Sure, it is.” Something stirs in my blood that I haven’t felt in a long time. Interest. Real interest. “Ever hear of Lex Luthor?”

“You’ve got way too much hair to be a super-villain,” she says, shaking her head. “Besides, a super-villain would’ve figured out a way to get me a drink by now.”

Challenge accepted.

Planting my hands on the bar, I vault over it, landing on the other side. “Whiskey ginger?” I say, reaching under the bar for a glass.

She nods, her warm brown eyes widening slightly before sneaking a look down the length of the bar. Seth, the bartender on duty, doesn’t even look at me. “You work here.”

I shrug because I don’t want to tell her the truth, but I don’t want to lie either. Filling the glass with ice, I give it a generous pour of top-shelf single malt before forcing myself to give it a shot of ginger ale with the mixer gun. It’s good whiskey. Adding anything to it seems sacrilegious. “Not-Elle is not an actress.” I add a cherry because the damage is already done and because I want to watch her put it in her mouth. “You’re also not from LA,” I say, setting the glass in front of her.

Giving Seth one last look, she finally settles her gaze on me and shakes her head. “What gave me away?” she says reaching for the glass with a lopsided smile. “Was it the sweater?”

I make a non-committal noise in the back of my throat and take a drink, mostly to hide the fact that now that she mentioned her sweater, I’m imagining her in it and nothing else.

“Do you work here?”

“Is your name really Elle?” I don’t know why it matters to me, but it does. Maybe because for the first time in days, I don’t feel like smashing everything I can get my hands on.

“Yes.” Heat rises in her cheeks, staining them pink while she does that thing with her bottom lip again, rolling and chewing on it while she thinks about my question. “It’s short for Ellenore.”

“Ellenore…” I try it out and find that I like it. I’ve met enough Brandis and Santanas and Taylors to last me a lifetime. “My brother owns the place.” There I go, telling the truth again. I tell myself that it’s because she told me the truth, so it’s only fair but that’s not really why. I tell her because even though it’s been a shitty day and I’ve only known her for ten minutes, I like her. A lot.

And I want her to like me back.

She laughs and shakes her head while stirring her drink with the straw I stuck in her glass. “So, not a super-villain—just privileged.”

“Can’t I be both?” From the corner of my eye, I watch the blonde she was sitting with slip out of their booth and saunter her way across the room. She looks vaguely familiar—whether because she looks like every wannabe starlet in LA or because she’s a working actress is hard to tell.

“I guess.” Elle laughs and gives me a shrug while swirling the cherry in her glass around by its stem. “But wouldn’t that just make you Batman?” She pops it into her mouth before rolling it around with her tongue and I’m 100% certain she has no idea how fucking sexy she is. Before I can recover from watching that tongue of hers and imagining how it would feel wrapped around my cock, her friend sidles up to the bar.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she says, flipping her long blonde hair over her shoulder with a practiced flick. “I just realized I have a 5AM call-time tomorrow.”

“Oh…” Elle looks at me, the regret on her face is palpable. Goddamn, she’s adorable. “Okay. Well, it was nic—”

“Don’t be silly.” Her friend shakes her head. “I’m sure—” she looks at me, obviously waiting for me to supply my name.

“Renaldo.”

“Right.” She smirks. “I’m sure Renaldo is more than willing to give you a ride home.” Is it my own wishful thinking or did she just emphasize the word ride?

I look at Elle. “I think I can manage that.”

She does that thing with her bottom lip again. “Dan—”

“Have fun.” She leans in and presses her glossy lips to Elle’s cheek and murmur something that has Elle’s eyes bulging and her head shaking. Before she can say anything, the blonde looks at me and smiles. “I took your picture,” she says, lifting her phone. “So, play nice.” No matter how plastic she seems, she obviously cares about her friend.

“Yes, ma’am.” I give her a snappy salute.

She gives Elle a wink and walks out the door.