Chapter 2: One Night Is Never Enough

Kiera's POV 

I slid into a barstool still in my gala dress and ordered a whiskey. The bartender didn't comment on that, which I appreciated about him.

I was on my third drink when someone sat down on the next seat.

I didn't look up. I was focused on the glass in my hand, the liquid moved when I tilted it, the way it burned going down. I was done crying, whatever came next didn't get my tears.

"You look like you're trying to drink the memory away." The stranger spoke.

I didn't answer, my fingers tightened around the glass.

He didn't push, he just signaled the bartender, ordered a whiskey neat, picked it up, and set it back down. He didn't look at me, neither did he perform looking away from me either, he just existed next to me, like he had all the time in the world.

I should ignored him, should have just finished my drink and left. 

Instead I said, "What makes you think I'm trying to forget anything?"

He turned his head slightly. "Because you're drinking like a woman trying to drown something and you're not crying." He paused. "So it's either memory or regret."

I finally looked at him.

He was, not what I expected from a dark bar on a Tuesday. He was tall, broad shoulders, had a sharp jaw, and his eyes. His eyes were blue, a beautiful shade of blue that made you think of ice.

I'd seen eyes like them once in my life. My father's eyes. The man who'd looked at my mother with those blue eyes every day for eleven years and then packed a bag left and married someone elsem I'd learned early that beautiful blue eyes didn't mean anything good.

 I looked at him for exactly one second too long before I caught myself and turned back to my drink. "What if I told you it's neither?"

"Then I'd call you a liar," he said. "But I wouldn't blame you."

A short, sharp laugh escaped me before I could stop it. "You don't even know me."

"No." He agreed. "But I know that look."

I turned back to look at him again.

"I caught my husband fucking my best friend, I walked in on them tonight, in our bedroom," My voice came out flat. "So, it's not a memory or regret. I'm trying to understand."

He didn't shake, didn't say oh my God, or ask if I was okay. He just nodded once, like I'd confirmed something he already suspected.

"That's a hell of a thing to walk in on."

"Yeah," I said. "It is."

We went silent. It was comfortable in a way silence shouldn't be with a stranger. I set my glass down and looked at him again. "You're not going to ask If I'm okay."

"No." His eyes met mine. "Because you're not."

Something loosened in my chest. "No," I said. "I'm not."

He took a sip of his whiskey, didn't look away. "You want to talk about it?"

"No," I said.

He nodded.

"But I will," My voice came out rough. "If you're listening."

His eyes stayed on mine. "I'm listening."

"He didn't even apologize," I said. "He asked for a divorce before I finished screaming. He said the marriage was already over and I was being dramatic." I shook my head. "Like I was the problem."

He didn't say anything, just watched me with those blue eyes, like I had all the time I needed.

"And my best friend..." I stopped. "My former best friend just sat there with my sheets pulled up and didn't say a single word, no apology, nothing."

My hand tightened around the glass. "Do you know what the shocking part is?"

"What?" He asked.

"His sister knew the whole time." I said. "She was waiting for me when I came home. She was warm, nice, which she has never been to me, ever, not once..." I cut myself off. "I didn't understand it until after. She was warm because it was almost over. She'd been waiting for it."

He was quiet for a moment. "You went home because you missed him."

I looked at him sharply.

"That's what you're most angry about." He continued. "It's not the girl, or the sister, It's the fact that you went home because you missed him and that's what you walked into."

My throat tightened and I looked back at my glass.

"Three years," I said. "Three years of performing. Of being the right wife in the right dress at the right dinner, of filling myself down to fit whatever shape he needed and he didn't even look sorry, just annoyed."

He looked at me for a long time. "What are you going to do?" He asked finally.

The question dropped into my chest like a stone in my chest.

"I don't know," I said. "But I know what I want, tonight."

I turned to face him. His knee brushed mine and I felt the air change. I met his eyes a second longer, on purpose.

"You haven't asked my name," I said finally.

"I don't need it." His voice was calm.

"No?" I raised an eyebrow.

"Names are for people who plan on sticking around." His gaze was intense. "I don't think that's what tonight is."

Something moved down my spine. "And what is tonight?"

His eyes dropped to my mouth, then back up. "You tell me."

"He doesn't get to be the only one." The words came out before I could stop them. "He gets to cheat, do whatever he wants, feel whatever he wants, take whatever he wants and I'm supposed to go cry in a hotel room and wait for the divorce papers."

He didn't say anything.

"Why does he get to feel that," I said. "and I don't?"

"He shouldn't," he said. "He really, really shouldn't."

"Then I guess tonight..." I set my glass down slowly, held his gaze. "... you're my revenge."

Something in his expression shifted. "Revenge," he repeated. "By the time I'm done, he won't even be a memory."

"I'm only asking for one night." I tilted my head. "Think you can handle that?"

He held out his hand, that unhurried certainty back in his eyes and then I put my hand in his.

"You, the only problem with one night..." His voice dropped. "... is that one night is never enough."