Chapter Text
1.
“So, if I let you get me a drink, can I get your number?”
It’s the wrong night for this. Not that there’s ever really a right time for a pickup line this uninspired, but it’s particularly dangerous tonight, because Kiara is just about broken up enough – no pun intended - to actually fall for it, and not immediately tell the polo-shirt-wearing kook currently standing on the other side of the bar to go try someplace else.
She doesn’t know what’s worse – his crisp salmon pants with the cuffed ankles, or the way his lips are curled up with such unearned confidence, that she has the barely controlled urge to jump over the bar and physically wipe the smile off his face.
She can’t do this. She can’t. Yes, she’s reeling from a breakup, literally had her heart ripped out of her chest only two days ago. Yes, she’s in desperate need of a good fuck right about now. And yes, there’s a perfectly decent-looking guy basically propositioning her in the middle of her shift.
But her radar’s never wrong about these things, and this guy looks like a certified asshole. She can practically smell the white, rich privilege from where she’s standing.
And Kiara is a weak bitch, because she might lean into it anyway. He looks like he’s got some decent abs under that horrendous shirt he’s wearing, and she can always just cover his face with a pillow and pretend she’s riding someone who doesn’t make her want to bathe herself in holy water.
Fuck. She’s going to do it. She’s going to—
“Babe, how much longer before you get off your shift?”
It takes her a minute to realize that the stranger to her left is addressing her, but when she does, her head whips around with such force she actually hurts herself. She winces as her hand flies out to her neck.
And okay, JJ Maybank is not exactly a stranger, but they’ve spoken approximately three times in the six months she’s been working here. Enough that she knows his name is JJ Maybank, that he mostly hangs out here because he’s good friends with Cleo, and that he will lend you his zippo lighter when you’re sharing cigarettes in the back alley, but will keep his eyes on you like a hawk until you give it back.
That’s nowhere near enough for him to ask her what time she gets off so casually, and certainly not enough for him to call her babe.
His eyes are blue, and pretty, and entirely focused on her face, hair falling on his forehead and pink lips curled up in question.
Kiara frowns, just about ready to bite his head off, when Salmon Pants speaks up.
“Oh shoot, I didn’t know you were with someone!” He turns to look at JJ Maybank, presses a hand to his chest apologetically. “I’m sorry, bro, I would never hit on someone else’s woman, you have dibs.”
And once again, Kiara feels like someone’s pulled the rug from beneath her feet, her words cut off before she can even utter them. There’s no way she heard him right. Her head whips around incredulously.
His woman? Dibs? What the fuck is this asshole on about?
And to think, she was almost going to let this sleazeball take her home.
She turns to JJ Maybank again, finds him looking at her pointedly. Her brows crash together for a moment, before she thinks, oh.
“Right,” she mutters, nodding to herself. Turns to Pastel Boy and tries for her most flattered expression. “Yes, I’m sorry, I should’ve mentioned I’m spoken for. My parents gave my virtue away in exchange for Master Maybank’s cattle when I was 13, and I have not been allowed to look at another man since.”
JJ Maybank snorts so loud his drink comes out of his nose, while the other guy just looks thoroughly confused. He lingers for another moment, waves a hand vaguely in the air, and then hightails it out of there.
“Fucking kook,” Kiara mutters under her breath, reaching for the open bottle of rum behind her and pouring two shots. She pushes one glass towards JJ Maybank, who looks at her with a silent question on his face. “On the house, for that chivalrous display of misogyny.”
Either he doesn’t get the slight dig or he just completely ignores it, because JJ Maybank takes the offered glass, raises it in the air and downs it immediately.
“Cleo said I need to save you from yourself,” he explains, after.
Kiara’s eyes fly around the room in search of the girl in question, spot her currently serving shots to a table in the corner. Cleo looks up right then, cocking up an eyebrow and magicking a knife out of her apron’s pocket. She starts twirling the knife like the little menace she is, levelling Kiara with a look she’d rather not try to interpret right now.
Kiara just rolls her eyes before she turns her attention back to JJ Maybank. “Cleo’s a dick,” she declares, downing her shot and wiping aggressively at the bar top. “But she’s not wrong.”
He takes a sip from his beer, peering up at her from under very, very long lashes. “Care to share?”
JJ Maybank, Kiara decides, is not exactly hard on the eyes. Gives off a touch of fuckboy energy, even though she’s never actually seen him with anyone. What does she care, anyway? It’s not like she’s looking for long-term commitment right now.
Kiara’s mouth drops into a perfect circle when she realizes where exactly her mind is going with this.
She could, she supposes. There’s nothing stopping her.
She throws the dish cloth back on her shoulder, clicking her tongue and leaning forward until she’s eye to eye with him, propping her elbows on the bar top. “I would, but I don’t really know you, JJ Maybank.”
He bites his lower lip, runs a hand through his hair before he starts tapping on the bar, thumb ring clacking against the counter. “Doesn’t that make it easier, though?”
She stares at his hands around his beer bottle for a moment, all stacked rings and callused fingers. He’s got a cluster of faded scars and a scab on his left knuckle, a small tattoo on the back of his right hand that she can’t quite make out.
“Yes and no,” she muses. “I don’t know you, but you know one of the only three friends I have in this city, which can potentially make things difficult.”
He leans forward too, and she takes it as a good sign. “So you’ve just moved here?”
“Six months ago.”
She looks down at her hands, twists one of her rings around her fingers. Six fucking months since she uprooted her life and moved across the country for someone else, just to have her heart stomped all over like a fucking joke.
“How about this,” JJ Maybank says, snapping her out of her misery. “I’ll tell you something about me, and then you tell me why Cleo’s right.”
Kiara bites the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling too wide and agreeing immediately. She contemplates him for a moment, the ease with which he handles himself, something light about the way he’s looking at her, but also surprisingly curious.
“Okay, I can do that, JJ Maybank.”
He looks at her with mild amusement. “Are you going to keep calling me JJ Maybank all night?”
The words fly out of her mouth before she can think about it. “Do you foresee this being a long night?” His lips curve up on one corner, and it’s too late to take her words back. Jesus, Kiara. Keep it together. She clears her throat instead, tries for a more straightforward tone. “I don’t know you well enough not to call you by your full name,” she tells him. “Unless you’ve got a problem with that?”
He shrugs. “I’m not big on my last name. Daddy issues left me scarred.”
He winces as soon as the words are out, eyes flickering to his forearm, long enough for Kiara to follow his line of sight. And for her to notice the scar that sits there, curved and twisted like a crescent, silky skin matted and smooth and half-hidden behind the rolled-up sleeves of his grey flannel.
He doesn’t say more, and Kiara doesn’t press.
She cocks her head to the side. “JJ it is.” He smiles. “What does JJ stand for, anyway?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know you well enough for that, Kiara Carrera.”
The grin that spreads on her lips is unbidden. “Kie.”
“Mommy issues?” he asks, half-serious, and Kiara laughs, shaking her head.
“Just like it better.”
He picks meticulously at the label of his beer bottle, peels it off and sticks it back upside down. Tries to smooth out the edge that keeps trying to escape the condensation.
“Kie,” he tests out, looking up at her with eyes that make her breath stutter in her chest. It’s not exactly uncomfortable, or that unwelcome.
Something clatters loudly over the music, and she suddenly remembers that they’re not alone. She looks around the place, checks that no one’s vying for her attention.
It’s a slow night, which she’s thankful for, for once. She’s far too into this to walk away right now.
“So,” she says, “are you actually going to tell me something about you or was that all just bullshit to get me talking?”
JJ grins. “I told you about my daddy issues.”
Kiara looks at him, unimpressed. “You told me you have daddy issues. Not what they were, or why.”
JJ smiles, peels the label around the neck of the bottle this time. This one doesn’t come off quite as smoothly. He bites the inside of his cheek, eyes flickering from the bottle to meet hers again, whisps of gold-streaked hair brushing his forehead.
“My best friend is getting married in a few months.” He looks down at the bottle again. It’s the first time she’s seen him look so… uncertain. “He and his girlfriend slash future wife are going to be moving out of our flat when that happens.” He pauses, raps his knuckles against the bar top. “And I have no idea what I’m going to do when he’s gone.”
And Kiara thinks she may have fucked up a little bit, because she didn’t think this deal through. If there’s anything she’s even worse at than opening up to people, it’s giving out any sort of advice.
She blurts out the first question that comes to mind. “Are you in love with your best friend?” JJ looks at her like he does not find her very amusing. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m not very good at this.” She almost reaches for his hand, thinks better of it. “How long have you known him?”
“Since I was 8. Lived together since I was 13.”
She’s thankful JJ isn’t looking at her, because she’s unable to mask the shock on her face.
She wants to ask so many questions. She keeps them all to herself.
“And now he’s moving out,” she says. “Fuck. I’m sorry. That can’t be fun.”
“’S’not your fault,” JJ mumbles, shrugging.
He looks like he’s maybe regretting actually telling her, and Kiara kind of wants to kick herself for it.
“Is he moving far?”
“Not really.” JJ empties the last of his beer before he twists it in his hand. “I’m probably making a bigger deal of this than it actually is.”
“Hey, no.” Kiara waits until his eyes meet hers again before she continues speaking. “It’s completely valid,” she says, trying to reassure him. “But as someone who’s moved several times, most recently from one coast to the other, I can tell you he’s going to need all the support he can get. He’s still going to need you.”
JJ’s smile is small, but it’s there. He jerks a hand through his hair, and again, pulling his infamous lighter out of his pocket and flicking it between his ringed fingers with such ease and dexterity.
Kiara stares openly for a moment, tries not to think about all the ways he could put that dexterity to good use.
“Thanks.”
She jerks out of her thoughts at the sound of his voice. Nods and grabs another beer from the fridge for something to do, uncapping the lid and exchanging his now-empty bottle with it. “It’s like, half my job description. Mix drinks, keep the nuts in the tiniest bowl, double as a therapist.”
He grins. “So, now you. Is that why you’re upset? Because you moved here?”
Kiara shrugs. “Not here specifically. I actually kinda like it here.”
“But?”
She sighs. Braces herself. Time to keep her end of the bargain.
“But I moved here for my girlfriend and—well, ex-girlfriend now. I found her in our bed with another girl.”
JJ nearly spits his beer. “Shit.”
Kiara sighs, leaning back against the counter behind her.
“Three days ago, I had a beautiful apartment and a hot-as-fuck girlfriend and I was in a relationship with someone I thought I was going to be with forever. And now I’m homeless, pissed off, and I’m pretty sure if I see her I might commit a crime. And on top of that, I packed my bags and left the house so fast I forgot my favorite pair of boots in the apartment.”
“Shit,” JJ says again.
“And I almost slept with a country club douche.”
“Shit.”
Kiara glares. “Is that the only word you know?”
JJ stumbles over his words for a moment, but then Kiara takes pity on him, smiling lightly.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what else to say,” he tells her honestly, a nervous laugh escaping his lips. “Like, that fucking sucks, dude.”
“It really fucking sucks,” Kiara agrees. “Thanks for saving me from Pastel Polo, though.”
“I’d do it again,” JJ says. He looks so earnest when he says it, Kiara almost believes him. “And I wish I’d known before that you were looking for a place. We were looking for a new housemate up until this morning.”
Kiara smiles. “It’s okay, my friend hooked me up.”
“Another one of the only three people you know in this city, I presume?”
Kiara laughs again, nodding. “I move in with her tomorrow, until I figure my shit out and decide if I’m staying in this place.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, I think you should stay. And if there’s anything I can do…” JJ trails off, and Kiara pauses. She could. They’re not friends, they don’t like each other, there’s no emotional baggage. He looks at her like he can tell she wants to say something. “What?”
She shakes her head. “Nothing.”
“No, seriously, what?” When she doesn’t say anything, he throws a stray peanut at her. “Kie, what?”
She bites her lower lip.
She’s picked up guys and girls at bars and pubs and clubs before. And even at a dog park, once. This isn’t any different. And at least with JJ, she won’t have to hide his face. Might actually rather get off of seeing him scream her name.
“Are you single?”
JJ stills completely, and for a moment, she’s not even sure he heard her. But then he frowns and says, “I am.”
And he actually looks curious about where this is going, which is the only reason Kiara doesn’t immediately take it back.
“Straight?”
“No.”
That could potentially be problematic. Potentially.
“Into girls?”
“Aren’t you into girls?”
“Not exclusively.” She cocks an eyebrow. “So?”
“Yeah, I’m into girls too,” he says eventually.
Kiara’s stomach flipflops. It’s now or never. “Into me?”
“What?”
And okay, this conversation took a sharp turn all of a sudden, but he doesn’t have to look this surprised. Still, she ploughs on.
“There’s a reason I was willing to go home with Captain Salmon Pants, and it wasn’t because of his personality.”
“Oh.”
That doesn’t exactly sound like a ringing endorsement that she should actually go for it.
“You know what,” she says, pushing herself off the counter and busying herself with some pitchers behind the bar, “forget it.”
“Hey, no,” JJ says immediately, standing up and reaching forward over the bar to curl a hand around her wrist before she can get too far. She looks at his hand around hers for a moment, the metal of his rings cold against her wrist. She can see the tattoo clearly now, the small P4L etched on his skin in black ink. A little patchy, and slightly crooked on one side. Maybe she’ll ask him about it one day. Her eyes find his again. “Your place or mine?” He shakes his head quickly, lets go of her. “Nevermind, dumb question, my place.”
Kiara’s eyes don’t leave his. “It’s just a one time thing.”
“Absolutely.”
“I get off in ten.”
JJ pulls out some bills from his pocket, throws them on the bar.
His eyes are dark when he looks at her.
“I’ll be outside.”