The Night Before I Knew Him

June

There’s something about cheap tequila and half a degree of confidence that makes me think I can get away with anything.

"Okay, June, your turn." Leila waves her phone in my face. "Truth or dare?"

I lean back against the velvet bar booth, head buzzing from the last round of drinks. We’re four girls deep into celebration, lipstick smudged, heels lost, and so drunk. So so drunk.

"I pick dare," I say, because of course I do.

Leila’s eyes light up. "See that guy at the bar? The one in the dark gray suit, second stool from the end?"

I glance — and almost regret it.

Second stool from the end. Jacket undone, tie missing, shirt collar open just enough to see a sliver of chest. He’s got one hand wrapped around a tumbler of something dark, the other twitching on his knee like he’s trying to hold still. But his stillness is loud. Charged. Like a switch waiting to flip.

"Are you trying to get me killed?" I ask, my brows furrowing.

Leila snorts. “He’s hot. And definitely older. You said you wanted to be bold tonight."

"I also said I wanted to survive the night."

"It’s just a number, June. Not a marriage proposal." Kayla laughs, reapplying her lipstick.

I glance again.

His face is unreadable. Sharp jaw, cold mouth, eyes that don’t seem to be focused on anything at all. There’s something coiled in him, something fierce. Or maybe something barely held back.

Still, I can’t run away from a challenge. Especially not on a night like this, when I’ve just landed an internship at the biggest business enterprise in Las Vegas. When I feel electric and drunk and slightly untouchable.

"Fine," I agree, standing. "But if he arrests me with his eyes, you better post bail."

I walk up slowly, pretending my legs don’t feel like jelly and my stomach isn’t turning somersaults.

I slide into the seat next to him like I belong there with my chin high, eyes sparkling from the dare.

He doesn’t look at me right away. Just swirls the drink in his hand like he’s trying to hypnotize it.

"Hi," I wave, displaying my signature flirty smile.

There is silence, then, a “No.” Flat, deep and dismissive.

My lips part, half a nervous laugh caught in my throat. "I haven’t even asked anything yet."

He turns, slowly. His eyes are sharp, gray, like metal under ice. He looks at me like he’s already exhausted by my existence, which, frankly, only makes me more interested.

He groans, "You were going to ask for my number." It’s not a question. It’s a psychic read.

My pulse skips two beats, "So what if I was?"

He leans in, voice low and hot with whiskey and intent. "Ask for a night instead."

My eyes slightly widens. Not because I’m shocked. But because… I'm not.

This man is raw restraint, the kind of person who probably keeps an iron grip on everything until one thread