The evening air hits me like a slap when I step outside, cool and crisp against my flushed skin. I slide into my car, technically Lana's second car she bought for me, and grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white.
I drive aimlessly for a while, muscle memory eventually guiding me to Brattie's bar, a dive bar on the edge of town where nobody asks questions. Perfect for drowning sorrows without judgment.
When I enter Brattie's, the familiar scent of stale beer and cheap cologne envelops me.
Without looking up, I sit down at the bar and sigh deeply, feeling like I'm going to crash out.
"Well, well, you come here too."
Next to me, a familiar husky voice cuts through my misery. Morgan. Because, of course, it's Morgan.
"What the fuck?" I mutter, finally turning to face her.
She's perched on a barstool, looking impossibly put together in a loose silver dress that seems wildly out of place in this dive. Her auburn hair cascades over one shoulder, and she's nursing what looks like a martini.
"What a way to greet me," she says, her lips curving into an amused smile.
"You must be following me," I accuse, my voice sharper than intended. The coincidences are piling up too high to ignore.
Morgan's expression shifts to annoyance, her perfect eyebrows drawing together. "I've been here for an hour." She gestures to the bartender, who nods nervously in confirmation.
"Jesus Christ," I groan, running a hand through my hair. "The universe really wants us to be friends."
I signal the bartender. "Rum and coke, please."
Morgan's smile returns, predatory and knowing. "Put it on my tab," she tells the bartender. "And make it a triple." She turns those piercing green eyes on me, studying my face with unsettling intensity. "You look down, Adam."
"No shit," I mutter, gratefully accepting the oversized drink the bartender slides my way. I take a long pull, the rum burning a path down my throat. "Thanks for the drink."
"My pleasure." She swirls her martini thoughtfully. "So, what's got you looking like someone just shit in your cheerios?"
"I don't really want to talk about it," I mutter, taking another long swig of my drink. The alcohol burns pleasantly, numbing the edges of my pain.
Morgan leans closer, her perfume cutting through the stale bar air. "I know Lana was supposed to be on a podcast today. Did she say something bad?"
Something about her tone makes the anger bubble up in my stomach, hot and acidic.
"Lana used to date a pornstar?" The words burst out of me, half-question, half-accusation.
Morgan doesn't even blink. "Yeah, Leo Rose," she says, sipping her martini with casual indifference. "Piece of shit, but he's got a huge cock." She sets her glass down, a small smile playing at her lips. "I hate him personally, but Lana always had a soft spot for him."
The casual way she confirms my worst fears makes my head spin. I drain half my drink in one go, desperate to dull the sharp edges of this new reality.
"Three years," I say, my voice hollow. "She was with him for three fucking years and never told me. We got back together right after they broke up, I think."
Morgan studies me, her green eyes unnervingly focused. "And now you're wondering if you're just the rebound guy?"
"Am I that transparent?" I laugh bitterly.
"No," she says, surprising me with her gentleness. "But I've been around long enough to recognize heartbreak when I see it."
I stare into my drink, watching the ice cubes slowly melt. "She did a scene with him. While we were together. She never even mentioned it."
Morgan sighs, signaling the bartender for another round. "The industry is small, Adam. Everyone works with everyone eventually."
"But he's her ex," I protest, anger flaring again. "Her ex, who dumped her right before she found me again. Don't you think that's something she should have mentioned?"
Morgan's eyes narrow slightly, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Dating a working pornstar isn't going to be easy, Adam. That's why people tend not to do it."
I motion for the bartender. "Another one. I'll pay for it, though."
Morgan stops me with a perfectly manicured hand on my wrist. "No, no, honey. I'll pay for your drinks today." She turns to the bartender, her voice taking on a commanding edge. "Keep them coming."
"Yes, ma'am," the bartender responds, a flicker of something like fear crossing his face as he hurries to comply.
I glance between Morgan and the bartender, noticing the strange dynamic. "You come here often enough to terrify the staff?"
She laughs, the sound melodic yet somehow hollow. "I tip well, and I don't tolerate incompetence."
The fresh drink appears before me with impressive speed. I take a long sip, letting the alcohol burn away the sharp edges of betrayal slicing through my chest.
The rum hits me like a freight train as I down the last of my second drink. My phone buzzes in my pocket, screen lighting up with Lana's face, a candid shot I took of her laughing in our kitchen, hair messy and eyes crinkled. My finger hovers over the answer button before I swipe to decline.
Morgan's lips curl into a knowing smile. "You're ignoring her," she observes, signaling the bartender for another round. "Smart move."
I set the empty glass down harder than intended, ice cubes rattling. "Not ignoring. Just... I can't talk to her right now."
The third drink appears before me with alarming speed. I grab it and drain half in one desperate gulp, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. The alcohol burns less now, my throat numbed, my thoughts growing pleasantly fuzzy around the edges.
"I'm not ready," I continue, the words slurring slightly. "Too upset. Need time to process all this bullshit before I say something I'll regret."
Morgan tilts her head, studying me with those unsettling green eyes. "That's actually a surprisingly rational thought from someone so angry," she says, genuine approval in her voice. "Most men would be calling her screaming right now."
I stare into the amber depths of my drink, watching the ice melt into the rum. "I don't think she kept this from me to hurt me, you know?" The admission feels raw, scraped from somewhere deep inside. "I just really fucking hate that she did it anyway."
My phone buzzes again. Another call. I put it in my pocket.
"What scares me most," I continue, the alcohol loosening my tongue with my drink to my mouth, "is that maybe I'm just her consolation prize. Her backup plan after Leo dumped her. The safe option." I laugh bitterly. "Funny thing is, I don't even think Lana would cheat. That's not who she is. But this..."
My rambling is cut short as Morgan suddenly shoves my half-empty drink against my lips, tilting the glass so the rum spills into my mouth. I cough slightly, surprised by her forcefulness. Her expression has shifted from sympathetic to irritated.
"Number four," she says curtly to the bartender, not even looking at him.
The alcohol is hitting me harder than expected. The room tilts slightly as I set down my now-empty glass, my thoughts swimming in a pleasant haze.
"I don't think I should have another," I mumble, the words feeling thick in my mouth.
Morgan's hand lands on my thigh, her touch radiating warmth through my jeans. Her fingers press firmly, not quite a caress but definitely not casual.
"Adam," she says, her voice dropping to a more intimate tone, "would you be able to let go of everything, all this anger, all this pain, if Lana just left the industry altogether?"
The question penetrates through my drunken fog. I picture it, Lana at home every day, no more strangers touching her, no more scenes with exes, no more secrets. Just us, building a normal life together. My lips stretch into a dopey smile at the thought.
"Yeah," I say, nodding too enthusiastically. "Yeah, I really would."
Her hand moves slightly on my leg, a slow, deliberate rub that sends an unexpected jolt of electricity up my spine. The bartender appears, setting down a drink that looks stronger than the previous ones, darker, with barely any coke.
"Drink it, honey," Morgan says, her voice honey-sweet but with steel underneath.
I stare at the glass, reality breaking through the alcoholic fog momentarily. "I drove here," I protest weakly.
The bartender snorts, rolling his eyes. "You think I'm letting you drive home?" he asks, his tone making it clear how stupid he thinks I am. "Not a chance."
Morgan lifts the glass to her own lips first, taking a small sip before sliding it toward me. The rim now bears the perfect crimson imprint of her lipstick. Something about that mark, her claim on the glass, makes my pulse quicken.
"Drink it," she repeats, but this time there's no sweetness in her voice. It's a command, pure and simple.
Something primal and deeply buried flickers to life inside me. The same part of me that writes stories about submissive men dominated by powerful women responds to her tone instantly.
I reach for the glass, my hand obeying before my brain fully registers the decision. The liquid burns down my throat, heavy on the rum with barely a hint of coke. Morgan's lipstick mark feels like a brand against my lips.
"Good boy," she whispers, and something inside me melts at the praise.
The room begins to swim, colors blurring together as the fourth strong drink hits my already alcohol-soaked system. My limbs feel impossibly heavy, disconnected from my body.
"I don't..." I slur, trying to form a coherent thought. "I think I'm really drunk."
"You certainly are," Morgan agrees, her voice coming from somewhere far away. She slides off her barstool with graceful precision, moving behind me. Her hands come to rest on my shoulders, steadying me as I sway precariously.
Her lips brush against my ear, sending a shiver down my spine despite my inebriated state.
"Adam, I'm going to be blunt," Morgan whispers, her breath hot against my skin. "I'm leaving the industry, and I think I could make you happy."
My alcohol-soaked brain struggles to process her words. I turn to face her, nearly toppling off the barstool in the process. She steadies me with firm hands on my shoulders.
"What?" I slur, certain I've misheard.
Morgan's green eyes lock onto mine, intense and unwavering. "I know you're a cuck masochist with a mommy fetish. I could fulfill all of your wildest fantasies with ease." Her hand slides up to cup my cheek. "All I want from you is the love and adoration you have for Lana. How about it?"
The room spins around me as her words penetrate my drunken haze.
"Why..." I begin, but the question dissolves on my tongue.
Morgan leans closer, her perfume enveloping me like a cloud. "I understand you, Adam. In ways, Lana never could."
I shake my head, trying to clear the fog. Despite the alcohol, despite the hurt and betrayal from Lana's revelations, something fundamental remains unshaken inside me.
"I'm sorry," I mumble, pulling back slightly. "You're wicked hot, your vibe is honestly perfect, but I love Lana."
Morgan's expression hardens for just a moment before softening into something like pity.
"Even after what she did?" she asks, her voice gentle but probing.
"I need to talk to her," I insist, suddenly desperate to hear Lana's side of the story. The room tilts as I reach clumsily for my phone, patting my pockets with uncoordinated movements. "Can you help me call her for a ride?"
Morgan's hand darts out like a striking cobra, plucking my phone from my fumbling fingers before I can even register what's happening.
"No," she says firmly, slipping the device into her purse. Her tone brooks no argument, like a mother confiscating a toy from a misbehaving child.
I blink at her, my alcohol-soaked brain struggling to process this violation of boundaries. My mouth opens and closes, but no words emerge. The thought of protesting feels impossibly complex, like trying to solve a calculus equation while underwater.
Morgan's expression softens as she slides an arm around my waist, her grip surprisingly strong for someone her size. "Come on, I'll drive you home," she says, her voice gentler now but still commanding.
"Oh, alright. Thanks," I mumble, leaning into her support.