Into You Series: The Complete Collection

13. Ian

CHAPTER 13

IAN

C orinne suggested we all go to a karaoke bar tonight and, while I had planned for karaoke to be at the rehearsal dinner outing, I will never protest performing karaoke two nights in one week.

Grace’s cousin knows my drinking habits—or lack thereof—and she’s considerate enough to suggest activities even the sober people can enjoy. Plus, Corinne is a great karaoke partner, and it’s been much too long.

So far tonight, I’ve been on and off the stage three times, sometimes with the addition of someone for a duet and sometimes just rocking out on my own. All the same, I still have the wedding party to cheer me on from the bar. Cam and Grace are chatting; Nia and Corinne hang out beside them, sipping their mixed drinks together; and Ramona and Wes order new drinks, joining the conversation as well.

I let my gaze settle on the two blondes in the middle. It’s hard to ignore the similarities between Nia and Corinne. They’re both beautiful, yet they’re each confident in their own way. There’s Corinne with her jubilant smile, bouncing on the bar stool enthusiastically, with every single man—maybe even the married men—looking her way. She’s youthful with long, model-length legs that have this sheen about them, and she seems happy.

Then there’s Nia, small and petite with her body leaned against the bar and chest stuck out in a no-nonsense pose. She’s all attitude, and I eat that shit up. Men look at her, but she’s definitely getting fewer glances than Corinne. When she’s standing with such an off-putting demeanor next to the girl in her twenties who is excited to be here, complete with bouncing tits, I can’t help but understand why she’s subsequently getting less attention.

But that’s just my kind of woman.

Ramona was right: I can’t pin Nia’s personality down, but that’s the last thing I would want to do. I like how much she challenges me. She’s intelligent. Sexy.

Corinne is just another sister to me at this point. My little sister’s best friend’s cousin. Yeah, basically just another sister. We can sing karaoke together or joke about tits on other women, but Nia is the mystery, the fire I would beg to burn me inside and out.

When I walk up to the group at the bar—the bride and groom excluded given that they’re now in a competition to see who can eat whose face harder—Corinne is distributing bright, lime-tinted shots from a tray. Ramona, Wes, and Corinne clink their glasses together, nudging Nia to insert hers into the toasting circle. After doing so, three of them slam their drinks on the counter and slosh them back with gusto. They’re drinking pros. Nia, on the other hand, is still attempting to gulp hers down with one hand pinching her nose and the other clenched around the glass in a vicelike grip as the contents slowly drain out. Once she finishes, they pat her on the back, and Ramona twists her finger in a circular motion to order another round.

Nia coughs, waving her hand in front of her face and shaking her head side to side.

“Not much of a drinker?” I ask, tilting my head, and she rolls her eyes in response. “Come on, back to square one? I said I was sorry.”

“Actually, you didn’t,” she says.

“I’m sorry,” I amend.

She takes the drink Ramona gingerly slides to her around my back since I’ve nestled in between the two of them.

“You should have apologized sooner,” Ramona mumbles out of the side of her mouth.

Nia says nothing, but she does smirk. Even in the dim glow from the string lights roped around the exposed beams in the bar, I can see the glimmer of her captivating brown eyes. The color is rich, like a pure cocoa treat from the chocolatiers in those tourist trap fudge shops I have yet to hit up and let rob me blind.

“Ramona can vouch for me, right, Ray?” I say, lifting my arm to wrap my sister in a side hug. Her arms wrap tightly around me in return, and she flashes a grin at Nia.

“He’s an ass,” Ramona mumbles through a puckered mouth as our cheeks smush together.

The glass, now filled with misty pink liquid, touches Nia’s plump lips. I’d kill to be that fucking glass. In a few determined gulps, it’s empty, and she’s already turning to order another.

“Going a bit fast, huh?” I observe, releasing my grip on Ramona, who splays her hand across my cheek to push me away from her. I’m too entranced by Nia’s new habit to notice.

“It’s been a weird day,” Nia responds, tapping her finger on the counter as I slowly nod in response.

“Want to talk about it?” I ask.

“Poor people problems,” she replies. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“I deserve that,” I say, and she nods in agreement, her small smile lifting her cheeks. I’m fine with the blunt trauma of her insults if it grants me a smile. Probably not healthy, but I never claimed to be a well-adjusted man.

She snatches her next drink off the counter once it arrives, black napkin stuck to the bottom and all. It’s down in one go, and I’m noticing she’s getting bolder with each drink.

“So, is everything okay?” I ask, trying to get the conversation rolling again. She looks up at me, and I can see the gears turning in her mind, the flutter of her lashes. I wonder if I’m close to having her open up to me…but then the moment is broken by a shove into Nia’s shoulder.

A man pushes past her shoulder with gnarled, leathery hands coated in a layer of thin white hair and a face that is the human equivalent of a mountain goat, hair on his chinny chin chin and all.

“Excuse me,” he grunts with zero actual regard as to whether Nia has budged at all.

“Rude,” Ramona mutters from the other side of me, leaning her head back to catch a glimpse at this hobbit-sized man and placing a hand on her hip.

“What was that?” the man snaps, his jowls jiggling under his sloped chin.

“She said you’re being rude,” Nia says, straightening her back. “Why don’t you just let us order your drink for you? That would be the most productive option considering we’re women and this is a bar.”

The goat man narrows his eyes at her, and honestly, I’m impressed she’s still as loquacious as she is given what drink number she is on. But, I’m also clenching my fists, readying my reflexes to reach for Nia should I need to steal her away from the irrational drunk goat man.

Maybe he bleats when he’s angry.

Okay, now I kind of want to find out…

“Fine. Let me get a drink,” he grumbles. The old man gestures to the bar, sweeping his arm across the exposed wood where Nia was leaning just a second ago. “Are you finished, ma’am ?” he asks, his unwavering sarcasm echoing through the insincere nicety.

“No,” she replies, knocking her hip against his to move him out of the way so she can hop on the bar stool his stance was blocking, diplomacy gone. I can’t help but let out a laugh.

“Charming,” he sneers. The goat man is looking between the two women, then to me and Wes, who hold our hands in the air, ready to let them handle the situation on their own.

Finally, a grin cracks the goat man’s stubbled face, showing dirty teeth, as well as his lack thereof and the dregs of God knows what remaining in the gaps. “Girly, I could drink you under the table.” He chuckles, rapping his knuckles on the bar and whistling to get the full attention of the bartender at the opposite end.

“That’s a weird challenge to make,” I say.

“I’m a weird man,” he grumbles toward me.

Nia’s hand suddenly slaps the counter beside her, making all of us jump.

“Listen here, sir .” Her faux pleasantries are just as convincing as his, though she has a wild grin on her face. “We’re trying to enjoy karaoke. Now are you going to sing or what?”

“Sing?”

“Sing, sir ,” she repeats.

Yeah, she’s definitely drunk.

An hour later, we’re all singing, even Nia, whose voice is quite possibly the worst I’ve heard all night. She’s like an angel with a broken harp and missing sheet music, but she’s putting her all into every belted note and each Celine Dion impersonation. She butchers it like any good karaoke performer. I’d almost be disappointed if she didn’t.

Her high bun has slowly deflated into a mid-to-low tangled mess of hair somehow still secured in the hairband. Her makeup is bleeding a bit to reveal the light spattering of freckles on the bridge of her nose granted to her from her short stint in the sun yesterday. It’s adorable.

“You want that broad,” a voice says beside me through a wheezed laugh. I turn and there he is, the goat himself, with his crooked smile and equally crooked teeth.

“You’re terrifying,” I say.

“I get that a lot.” He nods solemnly as if mourning his own appearance then nudges my arm with his scrawny elbow. “So, when are you bagging that?” He tips his drink toward the stage, where Nia is now bending in half trying to belt out the lyrics to “I Will Always Love You.” It’s both horrific and fantastic.

I smile. “‘Bagging’ simplifies it a bit too much.”

“You’re a good-lookin’ fella, though.” He squints, making me bark out a laugh.

“She has higher standards than me. Much higher standards.”

“Let me tell you a story,” he starts, swaying closer to me, lifting his drink into the air again and breathing straight vodka into my face. “I was a gross younger man.”

“Infinitely difficult to imagine,” I mumble, tipping my glass of water to my lips.

“Thank you. But I dated this woman named…god, what was her name…my first wife…”

“Jesus.” I sigh, and he lifts his hand to hush me.

“Stella!” he says, his eyes bulging in realization. “I loved that woman. I loved her so much. She wanted nothing to do with me. Gorgeous woman. Tall, lean, gorgeous.”

“You’ve said that.”

“Gorgeous.”

“Uh huh, and?”

“Wanted nothing to do with me, but I just…let go, you know?”

“No.”

“I told her everything about me. I let her in ,” he says, emphasizing the last word, and to be honest, I’m actually not sure if that’s a double entendre or not, but half of what he’s saying isn’t making sense anyway. I doubt he’s lucid enough to complicate his speech any more than he already is.

“How’d that work out for you?” I ask.

“We married,” he says, slowly moving his head up and down. “Best years of my life. Then she left me.”

“I’m sorry, man.”

“My fault. We all have our vices,” he says, exhaling, and I feel like I see him sober up in the split second it takes for him to admit that.

“We all have things to atone for,” I agree, patting him on the back. He knocks me in the shoulders in return. His eyes glaze over, hat twisted so I think the back is now the front—although it’s hard to tell with these fishing hats—and his hand is shaking to the point where his drink is spilling a bit.

We do all have things to atone for, and I’ll be trying to pay mine forward for the rest of my life.

“Let me give you a ride,” I say, more of a demand than an offer.

“Nah, I’ve got my keys,” he says with a wink.

“Oh, is that a bottle opener keychain?” I gasp, holding my hand out. “Let me take a look.”

“Sure thing.” He drops the keys into my palm, and I close my grip around them, shoving them in my shorts pocket.

“You’re coming with us, dude.”

“Should have seen that coming.”

“Probably.”

We stay out much later than probably any of us intended to. We’re even present for when they turn the lights back on for last call. It’s blinding after the hours of misty darkness. I successfully corral Corinne, Ramona, and Wes to the bar where Nia and the goat man are talking with each other—or more like slurring things at each other.

“I see absurd tourists and damn wedding parties all the time out here,” the man murmurs. “You, missy, ain’t half bad though.”

“Let’s not try to make her your fourth wife, pal,” I say, tapping the bar and waving my credit card. “I’ll pick up whatever they haven’t paid for.”

Nia lifts her drink glass, rolling her fingers over the side and stroking the lip of it with the pad of her thumb. “You’re buying drinks for me now, Ian?”

I exhale the energy that was welling inside me from watching the small beads of condensation run down the edge of the tumbler.

“I’d buy drinks for you all night if you’d let me,” I say.

“He wants you,” the goat man grumps, and I point my finger at him in warning.

“Inappropes,” Ramona says, leaning against Wes, who is barely standing himself. Thankfully, he’s built like a paper weight, so as long as he isn’t trying to go anywhere, I think they’re both stable.

“You know what? I don’t want you with us anymore.” Nia declares it as if her word is law, narrowing her eyes and pushing the goat man’s drink away from him in a childlike manner.

“Nia, he can’t drive,” I say. Even with the amount of drinks she has in her, she’s still maintaining impeccable posture, looking like she owns this bar, and hell, she probably could. “And I have his keys.”

“He can call a ride,” she says, crossing her arms in defiance.

“Do I look like I own a phone?” he says, and well, no, I guess if I had to pick any one person as someone who wouldn’t own a modern-day invention, it would be this guy with his beige, tattered boating hat and roughed-up Hawaiian shirt. Even his shorts, with their plethora of compartments meant for holding items, seem to be lacking any at all.

“We’re taking him home,” I insist. Even if he’s the biggest asshole in the world, ready to slug the next person who walks past us with his tiny, dwarven hands, I’m still going to load him in the back of Cameron’s Jeep. No person will drive drunk if I’m here to offer an alternative. No person needs to put themselves in that situation. Not again.

The goat man gets up to go the restroom, and Nia nudges me slightly. “We’re actually taking him?”

“Yes, Polly, we’re actually taking him.”

“Why?” she whines.

“Because he needs a ride,” I say with a shrug. “And that’s what I do.”

“Designated driver,” she says softly, almost to herself. “Better hero than Batman.”

“I try to be,” I say, smiling. I can’t even help it; she’s feeding me compliments, and I’m eating them up like kibble. “Now let’s find the bride and groom and get out of here.”

Ten minutes later, it’s like herding cats into the Jeep. Wes and Cameron are in the back with Ramona and Grace in their laps and Corinne shoved between them. Nia sits in the passenger seat next to me and leans her head back against the headrest.

I plopped the goat man in the back, his knobby knees shoved to his chest and his hat clutched in his hand, revealing wisps of white hair on his mostly bald head coated in liver spots. I somehow got his address from him before he passed out. It’s unsurprising he lives so close to the bar, and the drive is barely a few miles down the road.

I’m focusing as best I can with the commotion of drunken laughter, but out of the corner of my eye, I see Nia’s phone light up and buzz in her lap. I take a quick glance and see the name Harry pop up. I nudge her and she takes in a sharp breath of air. I must have woken her up.

“I think your brother is calling,” I yell over the wind rushing past our ears. She nods slowly and picks it up to answer.

“Hey, wonderful,” she slurs. I love seeing this side of Nia, the unguarded and loving Nia who isn’t bound by work policies and rules. The thought of her answering one of my phone calls and nicknaming me Wonderful tugs at my brain.

“Not drinking. Drunk—past tense,” she says with a giggle. “You’re what?”

I bet it’s hard to hear with this wind. I try to listen in more, but in the rearview mirror I see the goat man trying to stand, so I snap my fingers, yell “HEY!”, and demand he sit the fuck down. For an arrogant old guy, he complies surprisingly quickly.

“I can’t hear right now,” Nia says. “We’ll talk tomorrow. Bye-bye.” She hangs up her phone and exhales, leaning her head back against the headrest and rolling it toward me. “I think I underestimated you.”

“Most people do.” I grin.

“You’re good-looking, you know that?” she says through a slur.

“Weirdly enough, yes,” I say, lifting an eyebrow at her as she scoffs in response. My heart pounds in my chest. I just thank God she’s drunk enough to think that joke was funny.

When we arrive at the old man’s house, I try to load him out of the car and unlock his front door. He’s mumbling things to me I can’t understand and I’m just nodding and saying, “Uh huh,” to make him feel heard. Then right before I leave, having placed his keys in the entryway bowl, he whispers from the couch, “Just be open with her. Be honest.”

Godspeed, weird goat man.