Page 2 of Savored Sins
The bartender shoots Jax a smile that shows too much of her teeth to be flirty. “Oh, I’m not off ’til late. And sorry, I’ve got… class in the morning.”
Interesting. I’m pretty sure this girl’s in her late 20s—definitely past college—but when you need an excuse, you need an excuse. Whatever gets the job done, am I right?
Jax scowls, then remembers himself. He nods. “Oh. Sure, sure. No problem. Another time.”
“Mmhm.”
The girl’s eyes flick to mine again, and I hold her gaze for a split second—just long enough for her to know her holding out is going to pay off—before scanning the crowd. I can already see a group of girls on the other side of the pub, looking me up and down as they sip their cocktails. The night is still young. I slap my hand on the counter.
“Changed my mind about the tab,” I announce. I hand the girl my card and she swipes it.
“You want a receipt?”
This time, I train my eyes on her and hold her gaze. “Yeah. And I want you to write your number on it.”
Next to me, Jax sucks in his breath, but he doesn’t say anything. The bartender gives me a small, tight-lipped smile andreaches for the pen. I watch as she scribbles a string of numbers on the receipt and slides it back to me. I give it a nice, crisp fold down the middle and, without even glancing at it, tuck it into the pocket of my jeans. “Thanks, babe.”
Pushing away from the bar, I weave my way toward the group of girls who’ve been eyeing me, an indignant Jax on my heels.
“What the hell, man?” Jax hisses.
I laugh. “Sorry, dude. I couldn’t resist.”
Jax scowls at me. “You’re a real dick, you know that? I was going to suggest we team up for that SyFy Channel contest. I mean, I already filmed—even hired a full-ass crew for drone shots—but I figured we could edit you in somehow. Well, you can forgetthatshit?—”
“Wait, wait, wait.” I hold up a hand. “Contest? SyFy?”
Jax stops. He looks at me for a minute, then a slow grin spreads across his face. “You don’t even know?” He scoffs. “And here I thought you’d be competition.”
I feel a wave of heat rush through my chest, but I fight it off.Play it cool, Zeke.Nowayam I giving Jaxon Slade the satisfaction of seeing me squirm. Instead, I shrug. “Nope. I dunno what to tell you.”
“Come on, man. Where the fuck have you even been? I thought you were, like,upon this stuff. SyFy’s got this competition going—submit a pilot for the new ghost hunting show they want to do, and the winner gets their series produced.”
“Huh.”
I keep my reaction cool, but I swear to god my heart just did a freaking flip. I’ve got a couple of sponsors for my paranormal investigation podcast now, but it’s nowhere near enough to support myself. The brands on TikTok that pay me to promote their shitty, low-budget ghost hunting equipment help a little, but this… aTVseries?That’d change things.
Hell, I’m still living in my future sister-in-law’s best friend’s cabin here in the middle of bum fuck nowhere—although I have to admit, the friend ishotand you better believe I’m going to bang her before I move out—and showing up at my brother Will’s house for dinner most nights. TV money would get me back to Boston and into a place of my own—or at least one with my friends, if they’ll trust me to pay rent this time.
“Well, too bad for you,” Jax says, “But I already staked my claim on the Salem Witch House. Like I said, I was going to offer to submit something together, but I think I’d rather do the show alone. Sucks to suck.”
Poor, sweet Jax. He onlywisheshe’d be getting something sucked tonight.
And anyway, the Salem Witch House? I hold back a burst of laughter. There’s not a single ghost in the Salem Witch House—I know, I’ve been there—and if there everwereany, they’ve all cleared out thanks to the dipshits who go there to bug them. This guy is great.
“Aw, yeah. Too bad for me,” I say. I clap Jax on the back and sidle into the group of girls, leaving him behind. He narrows his eyes at me, then tips his glass back and walks off.
The girls flash their selfie cams at me, holding up peace signs, blurring our faces with whatever phony filters are trending today. Most of them are in black combat boots and band shirts, their eyelids swept with dark, dusty shadow. One of them has hot pink stripes in her sleek, blond hair, and she traces a finger daringly down my jaw, which makes me laugh. I’ve always gotten women’s attention, but ever since I went viral for making out with a ghost on TikTok last year, the girls have been coming out of the fucking woodwork. I’m not mad about it.
I take a break from the fangirls and lean lazily against the wall, scrolling through Instagram. It’s lame, but I’m still turning the pilot contest Jax mentioned over in my mind. If I could winthat thing, that shit would bedope. I’m also trying to decide which one of these chicks I want to go home with, and it always pays to look disinterested. Women like that.
I snort when I see a story from Carter Langley, a friend of mine from college, that’s literally just an ad he worked on for some top shelf liquor company. Straight out of graduation, Carter got himself a job at some high-end marketing agency in Boston, schmoozing rich people and, more generally, just selling out.
He keeps sending me all these LinkedIn messages—honestly, I don’t even know why IhaveLinkedIn—trying to get me to join his team as a content strategist or influencer liaison or some bullshit.Bo-ring. I still remember the time I covered for him so he didn’t get caught with weed on campus, and look at him now. That asshole owes me.
I flick back to Carter’s story and study the ad. I’m sure he makes the big bucks doing this stuff, but like… do people really enjoy seeing this shit? Fucking capitalism. I swipe out of the app and shove my phone in my pocket. The girl with the stripes in her hair is watching me from beneath a fringe of mascaraed lashes. I’ve narrowed it down to her and the bartender, but…
Eh. The bartender’s still working, and I’m ready to gonow. Pink stripes it is. She’s got a great rack on her, too.
