Page 72 of Fever Dream
We drive twenty minutes south of Stal Brandt, right to the edge of Emerald Lake, and pull up to a bar in an old strip mall. Conversation flowed easily on the way here, but the sight of the shabby bar makes every word shrivel on my tongue.
“Here? This is where you’d take someone you’re actually interested in?”
“Yes.”
Emmett hops out of his truck, undeterred by my skepticism. He circles the front end as I eye the low-rise building. The Sugar Saloon has a reputation for being a tad rough around the edges. I’ve never been here, but I’ve heard stories.
When he pulls my door open, I turn to face him, edging a foot forward to find the metal runner. The hemline of my dress shifts up, but I’m wearing bike shorts underneath, so what the fuck ever.
“But this place is—”
Before I can finish my sentence, his hands grip my waist and lift me out of my seat. He places me on the asphalt with littlefanfare. But his fingers flex against my hips as he leans in close for a beat. His heady scent—all fresh soap and cedar now—swirls around me, as his breath dusts across my neck. “Trouble? Perfect for you. Especially in this fucking dress.”
He pinches the fabric between two fingers as he draws away, giving it a firm tug downward. I feel a matching pull deep inside me. It has me sucking in a quick, harsh breath.
One that Emmett hears. One that makes the side of that sinful mouth tip up knowingly.
He’s toying with me. And I can’t for the life of me keep my reactions to him under wraps. He doesn’t gloat though. Instead, he turns and walks away, but not before reaching one hand out behind him, a clear sign for me to take it and keep up.
And against my better judgment, I do. Because there’s a part of me that believes Emmett would never lead me astray.
When we walk into the bar, every pair of eyes in the place swivels to land on us. I drop his hand, which only draws a deep chuckle from him. I shoot him a quick glare and then take a half step away from him, wanting to keep an acceptable amount of space between us while also not wanting to be out of arm’s reach.
I remind myself that this is a small town, and this is a local haunt. Which means anything people see Emmett and me doing could spread like wildfire through this valley.
“Worried someone is going to tell your golden-boy brother that Emmett the tramp had his baby sister out at the town dive bar?”
His spin on what we’re doing here rankles me. I sneak a peek at him from the side of my eye. He’s holding himself tall and proud, but I know I didn’t just imagine the thread of hurt in his snarky one-liner.
“Nah.” I grab his hand and take a step into the space. “I’m more worried about you getting all obsessed with me,” I toss over my shoulder.
A full, genuine laugh hits me from behind. I grin toward the bar as I weave through the cramped space while trying not to rub the pads of my fingers over the calluses on his hand like a total fucking creep.
The attention that landed on us as newcomers in the bar dies down the farther we push toward the back. And when I spot a small table in the corner, I make a beeline for it, dragging Emmett with me.
He lets me lead him until we make it to the table, then he surges ahead, making a point of pulling out the chair for me.
“Are you pretending to be a gentleman again?” I ask playfully, turning to take a seat.
He flops down across from me, stretches his legs out, and props his hands across his ribs. That devil-may-care energy that makes women shoot furtive glances his way everywhere he goes—including here—oozes from him. “Yeah. Are you falling for it?”
My lips twist in amusement, and I opt to take in my surroundings rather than respond to him. The clientele is of every shape and size and from all walks of life. Farmers, businessmen, small groups of people—some of whom I might recognize from campus. I wonder if I’d have come here and kicked back with friends if I hadn’t retreated so dramatically the past couple of years.
The place does have a certain… charm.
The wooden floors are scuffed to shit. There are small slot machines in one corner, and a cigarette vending machine next to them. Two birds with one stone, I guess.
On the opposite side, there are a couple of pool tables, and just beyond that, a dartboard that has seen better days. The ceiling is low enough that some of the larger male patrons almost seem to be hunching just to fit.
In British Columbia, smoking in bars has been banned for almost twenty years, but this place defies the odds by carryingthe decades-old scent along with the yeasty aroma of spilled beer.
“It’s dark in here,” I mutter, my brain slipping into work mode. I start cataloging the different ways we could produce an episode using this specific location. It would be a challenge. “And cramped. But I like it. The director of photography will hate it at first though.”
“At first?” Emmett asks.
“There’s definitely a vibe.” I turn back to face him.
“What kind of vibe?”
