Rowdy || 18+ || RH

Chapter 12

Emersyn

I pull into the driveway, the memory of Valarie's tired smile still fresh in my mind. Being a nurse is demanding, and she's been swamped at work lately. Our planned hangouts have been postponed more times than I can count, so taking her dinner at work was the least I could do.

As I unlock the front door, I'm immediately struck by the unusual activity inside. It's Saturday night, which means roommate dinner and game night. But instead of the smell of food and the sound of laughter, I find Fowler, Cruz, and Locke in various stages of getting dressed.

"What's going on?" I ask, my voice laced with confusion. "Isn't tonight supposed to be our game night?"

Fowler, who's busy tucking in his crisp white shirt, grins at me. "Change of plans, Emmie. You're about to witness the ultimate roommate support mission!" His brown eyes are bright as he talks. His hair is styled tonight, his mohawk standing tall. It gives him an edgy look, which contrasts with his boyish face and playful personality.

Locke strides over, dressed in a well-fitted black polo shirt and dark jeans. "Marx had to go into the bar because someone called in sick. We figured we'd take the dinner and game night to him."

Cruz, wearing a simple grey Henley shirt and comfortably fitting jeans, offers a warm smile. "You in?"

I can't help but be touched by their gesture. "Of course, I'm in! Give me a few minutes to change."

I rush to my room, excitement energizing me. These guys really know how to make the best out of any situation. I choose a casual yet chic outfit – a soft, flowy blouse paired with a pair of distressed denim shorts. I run my fingers through the brown waves of my hair and add just a touch of makeup to complete the look.

Returning to the living room, I find the guys still fussing over their appearances, teasing one another.

"You know, those shoes won't make you any taller," Locke teases, earning a playful glare from Cruz.

"And that shirt won't make you any less uptight," Cruz shoots back.

I laugh, joining in the banter. "Boys, boys! You need to behave."

Fowler winks at me, his brown leather jacket slung over one shoulder. "Everyone ready?"

We head out, spirits high, and load ourselves into Locke's car. The drive to Marx's bar is a short one, and the lights of the establishment soon come into view.

As we approach the entrance to Disorderly, the lively chatter from inside spills out onto the street, drawing us into the warmth and energy of the place. The neon sign above the entrance flickers, casting a soft glow.

We push through the doors, and the smell of grilled food and the sound of clinking glasses welcome us. A buzz of conversation fills the air, along with the low thrum of background music.

Behind the bar, Marx is working, his strong arms deftly mixing drinks and serving patrons. He's wearing his usual black button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up, displaying his muscles. His white hair is spiked up, showcasing his striking features.

I feel my heart quicken as our eyes meet. His expression registers surprise for just a moment before he schools it into a calm, controlled look. But the spark in his eyes gives away his pleasure at seeing us.

"Hey, Marx," Locke calls out as we approach the bar, his voice friendly and familiar. "Thought you could escape game night?"

Marx's lips quirk up into a half-smile, his response measured and careful, in line with his man-of-few-words persona. "Guess not."