He's not my dad

part 5

By the time the afternoon wound down, the rumors had softened into background noise—still there, still buzzing, but no longer circling me like sharks.

I leaned against Kate’s desk and smiled.
“So. Drinks tonight. My friend Bree’s taking me out to celebrate my first day. You two should join us.”

Kate hesitated instantly. “On a work night?”

Richie didn’t even look up from his screen. “It’s one drink,” he said easily. “Maybe two. We’ll survive.”

Kate eyed him. “You say that every time.”

“And every time,” he replied, “we do.”

She sighed. “Where?”

“Pure,” I said. “The new place everyone’s pretending they discovered first.”

Kate winced. “That place is… intense.”

“That place has excellent cocktails,” Richie countered. “And we deserve them.”

Kate studied me, then smiled despite herself. “Fine. But I’m blaming you tomorrow morning.”

“Deal.”

We agreed to meet later, and I headed for the parking garage, keys already in hand, mind drifting to Bree and music and anything that wasn’t office politics.
I turned the corner—
—and walked straight into something solid.
Very solid.
I bounced backward with a startled yelp, heels skidding, arms flailing uselessly.
Strong hands caught me instantly.

A deep, warm laugh filled the space above me.

“Well,” a voice said, low and amused, “you really do have a thing for collisions.”
I looked up.

And promptly forgot how breathing worked.

The man holding me was tall—unfairly tall—with broad shoulders and lean muscle. Black hair brushed just below his ears, slightly wild, like it had never met a comb it respected. Tattoos traced his arms and disappeared beneath his shirt, inked stories I wanted to read one by one.
He was rugged in a dangerous way.
Pretty in a way that felt illegal.
A rock god. There was no other word for it.
“I—sorry,” I managed, mortified. “I wasn’t looking.”

He smirked, slow and devastating. “Shame. Brightened up my day.”

Heat rushed straight to my cheeks.

“Thank you,” I said, steadying myself as he released me. “For… catching me.”

“Anytime,” he replied. “Though I’m starting to think you might enjoy falling.”

I laughed despite myself. “It’s an unfortunate talent.” I don't recognise him from the office but he had obviously witness by fall earlier.

He twirled his keys lazily around one finger, eyes lingering just long enough to feel intentional. Then he turned, swinging one long leg over a gleaming vintage Harley parked nearby.
The engine roared to life.

He glanced back once more. “Try to stay upright tonight.”

“I’ll make no promises,” I called.

He grinned, kicked the stand up, and took off down the ramp—leaving behind the echo of the engine and the faint scent of leather and something dangerously addictive.

I stood there for a moment longer than necessary.

Then I exhaled.

Between CEOs, office gossip, and tattooed strangers on motorcycles, my life had officially taken a sharp turn.

And somehow, I had the feeling Pure was only going to make things worse.

.........

Bree held up the dress like it was a sacred offering.
“No.”

She sighed dramatically. “Taylor.”

“It’s black latex,” I said. “That’s not a dress, that’s a threat.”

“It’s fashion,” she countered. “And it hugs your body like it was personally designed to make men forget their own names.”

“I work with those men,” I reminded her. Richie had called me to say jack and Dan would also be joining us at the club
“And I would like to continue doing so with dignity.”

Bree rolled her eyes. “You are such a prude. Honestly, you need to remove the stick from your ass and replace it with something significantly more fun.”

“Bree!”

“What?” she grinned. “I’m being motivational.”

I crossed my arms. “It’s indecently tight.”

“That’s the point.”

“It barely qualifies as clothing.”

She tilted her head, considering. “Okay, fine. It’s aggressively tight.”

We stared at each other.
I lost.
Twenty minutes later, I was standing in front of the mirror wearing the damn thing.
The latex clung to me like a second skin, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. I let my hair fall loose, strategically covering more of my chest than the dress intended.

Bree clapped. “See? Hot. Devastating. Slightly dangerous.”

“I feel like I should come with a warning label,” I muttered.

“Exactly.”

She slid shots across the kitchen island like we were in a dive bar instead of our apartment. “Pre-game.”

“I don’t think I should drink much,” I said weakly.

“You fell on the CEO and almost got taken out by a doorframe this week,” she said. “You absolutely should drink.”

Fair.

We clinked glasses and knocked them back.
As she poured the next round, I told her about the tattooed stranger in the parking garage—the Harley, the smirk, the way my knees had briefly forgotten how to function.
Bree’s eyes lit up like Christmas morning.

“Oh,” she said slowly. “Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“A bit of rough,” she declared, wagging a finger at me, “is exactly what you need.”

“I do not need rough,” I said, reaching for another shot anyway.

“You have a nonexistent sex life,” she continued, completely ignoring me. “It’s practically a public service at this point.”

“Wow.”

“You need someone to grab you, shake you a little, and remind you that you’re alive.”

I snorted. “You make it sound like an oil change.”

She grinned wickedly. “Maintenance is important.”

I downed the second shot and felt the warmth spread.

“Besides,” she added, leaning closer, “tattoos, a motorcycle, and a smirk? That man was sent to reignite things.”

“Things don’t need igniting,” I said, though my voice lacked conviction.

Bree raised her glass. “To bad decisions.”
I hesitated—then clinked mine against hers.
Somewhere between latex dresses, reckless shots, and mysterious strangers, I had a feeling tonight was going to be memorable.
Possibly disastrous.
And Bree, naturally, looked thrilled.