Austyn Bennett has experienced more trauma than any 25 year old should. She is fighting and losing against her PTSD and reckless behavior. She has no regard for her own life-only craving a temporary escape from the nothingness that resides in her so...
Once at the pub, we make our way over to a booth near the front. Strategically done so by me, just in case I needed a quick escape. I sit with my back facing the entrance, glancing around to take in my new surroundings.
The place is decked out from top to bottom in dark wood paneling and pictures of all the bands who apparently come and perform here. Classic rock plays in the background - not too loud so that one can hear themselves think.
That is what I don't like about clubs. Yeah, they are fun now and then, but if you need to communicate with someone; you have to scream in their ear and hope there is a slim chance that they can even understand you.
I look back at Dawson, who is eyeing me inquisitively. I take another look at him since the lighting is better and I notice he is pretty built. I can see tattoos poking through the top of his V-neck and cascading down the length of both of his arms. His hands display small scars all along the prominent knuckles, signifying to me he has been in his fair share of fights. I only know this because both of mine look terribly similar.
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My eyes trail back up to his face and the way he's currently smirking at me, with his now noted dimples on each side, conveys that he caught me checking him out... again. I sit up straight, running my hand through my hair and wave down a server. I am now really in desperate need of this beer to calm some of my nerves.
The server makes her way over to us with a genuine smile on her face. "Hi, my name is Clairah and I will be your server tonight. What can I get you both to drink?" The server briefly glances Dawson's way, but her eyes dart back to settle on me.
I divert my gaze down to my draft list and order a 20 ounce Busted Knuckle. I smile to myself, internally amused by the irony.
"Make that two actually," Dawson states, his deep voice pulling me from my inner musings. "A girl who likes dark beer... and here I was expecting you to order a cider or some shit." He chuckles softly and eyes me, as if he's trying to calculate how I am going to react next.
I smirk, amused by his response. "Or some shit? Apparently, you're used to being with girls who don't know jack about the glories of craft beer," I start. "Or girls who just can't handle their alcohol in general."
"You're not wrong there." He huffs out a breathy laugh and says, "I like you more already. A girl who knows her beer and also doesn't throw herself at every strange guy that desperately tries to hit on her in the street," he winks. "Women like that are few and far between."
The server makes her way back over to us and sets down our drinks. She turns to me and gives a shy smile, and swiftly looking me up and down, gently biting down on her lower lip. "Is there anything else I can get you, sweetheart?"
