01 | GRAVITY

the force that attracts a body toward the center of the earth, or toward any other physical body having mass.

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IT IS SO LIKE ME to get ditched at a bar.

Leaning against the grey brick wall of The Black Inlet's exterior, I press my phone to my ear and tap my foot against the weathered concrete. It beeps six times before Luna picks up with an infuriating snicker. Rock music plays in the background of the call, and it doesn't match the bass thumping from inside the building next to me.

"Aria, what's up?" Luna slurs.

"You left without me, didn't you?"

"Of course we left! I thought you were going home with the mega-hot bartender?"

"Are you high? I didn't even talk to him!"

"You were giving each other eyes all night, I thought you'd hit it off!"

"I was gone for five minutes!"

"Okay, chill, I'm sorry. Just come meet us."

Fuck's sake. I'd expect this from Luna, but our other roommates, Caroline and Devin, are no better. I'm going to kill all of them.

"Okay." I take a deep breath to chill my temper. "Where are you guys?"

Silence. With a frown, I look at my phone.

She hung up.

Drunk rage boils through me. "Fuck you!" I spit into the black screen. Beside the metal doors to the bar, a group of old dudes with scraggly beards puff on their smokes and stare at me, reminding me I'm in public. The humid summer air is damp on my bare legs, and storm clouds rolled over the last glimpse of the stars. I need another drink—so I go back inside.

The Strokes' Last Nite plays from the jukebox, and the air is dank with the smell of beer. My head spins and my brain throbs; I might be a little drunk, but if I don't get another one in me, this anger isn't going anywhere. I saunter past tables filled with the typical Friday night crowd: guys in leather jackets, older ladies in black tanks and jean shorts. The pool table my friends and I were sitting at before they ditched me is now occupied by two old guys with studded vests.

Things at The Black Inlet never change. Same Labatt 50 on tap, same rotation of rock CDs in the juke, same grizzled staff. So imagine my surprise when I'd arrived earlier to see a new guy behind the bar. The bartender's always been Patty, this tough-as-nails lady in her forties, but now it's him, tall and pretty, a blue and black plaid shirt rolled up at the sleeves.

Before my friends disappeared, I was hatching a plan to talk to him, but decided against it because of last week's love life-associated disaster. I'd been talking to this Matt guy online and finally met him in person, only to discover his plans included me having a threeway with him and his fucking girlfriend. Tempting and all, but I had to pass. I'm over cheap Tinder dates and empty hookups—I want the real thing. Ever since I turned twenty-one, the nights alone have started to get, well... lonely.

But finding a decent guy is hard, and even though flirting is usually as easy as feeding a goldfish, that bartender gave me cold feet. But you know what? Fuck Luna, fuck Devin and Caroline and fuck them for ditching me. I'm getting this guy's number.

Behind the bar, he runs a dishrag around a pint glass. When I slide into a stool beside the vintage tin poster of Marilyn Monroe on the wall, the bartender's eyes fall right on me.

"Hey, what can I get you?" His voice is smoky, like that sizzle when you drop a lit cigarette in a puddle. Coal-black hair swoops over his forehead, and his irises are as blue-grey as a shark's skin.

Damn, he really is hot, but not in an in your face type of way. His stony-yet-gentle features are easy on the eyes. I take a moment to look at him—really look. It makes no sense how a guy can appear so rugged and clean at the same time. Carved cheekbones; the slightest dimple on his chin; a face I swear belongs in a fashion magazine. The model type, more handsome than he is pretty, and he's clearly fit under that plaid shirt. And yet here he is, with a dive bar behind him and a five o'clock shadow over his pale white skin.

It all makes him even more attractive.

Don't stare, Aria.

"Just a Bud, please." I lean my elbows against the bar. My vision gets all wonky, but more liquid courage will help. Before I can even blink, he sets one in front of me and pops off the tab. I hand him a ten, and he gives me back a couple of coins, which I leave on the plastic Jägermeister divider. He smiles when I thank him and moves onto the next customer. My phone buzzes in my hand.

Luna: Sorry, phone died. Come home!

Me: Piss off. I can't believe you ditched me.

You'd think Luna would have my back—we've only been best friends since the first grade. Dad would call me Jupiter, and Luna Kaufman was one of my many moons. But things always get messy when booze is involved. I don't hate Luna for this, but that doesn't mean I can't be pissed as hell.

"Rough night?"

My eyes snap to the bartender. He leans his elbows on the other side of the counter, and I banish all Luna-related thoughts. Time to play it cool.

"Yeah, a little." I bounce on the stool, unable to resist the drunk smile on my face. "My stupid friends ditched me, so I figured I might as well drink until I'm not mad at them anymore."

He half-grins, showing off his laugh lines, and slides a wine glass into the rack overhead. "Sorry to hear that."

I glance around the counter. No customers—now's my chance.

"I'm Aria, by the way." I extend my hand. After slotting a clean dish away, he shakes it. His hand practically devours mine, and his skin is rough, callused, and warm. I get the tingles.

"That's a pretty name." He takes his hand back. "I'm Ryan."

"Ryan. That's cute. It suits you."

"Thanks." He scratches behind his ear. Something about him is definitely different from my usual dating catastrophes. Back in high school, I used to come home with the typical Older Guy covered in piercings and leather jackets. The type who liked me because I was hot, but ditched me just as quick because to guys like them, the chase is the only thrill they want, and there's always another hot girl.

But a guy like Ryan? Composed, handsome, and polite? Even though my experience is limited, I like to think I'm good at reading people. We aren't as patent or precise as constellations, but everyone gives off an aura. Ryan seems like he would've spent his high school lunches in the library, not smoking pot in the forest like me. And those bags beneath his eyes tell me he didn't just wake up on the wrong side of the bed. He's tired, but not I've been working for eight hours tired. He's life tired. Tired all the time.

Black ink pools down his forearm, and I try to catch a glimpse of his tattoo as he pours a beer on tap for a girl on the other side of the counter. After serving her, he comes back over to me.

"I've never seen you here before," I say. "What makes you wanna work in this dirty dive?" I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Sorry. I totally just insulted your workplace. This is my favourite dirty dive, really."

He has an attractive crackle to his laugh that makes my hair stand on end. Maybe I'm buzzed, but this guy has serious gravity. I want to stay in it—or crash into him like an amicable meteor.

"Don't worry," he says, "I'm not offended. But to answer your question, they told me they were hiring, and I needed a job close to home, so... here I am. Plus, tips are tips."

"True enough." I fix my eyes on my peeling label, before I remember that old elementary school taunt that suggests people who peel off labels are secretly obsessed with sex. Embarrassed, I drop my hands. "I work at the hospital."

"Oh, are you a doctor? Nurse?"

"Not exactly."

"What do you do there?"

My job is at the hospital, but let's just say I come home smelling like cold cuts and bread, not medical supplies. Subway Sandwich Artist better fits my job description. But to keep this guy's attention, a little air of mystery can't hurt. I might be getting somewhere, so I give him my best devious smirk, the one that always drives guys wild. "Oh, you know. Things and stuff."

His stare lingers on mine for a moment too long, like he's trying to read me, to figure me out. "You're not gonna tell me?"

"Maybe." I grin against the lip of my beer. I'm officially not leaving this bar without asking if he's single. This guy is cute. Really cute. And despite the dive bar backdrop, he carries himself well, with strong posture and polite mannerisms. So I chat him up about whatever and keep ordering drinks to give myself a reason to stay. By the time I'm ready to pop the question, my head spins and my cheeks are molten hot.

"So, are you single?"

His eyes go round, before they focus on whatever he's shifting around on the counter. "Yeah, I am."

"Me too. I mean, I have really bad luck with dating. Like, really bad."

"I don't have the best luck either."

"Really? I would think you have really good luck. I mean, a guy who looks like you is a fucking unicorn in this end of town."

Ryan's face turns red, and I smirk. Got 'im.

"Thanks, I think," he says. "I'm not sure if dating is easy for anyone, at least not at first."

"Until you find the one or whatever, right?" I roll my eyes so he knows I'm joking. But I'm only half-joking.

"Yeah. Maybe."

The line of liquor bottles behind him gleams in the dim bar lighting. "Hey"—I point at the whiskey—"can you pour me two shots?"

Ryan eyes me for a moment before he pours two and slides them toward me.

"Take one with me," I say.

"I can't... I'm working."

"Good point." I shrug and slam one back, then the other. They burn my esophagus, all the way to my gut. "Whew, okay. Now I'm feeling it."

I pound back the rest of my beer, too. Ryan's brows lift. I can't tell if he's scared or impressed. Sickness threatens me, so I shut my eyes, and when I open them, a glass of water is in front of me. I ignore it and rest my elbows on the bar, using my hands to support my chin.

"What about after?" I slur. "I mean, if you're single, and I'm single, maybe we could be single together. Or something like that. Do you have any plans after work? I can wait." Okay, that one might not have come out so smooth, but it's fine, I have him.

"I, uh—look, Aria..." He lowers his voice. "You seem nice, and you're really pretty, but I think you're drunk. I should probably cut you off."

"Hm?" I lean closer, but he backs away. He keeps staring at me, and his words digest like sour milk.

Oh, fuck.

I skid the feet of my stool on the hardwood floor and fumble to stand. "Shit." I steady myself. "I am so sorry, Ryan. Wow, this is embarrassing."

"It's okay..."

"No, it isn't." I hold my hand to my sweaty forehead. "I'm sorry. I swear, I'm not normally like this. You know what? Nevermind. Bye."

He doesn't try to stop me as I bolt away. I need to get out of here stat. The cold burn of rejection slices through me; I just made a big fool out of myself, and somehow, Ryan distracted me enough to forget I'm all alone. The clock reads 1:55 a.m. Shit.

Humiliation hot on my face, I zip out of the bar into the summer night, bathed in two a.m.'s half-moon. Coughs, shouts, and the occasional whoosh of a passing car fill the silence. I stop on the broken sidewalk and call a cab, biting down on my lip as it rings and rings and rings, but it's near-impossible to get one at this time. That's why I normally leave the bar at one-thirty, half an hour before last call. Saxondale, Ontario is a bar city and as soon as the clubs close, every single cab gets booked for at least an hour. Maybe I'll get lucky, but...

The boulder-heavy sensation of drunkenness slams my shoulders. I wobble to stay upright. Fuck, I'm wasted. I need to lay down. But if I pass out here, some skeezeball could have a field day with my corpse, and that is not happening. Frustrated and powerless, I take a deep breath and call another cab company. No answer. Another, no answer. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

There is one person I could call: Dad. But he'll be ashamed to see me like this, and I can't handle that right now.

When a body crashes into me from behind, my phone flies out of my hand and cracks against the road. Shards of my screen scatter everywhere. Two girls laugh as they stumble past me.

"Sorry!" they shout through their giggles.

I pick up the deceased remains of my phone. Anger clouds my eyes like thick smoke.

"Hey." I charge at the girl who'd hit me, a tall, skinny brunette, and grab her arm. "You broke my fucking phone."

Eyes narrowing, the girl rips her arm away. Her friend, a short redhead, wears concern on her face.

"Sorry," the brunette says, but her tone drips with callousness. Her cheeks are flushed and wasted.

"I literally just got this." I hold it in her face. "A brand new iPhone, do you have any idea how much this thing costs?"

"Well, don't you think it would've been smart to have a case?"

I clench my jaw. This night cannot get any worse.

The redhead pulls on the brunette's denim jacket. "Cass, come on, let's go."

"No," I say, "you owe me a new phone."

Cass laughs. "I don't owe you shit, it was an accident. Maybe you shouldn't have been blocking the doorway." She tries to walk away, but I hook my hand to her purse and rip at it. The strap goes loose in my hands, and the contents spill all over the tarmac. Cass whips around. Her nostrils flare, her eyes bulge from her skull, and she gets right in my face. It's then I realize she's at least four inches taller than my five-foot-two, a hundred-and-three pound ass. But that's never stopped me from defending myself before.

"You ripped my purse," she utters.

"You broke my phone."

Without thinking, I push her. Thunder growls over our heads. Cold rain drops on my head and wakes me up enough to realize we're the only ones here. And I'm outnumbered. And judging by the anger brimming from her eyes, I've pissed off the wrong girl.

Well, I've always had a face guys love to fuck, but girls love to punch. So it's no surprise that the next thing I see is stars.

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A/N: ;-)

Thanks so much for reading!

To those who are new, this is a rewrite which is why it already has so many comments and views xD there used to be about sixteen chapters posted, but they were trash and I hated them.

Anyway, don't forget to vote if you're enjoying it so far ^_^