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A GIRL WALKS INTO A BAR
SAGE
Late summer 2016
Sage Fogerty should be unpacking.
The responsible thing would be to cook dinner, open a bottle of the peach wine that everyone told her tasted like garbage but that she loved anyway, and tackle the pile of boxes that sat in the middle of her new apartment.
But instead she walked down the sidewalk, the late-summer night still hot enough that it left her not quite sweating but not entirely comfortable either. Jeans probably hadn’t been the best choice, but they were the first thing she’d found rifling through her packed clothes. At least the white camisole she’d stolen from her older sister Brinley didn’t require a bra.
Sage loved Charleston at night — the lingering warmth from the day punctuated by the occasional breeze curling up from the water had captured her from the very first time she’d come to visit Brinley at Southeastern University. Brinley had fallen in love with South Carolina, undergoing — in their mother’s words — a “Southern belle awakening.” She’d joined a sorority, learned how to straighten her hair, wear eye cream, and perfectly color-match her foundation. It was jarring at first when Brinley had come home from college with a Vera Bradley bag and wearing a full face of makeup, but honestly, the transformation suited her.
Eight years later, when it was Sage’s turn to pick a college, she ended up following in her sister’s footsteps, leaving Santa Barbara, the only home she’d ever known, and catching a one-way flight across the country.
Now, after finishing four years of undergrad, Sage was back in Charleston to complete her fifth year master’s in Sports Management.
She was back, and very fucking alone. She could have tried to find new roommates, but the thought of living with strangers as a grad student was, quite frankly, nauseating.
She’d lucked out with her three roommates from freshman year, and it’d been easy for them to stick together. Danika was a soccer player, Mary had shared Sage’s love of Western romance novels, and Cori had been the life of the party. While they didn’t share everything in common, they’d gotten along well enough that they’d lived together through all four years of undergrad.
Just that morning, Mary had texted their group chat a photo of herself wearing a felt cowboy hat. “ Texas, y’all ,” she’d said. Danika had responded with a picture of the Chicago skyline from her high-rise apartment’s balcony, and then Cori had almost immediately replied with a photo of textbooks piled high on a table next to a picturesque latte and croissant.
What was Sage supposed to respond with? Hey, here’s my apartment in the same city you all just moved away from? Instead she’d sent a picture of one of her spider plants that had just grown about five new runners all at the same time. Babies! she’d texted.
She checked her phone, finding no new messages. Straightening her shoulders, she looked up at the intentionally weathered wooden sign with dark letters spelling out: The Grove.
She and Cori had been to The Grove many times over the years. It was one of their favorite spots, for multiple reasons. Firstly, it catered to young professionals, meaning the crowd was generally older and more into beer and live music than jello shots and DJs. Secondly, they had the best jalapeno margarita in Charleston. Spicy and sweet? Fucking transcendent. And thirdly, their food was greasy and delicious in the best way possible. While Sage tended to eat veggies when she cooked for herself, she was a big believer in variety and moderation.
She flashed her ID at the bouncer who stood by the tall fence that bordered the bar. A wrought-iron gate served as the entrance, and inside a large courtyard was filled with picnic tables under the shade of wide-reaching live oak trees. There was a small stage tucked into one corner of the space with a dance floor cleared out in front of it, and along the opposite side was a brightly polished wooden bar lined with tall bar stools.
It was already crowded, even though daylight was only just beginning to fade. Strings of Christmas lights draped from the branches lit up the space, and Sage had to duck under a few of the strands as she made her way over to the bar.
Sliding onto an open stool, she made eye contact with the bartender. She’d seen the purple-haired woman a few times, although if she remembered correctly, her hair had been black the last time she was there.
“What can I get ya?” The woman slapped a square napkin down on the bar and grinned at Sage, revealing slightly crooked front teeth.
“Jalapeno margarita, please,” Sage replied, raising her voice so she could be heard over the din of laughter and conversation.
Purple-hair gave her a nod as she began to assemble the drink. “Good choice. I like a woman who likes it spicy.”
Sage couldn’t help the snorted laugh, tossing her blonde hair back behind her shoulder. It had gotten long, down past the middle of her back, and if she didn’t spend most of the time with it braided or in a ponytail she would probably consider cutting it short. “What can I say? I like a little pain with my pleasure.”
The bartender let out a cackle that was loud, even with the background buzz. “I like you, blondie. You from ‘round here?”
Sage shook her head. “California. I’ve been here for school.”
“Ooooh, a smartie pants, are ya?” She wiggled heavily drawn brows. “What are you studyin’?”
“Sports management,” Sage said. “Oh, and no straw,” she added, stopping the woman before she grabbed one of the clear cocktail straws. Ever since she’d read about plastic straws being found up the noses of dead sea turtles, she swore them off. She had no idea if it was actually making a difference, but fuck it — she could try.
“I like you and I’ve decided that we’re gonna be friends.” The bartender set the drink down on the napkin before extending a hand. “I’m Maggie.”
Sage blinked once before reaching out and shaking her hand. “Sage.” She let go and reached for the drink. “Are you always like this?”
Maggie cackled again. She looked to be a few years older than Sage, maybe in her late 20’s, and she wore a black band tee with cut off sleeves and jean shorts.
“Life’s too short to pretend that some people aren’t really fuckin’ awesome, and others aren’t really fuckin’ terrible.” Maggie shrugged, stepping away toward the other end of the bar. “And I have a feelin’ that you’re pretty fuckin’ awesome.”
Sage couldn’t help but grin at that, watching as Maggie turned to take orders at the other end of the bar. Grabbing her margarita, Sage swiveled on her stool until she was facing the rest of the courtyard, crossed one knee over the other, and settled in to watch.
Like many college students, Sage had spent most of the past four years going out on the weekends. The first two years had mostly been frat parties or other house parties, with the occasional club trip facilitated by a very questionable fake ID that said she was a thirty year old woman named Dorthea Wiggenshoe. Once she and her roommates had moved to their house off campus, they gladly gave up the frat parties in favor of bars and clubs.
In that time, Sage had gotten very good at reading a room. More specifically, she’d gotten good at evaluating potential…suitors? No, that wasn’t right. Fuck buddies?
Sure.
Sage was very good at scoping out potential fuck buddies, and tonight, all that she wanted was to get tipsy and find someone to go home with. She wanted to get lost in the high of initial attraction, and ride the wave until she was in the bed of a man with facial hair and a big body who’d do deliciously wicked things to her until she’d had enough and decided to go home.
She was self-aware enough to know that she didn’t appeal to the entirety of the male population. Her height alone — six feet — was a non-starter for about seventy five percent of the men in Charleston. Then there was the fact that she had the body of someone who’d spent long hours in the gym. Even though she’d lost a lot of her muscle throughout college, she’d never been able to walk away from the routine of lifting and running.
Her body hadn’t caught on to the fact that there was nothing to train for. Not anymore.
But it still showed. It showed in the definition of her shoulders, in the way her thighs filled the legs of her jeans and in the build of her arms. And in general, Sage fucking loved her powerful body, but she was a realist and knew that not all men would be into it.
It just meant that she looked carefully, searching for signs of potential compatibility before making a move. Sage’s type, according to Cori, was “tall and ancient,” to which Sage had argued that preferring men with adult jobs over college frat boys who all had navy blue sheets and smelled like Irish Spring was basic logic. Height was the one thing she most frequently had to compromise on, but she made sure to look for bulk and mass that wouldn’t be intimidated by her strength.
And even though it was just a hookup — for her, it was always just a hookup — Sage couldn’t help but look for a genuine smile, a wide-mouthed laugh, and kind eyes. There was something about the look in a man’s eyes where she could immediately get a sense for what he was about.
She’d only been wrong once.
Tonight the crowd was definitely the after work crew: men still in slacks and button-downs with the sleeves rolled up, or in branded polo shirts with khakis. There were a few outliers — three bikers in leathers with bandanas wrapped around their long, graying hair, two skinny white guys in tight jeans and black t-shirts who were ogling Maggie like she was a free VIP pass to Lollapalooza, and a group of six men, all wearing some version of athletic gear.
Her eyes snagged on the last group. They were sitting around a table, but a few looked like they could have the height. The three whose faces she could see were…well, they were decent looking, but didn’t do anything in particular for her. The other three were facing away from her — one with a shaved head, one with a backwards cap, and the last one with reddish blonde curls. Two of them had broad backs — a good sign.
She’d keep an eye on them.
Taking a long drink of her margarita, she looked over at one of the business bros who looked somewhat promising. He was tall…ish. Maybe had an inch on her? He was the kind of generic, good looking guy who worked out, had a jawline, and wore his dirty blonde hair parted to one side. Decent, but unremarkable. Maybe he was one of those people who was better off once you talked to them?
Movement back at the athletic gear table caught her attention. The man in the backwards hat rose from the table, and fuck he was tall. Like, maybe even 6’5” tall. His back was wide, muscles stretching against the fabric of his white t-shirt, and the black athletic shorts he wore only reached about halfway down thick thighs that were covered in a smattering of dark hair.
When he turned around, her entire body stilled. Breathing, blinking, fidgeting — it all stopped with the exception of her heartbeat, which seemed to get louder and louder until it was pounding like a bass drum in her ears.
He was the kind of big that said that he used to be an athlete — maybe still was — but age had softened him slightly, leaving bulk in the place of lean, defined muscle. From the front, she could see the V of his quads above his knees that indicated that he probably hit the leg press when he worked out.
Fuck did she love some defined thighs.
And his face . She guessed he was somewhere between 30 and 40, based on the laugh lines etched into the corners of his dark eyes. Brown hair stuck out from under his hat, long enough that it was almost curling over his forehead and around the nape of his neck. His face was clean-shaven, although there was the hint of afternoon shadow gathering along his strong jaw. His mouth rested in an easy smile, and Sage couldn’t take her eyes off of him, tracking him as he walked toward the bar.
He was the kind of good looking that she felt in her entire body. The fine blonde hairs on her arms pricked, and she shifted in her seat in a failed attempt to relieve the distinct heat between her legs.