Page 14 of Notes About Vodka (Happily Ever After Hangover #1)

Chapter Seven

VAL

"Vodka is like truth serum; it reveals more than it hides. But sometimes, what it reveals is exactly what you didn’t want to see."

A few nights later, I’m at work when I hear Laura come on stage.

As always, I’m captivated by her singing.

Her voice fills the room, rich and velvety, wrapping around every corner like a warm embrace.

It pulls me back to late nights at the piano bar, the first moments I realized how much her music spoke to me.

It’s not just the sound—it’s the way she seems to understand emotions I didn’t know I carried.

Every note stirs something deep inside, a mix of longing and comfort that I can’t quite put into words.

It’s as if her voice cuts through the noise of the world and leaves only clarity in its wake.

The audience is spellbound; heads turn, conversations pause, and even the most distracted patrons lean in to listen. A few people close their eyes, swaying gently to the rhythm, while others clap softly along, unable to resist being swept up in the magic she creates.

The low murmur of conversation quiets as people turn to listen, captivated by her tone. For a moment, the clinking of glasses and the shuffle of feet fade away, leaving only the purity of her song.

It’s the kind of voice that makes the hairs on your arms stand up, carrying both strength and vulnerability in every note.

There’s something about the way she sings that makes the world feel less heavy, like her voice alone can lift away the weight I’ve been carrying.

Each note she hits seems to resonate in my chest, and I find myself standing still, forgetting the glass I’m supposed to be cleaning.

I notice Laura’s friend Rhea in the audience along with a few other people. They’re sitting near the stage, laughing and clapping between songs. Taking the chance, I go over to their table, a tray balanced in one hand. “Hey, are you guys enjoying your drinks?”

Rhea looks up and smiles. “Hey, Val. Yeah, we’re having a great time. These are all friends of mine from campus.” She gestures to the others who give polite nods.

“Glad to hear it,” I say, giving them a small smile before moving back to the bar.

The atmosphere is lively, but one man at the bar stands out like a sore thumb.

With every song Laura finishes, he cheers obnoxiously loud, his voice grating against the otherwise pleasant ambiance.

He’s clearly intoxicated, swaying in his seat as he raises an empty glass toward me. His eyes are glassy, his grin sloppy.

“Another Makers and Sprite,” he slurs, his words running together. “And make it strong, buddy.”

I nod tightly, hiding my irritation as I prepare his drink, minus to alcohol. I won’t charge him for just soda, but he can’t have any more liquor.

However, as I turn my back, his voice carries across the room. “My woman is so awesome, isn’t she? Best singer here!”

I glance over my shoulder, watching as he puffs out his chest with exaggerated bravado, nearly falling off his stool in the process.

A sick feeling settles in my gut. Does he really think Laura is his? Surely he’s not talking about her.

The thought sends a wave of unease through me, tightening my chest. It’s not just the arrogance in his words; it’s the way he speaks about her, like she’s something he owns rather than a person with her own light and strength.

A mix of frustration and protectiveness wells up inside me, the kind of instinct that makes me want to step in and shield her from this kind of disrespect.

But more than that, there’s a helplessness that gnaws at me—a realization that I don’t know how to fix this, or even if I can.

It’s not just discomfort—it’s a protective instinct I can’t ignore, a growing frustration at the way he speaks about her like she’s some object to flaunt.

My hands clench into fists behind the bar, and I force myself to take a breath.

The more I watch, the more I’m certain she deserves better than this.

My mind races, trying to reconcile the Laura I know—the one who lights up a room with her presence—with this man’s delusions. The disconnect is jarring, and I can’t shake the feeling that something is deeply, horribly wrong.

Throughout the night, I keep a close eye on him. He doesn’t just watch Laura; he leers at her, his gaze lingering in a way that makes my skin crawl. When Laura takes a break and another artist steps up to perform, he shifts his attention to other women in the bar .

“Hey, gorgeous,” he says to a blonde sitting nearby, leaning in far too close. “Join us! My woman won’t mind.”

The blonde’s discomfort is clear as she tries to edge away. Without hesitation, I step in and place his fresh drink on the bar in front of him, giving him a pointed glare. “Here’s your drink,” I say curtly.

“Thanks, pal,” he mutters, barely acknowledging me before turning his attention to a brunette a few seats down. “Hey, there, sweetheart,” he calls out, grinning as if he’s irresistible. “You got a number for me?”

Incredibly, he collects at least three napkins with scribbled phone numbers, stuffing them into his pocket with a self-satisfied smirk. Each interaction makes my jaw clench tighter.

Meanwhile, Laura remains oblivious to his antics.

She pours her heart out into her performance, her voice soaring effortlessly through the room, commanding attention with its raw emotion and precision.

Her focus is unwavering, as if she exists in a separate sphere, untouched by the chaos around her.

The way she holds herself tall, the way the scar barely reflects light as it peeks out from the back of her dress, the way her fingers glide across the keys, is mesmerizing—a striking contrast to the man’s drunken outbursts which fracture the otherwise serene atmosphere she creates.

It’s like watching two different worlds collide, her grace and poise highlighting his disruptive behavior even more starkly.

When she’s not on stage, she’s serving tables, her warm smile lighting up the room. She still doesn’t see the way he acts, and it makes me sick. My protective nature is in overdrive.

As the night wears on and the crowd thins out, I keep tabs on him as he stumbles toward the exit, his pockets stuffed with his “trophies”.

Laura finishes her final set to thunderous applause, though his drunken clapping rings out louder and more obnoxious than anyone else’s from the hallway. Each clap seems to echo mockingly, grating on my nerves as if it’s a personal insult to her artistry.

When my shift ends, I find Laura in the dressing room, tidying up her belongings. I can’t hold back any longer.

“Laura, you were incredible tonight!” I exclaim, pulling her into a hug before I can stop myself.

Her warmth catches me off guard, but I’m too focused on letting her know how much her music moved me as I breath in the vanilla of her hair and press kisses into her hair. She almost tastes like cinnamon buns.

She starts to respond and wrap her arms around me, but the door swings open, and the man from the bar stumbles in.

He’s muttering under his breath, a scowl on his face.

“Can you believe the nerve of some people, babe? Some idiot at the bar wouldn’t shut up, kept going on about the dumbest shit.

Ruined my whole night. And that bartender?

Watered down my drinks. Fucking asshole. ”

Laura stiffens immediately, her expression guarded as she steps away from me. I glance between them, a sinking feeling settling in my chest. His presence feels like a dark cloud swallowing up the light she brought into the room.

“Oh, hey, …babe,” Laura slowly says, her voice unnaturally bright despite the thick atmosphere around us. There’s a tension in her posture that she can’t quite hide. “What are you doing back here? In the dressing rooms?”

He softens slightly, reaching for her.

“Just came to see you before I head out,” he says, pulling her into a possessive embrace. Her gray eyes meet his dark brown ones, and my heart sinks further, a sharp ache blooming in my chest.

It’s not just the sight of them together—it’s the way she looks at him, with a mix of resignation and weariness, that hits me the hardest .

I admire her strength, the way she carries herself with such grace despite whatever struggles she’s facing, but seeing her like this makes me feel utterly powerless.

I want to step in, to shield her from whatever’s weighing her down, but I’m painfully aware that this is her battle to fight.

That helplessness gnaws at me, twisting my admiration for her into a deeper, more painful longing to be the person she can rely on.

It’s not just the sight of them together; it’s the way she looks—detached, almost resigned—that cuts the deepest. There’s a vulnerability in her eyes that she’s trying to hide, but I can see it.

I feel powerless, a mix of anger and sadness churning inside me as I realize just how complicated her world must be, and how little I truly know about the pain she’s carrying.

I feel a mix of disbelief and anger, the kind that coils in your stomach and refuses to let go. How can someone so vibrant, so full of life, be tied to a man like this?

The thought rattles me, leaving me rooted in place as my mind scrambles to make sense of the scene unfolding before me.

Dark brown, just like mine…

Tall, just not as tall as me…

Then, he kisses her, and though she doesn’t resist, there’s something hollow in her response. It’s like she’s playing a role, one she’s grown tired of.

Anger bubbles up inside me—anger at him, at the situation, and at myself for being unable to do anything about it. Her expression as she pulls back from him lingers in my mind, a fragile mask of composure that seems ready to shatter at any moment.

When he finally pulls back, he smirks down at her. “I’m heading out for the night. Don’t wait up, okay?”

Laura nods, her smile tight. “Sure, I’ll see you later.”

As he leaves, he shoots me a dismissive glance. “Later, dude,” he says, barely acknowledging me before walking out the door. The door swings shut, and with it, the oppressive tension in the room seems to grow heavier.

The room falls silent. Laura stares at the floor, her shoulders slumped as if the weight of the world is pressing down on her. I take a step closer, wanting to say something, but the words catch in my throat.

“Laura…” I begin, but she cuts me off.

“I need to go,” she says softly, grabbing her bag.

I grab her forearm gently, forcing her to look at me. “What the fuck, Laura? You’re with him? Seriously? Why are you with that guy? He treats you like a toy, like a trophy. If you heard the things he was saying at the bar tonight…”

Her gray eyes widen, startled. “Val, you don’t understand. It’s none of your business.”

“Why?” I demand, frustration and concern boiling over. “Why are you with someone like that?”

“That man,” she says, her voice flat but her eyes betraying a storm of emotions, “is Sam. My husband.”

The word hits me like a punch to the gut. “You’re married?” I ask, barely able to process the revelation. “Wait… How old are you?”

“Twenty-three,” she replies, her tone defensive. “Why does it matter? You’re not my spouse or my boyfriend, or anything else.”

Her words sting, leaving me speechless as she brushes past me and walks out the door. I’m left standing in the silence, a thousand thoughts racing through my mind.

This amazing woman, who I’ve been so drawn to, feels like a force of nature—confident and kind, yet carrying an air of sadness she tries to hide. It’s in the way she lights up a room effortlessly, making even the most mundane moments feel significant .

I remember one night, when she forgot to bring her sheet music but still managed to play a flawless set, improvising as if the music had always been a part of her.

Her laughter, even after a long and grueling shift, echoes like a reminder to keep going.

And yet, behind all of that, there’s a vulnerability, a quiet sadness she tries to bury beneath her strength.

That mix of fierce determination and fragile humanity is what draws me to her the most. It’s in the way she commands a room with her presence, her laughter contagious even on the hardest days, and the way she sings as though she’s pouring every ounce of her soul into the melody.

She’s a whirlwind of contradictions—fierce yet fragile, bold yet guarded—and it’s impossible not to be drawn to her light, even when it feels like she’s burning herself out to keep others warm.

She’s the kind of person who could make anyone feel seen and understood, and yet she’s in a marriage with someone who doesn’t value her, who doesn’t seem to grasp just how extraordinary she is.

It’s maddening to think of someone like Laura, so full of life and potential, being tethered to someone who treats her like an afterthought.

And yet, even now, I can’t shake the image of being by her side, holding her close, showing her what she truly deserves.

But that world isn’t mine to claim. At least not yet.