Page 4 of Venus

Cheap beer. Sweat. Stale peanuts. Ah, the smell of a good time.

Schooner’s is the only bar in town, and judging by the crowd, it’s also the epicenter of every bad decision ever made in Terracotta, Georgia.

You could probably carbon date the bar stools and find DNA from every high school reunion in the past thirty years.

You never know what you’re going to find in here, even if I was sipping beer just a few days ago.

I step inside and immediately feel the heat and noise settle into my bones.

There’s that low thrum of country rock vibrating the floorboards, pool balls cracking in the back corner, and the subtle, but unmistakable, whiff of spilled Fireball and cheap cologne.

Every booth is full. Every stool is sticky. It’s like nothing ever changes here.

Trevor and Jackson are already at our usual spot near the pool table. Trevor’s halfway into a story, motioning to his pants and singing ‘here comes the planeeeee’ .

I don’t even want to know what the context is .

“Cooter!” Trevor shouts, lifting his drink like a Viking. “You showed! Jackson owes me ten bucks!”

“Didn’t think you’d actually come,” Jackson says with a smirk. “Thought you might be off writing sad poetry about your mystery girl.”

I give him a deadpan look. “Only on Tuesdays.”

I drop onto a worn-out stool, the vinyl cracking under my weight, and sip my beer while my eyes sweep the room. I know it’s stupid. There’s no real reason to believe she’ll be here. But I look anyway. Every time the door opens, my heart kicks up a notch.

The first few times, it’s just wind. A few college kids. A woman I definitely went on a date with two years ago who still glares at me like I stole her dog.

No sign of her .

Jackson elbows me. “You sure she’s not a ghost? Did we all just agree to your collective hallucination to protect your fragile man-heart?”

I ignore him. Mostly. But part of me does wonder.

Did I imagine the connection? The look in her eyes? Did I see what I wanted to see in that moment? Am I so desperate to find the one that I put that hope on the shoulders of the first girl who caught my eye?

The jukebox switches tracks. Something slower, heavier. The crowd shifts with the rhythm. I take another sip, just as the door creaks open again. At first, it’s just a blur of movement. Then… her.

Yeah. That’s her. No mistaking it .

She slips in behind a cluster of girls and doesn’t immediately scan the room.

Her hair is down this time—loose waves with streaks of gold that catch every pulse of neon light.

She’s not in scrubs tonight. Instead, she’s wearing faded denim shorts and a pale yellow crop top knotted at her waist, the sleeves rolled high enough to show the freckles on her forearms.

Her boots thud against the floor like they’ve danced here before.

Trevor follows my line of sight and whistles low. “There’s your girl,” he says, as if my eyes aren’t already glued to her.

I can’t look away. She’s got a different energy tonight. Last time, she was wilted. Hollow.

Tonight, she walks like she knows exactly where she is and who she’s about to make nervous.

Me. She’s about to make me nervous.

Jackson smirks. “Well, are you gonna talk to her or just drool like a feral golden retriever?”

I stand, brushing my hand over my shirt. “I’m going.”

“Smooth like sandpaper,” Trevor calls after me.

The crowd parts just enough to let me cross toward the bar. She’s just ordered two drinks, one in each hand, and when she turns around, she spots me instantly. Her gaze doesn’t flinch.

She gives me a smile. Teasing. Almost suspicious.

I lean over the bar like I did that night and try to mirror her smile. “Can I buy you that drink tonight? ”

She arches a brow. “Vulva, right?”

“Vulcan,” I correct with a grin. “Still hoping to hear your name.”

“I don’t give that out to strangers.”

I nod, playing along. “Alright. Can I at least dance with you?”

She considers. Doesn’t say yes. Doesn’t say no. Just… walks away with a drink in each hand.

I blink.

She disappears into the crowd with the drinks, and I feel like someone just pulled the rug out from under me.

She’s dancing now. Not wildly, and not for attention. Just a slow, deliberate rhythm that dares me to follow. Her hips sway, her hair brushes against her back, and every once in a while, she looks over her shoulder.

And catches me watching.

Again.

And again.

Each time she meets my eyes, I feel that heat in my chest spread—like fire licking up my ribs. She’s doing it on purpose. She wants me to come to her.

Or she’s playing with me.

Either way, I’m toast.

When I finally move, I don’t walk. I stalk. Not aggressive. Just… pulled. Like gravity shifted and now she’s the center and I’m completely caught in her orbit .

I reach her just as she spins toward the jukebox. We’re tucked behind a booth, half in shadow. The air back here smells like sweat and perfume and spilled rum.

I lean in just close enough to speak. “What’s your name?”

She gives me that maddening, unreadable smile again and traces a slow figure-eight with her hips. She doesn’t answer. Just keeps dancing.

I hold back, not wanting to come on too strong. She’s calling the shots, and I’m not stupid enough to miss that. It’s hot, and I’m into it.

So I step back. Shimmy a little. Invite her in.

She laughs, just a little, and takes the bait.

We dance.

And it’s—God, it’s something else.

Her fingers brush my arm as she spins. Her hips sync with mine like we’ve done this before in another life. She’s sweating a little. I’m sweating a lot. Her laughter catches in my shirt. My hands drift to her waist, careful, asking for permission with touch alone.

She lets me. Moves deeper into my touch. Four songs pass, and I’m breathless. Not from the dancing, but from her.

She tugs me toward the bar again and plops down on a stool like she owns it. I stand behind her, resting one hand on the bar, the other still tingling from where it held her waist.

“Can I buy you a drink?” I ask again .

She finally nods. “Just one.”

I order a beer. She gets a vodka lemonade.

“You’re a firefighter, right?” she asks, eyeing the logo on my hat.

“Yeah, you remembered,” I confirm gleefully. “Hence the Vulcan thing. What about you? What do you do when you’re not dancing circles around me on the dance floor?”

“Labor and delivery nurse.”

I blink. “Seriously?”

She nods, stirring her drink. “Twelve-hour shifts. Crying babies. Boobie milk.”

A lightbulb flicks on in my brain. The scrubs. The tears. The haunted look in her eyes that night.

“You were having a bad night last time,” I say quietly.

Her smile fades a little, but she nods. “Yeah.”

I hesitate, then say, “You didn’t want to be seen then. But you let me see the redness in your eyes. You didn’t tell me to fuck off.”

She looks at me for a long moment. “You didn’t feel like a threat. That was… rare.”

My heart stumbles a little at that.

We fall into silence for a few seconds, just sipping. It’s not uncomfortable. It’s… quiet. Safe.

“So can I get your name now?” I ask.

“Nope,” she says, smirking .

I clutch my chest dramatically. “Tragic. I guess I’ll just have to give you one. I’m thinking…Venus.”

“Like the planet ?”

“Like the Roman goddess. You know, beauty, fertility. Seems fitting.”

She raises her drink to mine. “To Vulcan and…Venus.”

I give her a sly smile. “Did you know Vulcan and Venus were close in mythology?”

She leans in close. “How close?”

I lean closer. “Let me take you out and you can find out.”

She nips my earlobe. “How about you just show me tonight?”

And just like that, I’m fucked .