The air smelled like gin, perfume, and polished leather. Brent, his best friend from university now a spoiled daddy's boy have called him for relaxation.
Callum leaned back against the plush seat of the private booth, a half-empty glass in one hand and his tie loosened at the collar. Across from him, Brent was still laughing—shoulders shaking, whiskey sloshing dangerously in his glass.
"God, remember graduation ball?" Brent howled. "You showed up in that hand-me-down tux looking like a Dickens orphan."
Callum groaned. "I looked fine."
"You looked tragic. But you had that brooding look even then, so girls were into it. Meanwhile, I was trying to flirt with Michelle What's-Her-Name, and I spilled punch on her dress."
"Michelle Linwood," Callum said, smirking. "She cried in the bathroom for two hours."
"Shit, that was us, huh? We were disasters."
Callum lifted his glass. "To being disasters."
"And somehow, still surviving."
They clinked glasses. The bar was upscale, glowing low with gold light and velvet shadows. Waitresses moved like models. The background music was expensive. Polished.
Brent had insisted on this place.
"Come on, man," he'd said earlier that week. "You work too much. You're turning into a ghost. Let me remind you what fun feels like."
Callum hadn't resisted.
He needed this.
Laughter. Alcohol. Flirting with two girls who sat down with them briefly before leaving to meet their friends. He hadn't minded. It was just the game. Something to keep the night moving.
"Look around, Hayes," Brent said now, scanning the crowd. "This is life. Look at all this money walking around like it's no big deal."
Callum chuckled. "You live here. I teach math to hormonal teenagers."
"Which is why you need this more than anyone."
He nodded. He did.
Until—
"Holy shit," Brent murmured. "Check out the goddess at the bar."
Callum turned.
Time stopped.
She was sitting on one of the high stools, legs crossed, dress like black velvet sin, dipped low in the back and barely-there in the front. Hair pinned up but loose enough to fall, neck exposed, skin glowing under the pendant light.
Lara.
She was drinking something red. Her lips matched. Her smile was slow, secret, dangerous. Two men hovered near her—early twenties, clearly trying too hard. She didn't seem impressed, but she entertained them with those half-lidded eyes and a tilt of her head that screamed experience.
Callum's blood ran cold.
"Damn," Brent said. "That girl's gonna ruin lives. Look at her. She's toying with them."
"Yeah," Callum said tightly. "She is."
Brent leaned in. "She your type?"
Callum forced a laugh. "Too high maintenance."
He looked again. Her hand was on one of the guy's forearms—soft, lazy, disinterested. Like she was only touching him so he wouldn't leave.
Then another man arrived.
Older.
Much older. Salt-and-pepper beard, expensive suit, eyes dark and assessing. He said something to her. She stood immediately. The two guys backed off. She didn't even say goodbye.
She followed the older man out of the bar.
Callum watched her go.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" he whispered under his breath.
But he didn't move.
Didn't follow.
Brent waved the waitress over. "Another round?"
Callum nodded. "Yeah. Double."
If she saw him, she didn't let it show.
And if she was with that man—
It wasn't his business.
She was legal.
She was dangerous.
And tonight?
He was going to drink until he forgot her name.
Or at least how she looked walking away.
He went home alone, Brent didn't.
The apartment was too quiet when he stepped in, the kind of silence that buzzed in your ears after a night of noise and too much whiskey. He kicked the door shut behind him, dropped his keys onto the counter with a metallic clatter, and leaned back against the door like it could hold him up.
It couldn't.
His head spun, not from the drinks exactly—but from her.
Lara.
What the hell was she doing at that bar?
And not just at the bar—but looking like that. Moving like that. In a dress that wasn't even trying to be subtle. She hadn't seen him. At least, he didn't think so. She had been too busy laughing with two guys—boys, maybe college students—and then there was the older man. Mid-forties at least. Grey at his temples. Watch that probably cost more than Callum's rent. Touching her arm. Leaning close. And she just stood there, smiling that smile like she knew exactly how far she could go and how much they'd pay to follow.
He had frozen when he saw her. Brent was still grinning, scanning the bar, oblivious to the heat rising under Callum's collar. He didn't say anything. Couldn't. Just lifted his glass and downed the rest of it in one go.
And when Lara disappeared with the older man—just gone, slipping past velvet ropes into the dark like she belonged there—he didn't follow.
He almost did.
But he didn't.
Because it wasn't his place.
Because she was free to go where she wanted, do what she wanted.
Because he wasn't her boyfriend. He wasn't even a friend.
He was her goddamn teacher.
And she had looked like a woman who didn't need saving.
He dragged himself toward the kitchen, poured a glass of water, then changed his mind and poured another drink instead. Something stronger. Something to cut through the crawling heat under his skin.
He sat on the couch. Lights off. Just the city outside his window and the echo of her laugh in his head.
"I don't like boys," she had said, all soft lips and rolled eyes. "I like men."
Had she meant that?
Had she meant him?
He slammed the drink down on the table.
God.
The way she looked tonight.
Not like a student. Not like the girl who sat in his class with perfect posture and practiced innocence. No. Tonight, she had been all curves and fire. That slit in her dress that ran high up her thigh. That bold red lipstick. The shine on her collarbone. That little laugh she gave the man at the bar—not a girl's laugh.
It burned into him.
And worst of all—he imagined it.
Not the man. Himself.
What if she had looked at him like that?
What if she had leaned in close, whispered something soft into his neck?
What if she had reached for his hand beneath the table and not let go?
What if she had taken him upstairs?
He stood. Paced. Ran a hand through his hair.
No.
No.
But the image was there now—her fingers trailing down his chest, her breath on his skin, that red lipstick smeared on his mouth, his neck, his—
He groaned, low and rough, and dropped back onto the couch. His jeans were too tight now. His body too aware.
It was the alcohol. That's what he told himself.
It was the booze, the frustration, the lack of control over anything lately. That's all it was.
But his hand was already moving.
Down his stomach.
Over his belt.
His breath hitched.
God, he was disgusting.
He should stop.
He should.
But when he closed his eyes, he saw her. In that red dress. With that smile.
He saw the way she brushed her hair behind her ear and let her fingers rest just above her chest, like an unspoken invitation.
He saw the way she bit her lip and tilted her head.
He imagined what it would be like if she said his name. Just once. In that voice—soft, breathy, a little wicked.
He came fast. Pathetically fast.
Chest rising. Throat raw.
His name never left her mouth.
But hers was still echoing in his head.
Lara.
He sat there for a long time after, breath slowing, shame bleeding into his skin like a bruise.
He wiped his hand with a nearby shirt, threw it across the room.
Didn't even look at the drawer.
Didn't need to.
Because for the first time—
He didn't touch her ribbon.
Didn't reach for her gloss.
Didn't pretend she had left something behind.
This time… it was all in his head.
And that was worse.
Because it meant he didn't need her help to fall.
He was already halfway down.
And no one even knew.
Not that he'd ever tell.
Not that he could.
Not that anyone would believe it wasn't her fault.
That it had always been his.