Chapter 11

Chapter 11
Ashley
After King, Niko, and Mason finally drag their asses home and take over babysitting duty—freeing Chelsea and me from the impossible task of keeping Alyssa from losing her damn mind all day—I grab my bag and bounce.
No way am I sitting home waiting for Gray's attention like some pathetic side piece.
Not tonight.
So I hit up my cousin, Daisha, for drinks.
She's the type who can take a dead Tuesday and flip it into a full-blown adventure.
Shots. Laughter. Chaos.
And that's exactly what I need.
Don't get me wrong, I love my girls. Hanging out with them and their kids was fun, but I realize I need more than plastic food and Paw Patrol reruns.
I need tequila. Loud music. Dancing until my feet ache. Bad decisions I'll probably regret but won't remember well enough to give a damn.
That's exactly where Daisha comes in.
She doesn't have a man to rush home to or kids to wrangle before sunrise.
No curfews. No responsibilities. Just freedom.
And me? I might not be completely free—Gray's ghosting ass made sure of that—but for tonight, I'm choosing to be.
No one's standing in the way of that.
They say the best way to get over a man is to get under another. And tonight? That's exactly the plan. But if I'm being honest, part of me just wants proof. Proof that I'm still wanted. That I can walk into a room and have every head turn—even if the only set of eyes I actually want on me won't be there.
So first, I need to slide into something a little sluttier.
I mean... sexier.
Swinging by my place, I pull on my favorite pair of skinny jeans—the ones that make my ass look like it should come with a warning label. Then a crop top that shows just enough cleavage to remind the world these tits deserve their own fan club. I top off the ensemble with gold hoops and a swipe of lip gloss.
Perfect.
And yet, as I check the mirror, that little voice in my head still won't shut up. Would he even give a fuck if I went home with someone else tonight?
The thought stings more than I want to admit.
By the time I'm sliding into my heels, my phone's already lighting up with Daisha's chaos.
Daisha: Where you at, cuz?
Daisha: C'mon, don't make me drink alone.
Daisha: You know a bitch will start dancing on tables if you leave me unsupervised.
A laugh slips out as I grab my purse. Yeah. We're definitely getting fucked up tonight.
By the time I pull into the bar, the parking lot's already packed.
Damn. Half the town must've decided Tuesday's the new Friday.
Inside, the heat hits me first—thick, sticky, the kind that clings to your skin before you even take two steps. Bass rattles the floorboards. Lights strobe across sweat-slick bodies. The air is all smoke, liquor, and lust, humming with that wild, reckless energy I came here for.
Daisha's easy to spot. She's posted up at the bar with her hair in two purple pigtails, rocking a black low-cut dress that shows off everything she damn well wants it to. She's always been a big girl—thick thighs, soft belly, an ass that could squash a man flat and still have him thanking her for it.
Confidence drips off her. She's never given a single fuck about anyone else's opinion, and I've always admired that about her.
Which, of course, is exactly why my grandparents never wanted us hanging out.
To them, she was the bad influence. The wild one. The one sprinting toward hell because she didn't bother to hide her sins neat and proper. And they didn't want her dragging me down that road with her.
Oh well. Too late.
When her eyes land on me, she throws her arms up like I'm the headliner she's been waiting on all night.
"'Bout time, cuz!" she hollers over the music, waving me over like I might miss her otherwise.
Typical Daisha—loud, extra, impossible to ignore.
I push my way through the crowd and slide onto the stool beside her. She immediately shoves a glass into my hand like she's been double-fisting just to keep one ready for me.
"Girl, you took forever," she slurs, eyes wide and glittering, her buzz already written all over her face. "I was about two seconds from starting the party without you."
I smirk, raising the glass to my lips. "And when have you ever needed me to act a fool?"
She gasps dramatically, clutching her chest like I just stabbed her. "Wow. Disrespectful. You know damn well I'm a classy lady."
I snort, nearly choking on my drink. "Yeah, a classy lady who once got us kicked out of Red Robin for twerking on the table."
Her grin spreads slow and wicked. "And I don't regret a goddamn thing."
I giggle despite the dull ache in my chest.
The one that still craves Grayson fucking Bennett.
Fuck. Doesn't matter how much tequila I throw back, how loud the music hits, or how many fine-ass men are in this bar—I wish I were in his bed right now.
Daisha narrows her eyes, catching the crack in my smile. "Mhm. Don't think I didn't see that," she says, stabbing the air with a long, coffin-shaped nail. "What motherfucker hurt you, and where is he so I can cut his ass?"
I bark out a laugh. "Girl, chill the fuck out. You can't just be out here threatening to stab people."
And honestly? I wouldn't let her touch him anyway.
No matter how much his silence slices through me, no matter how many times it feels like he's leaving me dangling on a hook—I still want him. Still need him.
And that's the part I hate the most.
Because for all my big girl talk about moving on, I can't drink him away. Can't dance him away. Can't fuck him away.
I've tried.
But here I am, still haunted.
Still craving a man who's shown me I'm nothing but a piece of ass to him.
So I lift my glass, drain what's left, and paste the smirk back on my face like armor. "C'mon, cuz. Let's dance. I don't wanna talk about men problems tonight."
Daisha grins. "Now that's the energy I'm lookin' for."
She grabs my hand, dragging me straight into the crush of bodies.
The dancefloor moves like one giant wave under the flashing lights, shoulder to shoulder, heat and sweat rolling through the air thick enough to taste. Daisha's already in her element—dropping low, throwing her ass back like she's auditioning for Beyoncé's next tour.
I giggle, the tequila finally catching up, and let myself melt into the rhythm too.
Daisha whoops loud enough to turn heads, her purple pigtails swinging as she drops even lower. "Yessss, shake that ass. That's what I'm talkin' about, cuz!"
That's when some dude in a fitted cap slides in behind me, bold enough to grab a handful of my ass like I came here for him.
Big mistake.
I whip around, grab his balls in my palm, and squeeze until his eyes damn near bulge out of his skull. 
He yelps, doubling over. I lean in, my smile sickly sweet. "Touch me again, and you won't need these anymore."
He stumbles back into the crowd, clutching himself and cursing under his breath. I toss my braids back and keep dancing like nothing happened.
"Damn, Ash." Daisha's laughing so hard she almost falls over. "Taught his thirsty ass a lesson, didn't you?"
I laugh with her, though the truth hits harder than the bass shaking the floor. For half a second, I'd wanted it to be Gray's hands on me instead.
Not some stranger's.
Not even Jason Momoa's.
And if I'm turning down that fine-ass man in my head? Yeah. That's a real fucking problem.
Daisha waves down the bartender like she owns the place, ordering another round of tequila shots with a side of something neon that probably shouldn't be legal.
She passes two glasses my way, and I down them back-to-back without hesitation.
The liquor scorches all the way down, but the burn barely registers with the way my body's still moving—hips rolling, ass shaking to the beat like it has a mind of its own.
The rest of the night goes by in a blur. More shots. More dancing. More hammered strangers hyping Daisha up as she launches into a full-on twerk battle with half the women in the bar.
She wins every single one, obviously—collecting crumpled bills like it's rent money and immediately blowing it on more drinks.
I throw my head back, laughing so hard my ribs hurt as she struts back with two more shots balanced in her hands like trophies.
"Drink up, bitch! The night isn't over yet!"
I clink my glass with hers, grinning. "Shit, I'm down for anything!"
I'm drunk as hell, my body burning so hot I'm tempted to strip right here on the dancefloor, but I don't stop.
I can't.
Because if I do? He'll creep back in.
And that road only goes one way.
Drunk texting.
Begging.
Crying for the attention of a man who's already proven I don't mean shit to him.
Fuck you, Gray.
...Or better yet, fuck me.
And then I'll throw your ass right out of my house and treat you just like the piece of meat you think I am.
The DJ calls for last rounds, and the crowd groans like the night's ending too soon. Daisha just flips him off, hair sticking to her sweaty temples, and drags me toward the bar for "one more." Which, for her, means three.
By the time we stumble out of the bar into the cool night air, my head's spinning and my cheeks ache from smiling so much. The buzz feels good—warm, reckless, a little dangerous.
Exactly what I needed.
We grab an Uber because neither of us is sober enough to drive. Daisha spends the ride leaning halfway out the window, yelling compliments at random pedestrians as we drive by. "Okay, booty shorts, I see you! You better work them calves, sir!"
I sit beside her, trying not to throw up and laugh at the same time.
After dropping off my cousin and thanking her for fun I haven't had in a long ass time, the driver turns toward my place. I sink back against the headrest, head spinning, stomach churning, that perfect mix of alcohol and regret.
My phone buzzes in my lap, the screen lit up with a string of missed calls and unread texts.
But I'm too drunk... and too damn tired... to even lift the thing to my face and unlock it.
Whoever it is, it can wait.
All I want right now is my damn bed.
But the second the car slows in front of my house, my heart rate spikes.
Because even before I see him, I feel him.
Gray.
Leaning against his bike, arms crossed, jaw clenched, those blazing hazel eyes trained on me like he's been parked here all night just waiting.
The buzz drains out of me in a rush, leaving only the burn of tequila in my veins and the fire in my chest.
Well, fuck.
Looks like the night isn't over after all.