Five drinks. Five drinks in less than fifteen minutes.

Carry on.

Like I said, it all started with listening to Max, so as I got up on shaky legs and made my way over to the bar, I had no idea I’d be sealing my fate.

No clue that the plain girl twisting the straw between her pretty little fingers would destroy me.

Or that there’d come a time when I’d go through drunken hell on a daily basis if only she’d give me another chance.

CHAPTER TWO

JORDAN

It was a two-drink night. Possibly a three-drink night if I could get the bartender to give me at least five minutes of his attention. Instead, he was pouring free shots, which I’m sure were frowned upon by the establishment, and trying to get some hot blonde’s phone number.

I sat back and watched in rapt fascination.

She twirled her hair.

He leaned closer.

More twirling.

He tilted his head.

And then she arched her back, which made his eyes focus on her perky breasts before he shoved another shot in her direction. I sipped what was left of my rum and Coke, irritated that the drink was already gone. Okay, so maybe it was a four-drink night. I could always call a cab, right?

The girl laughed loudly. It wasn’t an attractive laugh either. I imagined it was the exact sound turtles made while getting it on, an almost guttural groan that emitted from her tiny body before she plastered her long fuchsia nails across his forearm and rubbed.

Her nails were getting tangled in an abhorrent amount of forearm hair.

It was like watching a really horrible dating show.

Damn, I wished I could hear the dialogue better.

“Beautiful,” he whispered looking down at the mating dance of her nails with his body hair.

She blushed.

On demand.

But no way was that girl a virgin.

Neat trick.

I cleared my throat and waved in his direction. As entertaining as it was watching fake boobs seduce the hairy bartender, my drink was gone, and I was having a hell of a day—or week was more like it.

He ignored my raised hand.

I flipped him the bird.

He ignored that as well.

That was the problem with being me. I was the in-between girl. I wasn’t knock-your-socks-off gorgeous or ugly. If I were ugly, at least people would stare long enough to give me some attention.

No, I was invisible.

The one men passed over, not because I was an eyesore, but because in a sea of faces, mine was literally the last one to be noticed.

When I was little, I thought it was because I was shy.

As I got older, I realized people just didn’t see me.

In third grade when we were asked to do self-portraits, I presented mine to the class only to have my teacher give me an F for drawing a complete stranger.

I used my own picture. I kid you not.

I was continually sat on in the fifth grade. The bus driver eventually had me sit up front with the extra backpacks because it was becoming a problem.

High school was just as bad. During my freshman year, I guess I was too close to the gym wall, because when the janitor was painting it he painted me too. He said he didn’t see me standing there.

In my bright pink shirt and yellow shorts.

My thighs were Charger red for two weeks.

Sigh.

I twisted the straw between my fingertips again and winced.

My feet ached from wearing my heels all day, my tight pencil skirt felt two sizes too small, and my white oxford shirt was wrinkled from sweat.

So maybe it was good I was invisible, because there was nothing attractive about the way I looked right then. My red lipstick had been chewed off hours earlier, and my eyes never did that sexy thing where they kept on eye shadow for longer than five minutes.

It was amazing—I’d leave the apartment excited about my makeup only to take a bathroom break a few hours later and realize it had disappeared from my face.

It was as if a magical makeup-removing unicorn had come and licked it off my face during my coffee break, leaving me pale and lifeless. Damn unicorns.

I slumped in my seat and stared into my empty glass, where two ice cubes remained.

“Rough day?” a deep voice rumbled behind me. Now, I’m not one to exaggerate, but I could have sworn in that moment my ovaries stood up and cheered as my body tingled with awareness only a voice like that could stir. Immediately I regretted my reaction. After all, my relationship with men was just as bad as my cloak of invisibility. If a man did notice me, it was usually to point out something that was wrong with me, making me wonder if it was even worth being noticed in the first place. My personal favorite was when a man approached me only to ask me to move to the left so he could hit on the girl behind me. On rare occasions when I lucked out and was the object of their attention, they were gay and loved my shoes, which usually meant at least I’d have a decent conversation.

I sighed and glanced down at my heels. I really did have great taste in shoes.

With that voice, my money was on the latter.

“Vince Camuto,” I said in a bored tone. “Last season, though I’m well aware they look like this season, thus the pairing with the pencil skirt. And no, the skirt isn’t Chanel, it’s Burberry.”

And . . . silence.

See? This is what I mean. He was probably talking to someone else, or thought I was someone else and was so embarrassed he hightailed it out of there. Chill, dude, I’m not going to throw myself at you and insist you have my babies. Even if your voice sounds like smooth caramel on crack.

A warm hand grabbed my shoulder, scaring the crap out of me. With a yell, I jerked my hand, causing the ice to topple out of my drink and down my white shirt.