Chapter 1 - Avery

Deep breathing is my go-to coping mechanism when I’m having a panic attack. And it usually works.

Then again, when it works, I’m usually not crouched in a corner, hovering over the disgusting bathroom floor at Xtreme, which is supposedly one of Detroit’s hottest dance clubs. Every time I breathe in, the stench makes my stomach roll and I feel like I’m going to vomit. Which only exacerbates the panic I’m trying to quell.

But at least I’m trying.

I press my forehead against the wall, hoping the cold concrete on my skin gives me reprieve from the heat searing through my body.

My mind races with my heartbeat trying to figure out what triggered the panic attack. One minute I’m enjoying the night, celebrating my new job with the Detroit Aviators hockey team by getting drunk with friends, and the next, I’m hyperventilating and rushing to the restroom, trying not to slip on whatever it is that makes the floor slick.

Was it the heat? The crowd?

I haven’t been to a place this packed since my nineteenth birthday. And the thought of that night doesn’t bring calming memories. Maybe the thought of puking into a pizza delivery bag on the way home gives other people the warm fuzzies, but not me.

It’s a hilarious story to tell, but I can’t focus on funny right now with the way my pulse pounds against my wrists. My heart rate must be in the hundreds at this point.

I breathe in deeply through my nose and out through my mouth hoping to regulate my system. But the loud, bass-driven music pumping on the other side of the door doesn’t help.

How am I supposed to stop panicking when my body wants to keep up with the thumping beat?

I don’t know how long I’ve been in here. Time isn’t a concept when one melody merges into the next.

A burst of loud music alerts me to someone coming through the door. I turn my head slightly, watching as a group of women walk in. If any of them notice me at all, not one shows it. I’d be mortified if someone recognized me.

Not that it’s likely. I’m not that famous.

While I’m glad I don’t have to interact with them, part of me wishes it was one of my friends who came in instead of strangers.

Evidently, seeing someone tweaking out in the corner of the bathroom is common at a busy, trendy club. They probably think I’m on a bad trip of one of the various drugs available in this place.

Case in point, one of the women who just walked in is standing at the sink snorting a line of coke off a compact mirror right now. I hear the gagging and splashing sounds of another puking while the others fix their makeup and hair. Glazed gazes peer out under heavy mascara-coated lashes, completely oblivious to anything happening around them.

When they leave, I take a deep breath before boosting myself into a standing position on the exhale. My legs feel like gummy worms, and once I’m fully standing, I lean my shoulder against the wall for support. Extending one hand out in front of me, I breathe in slowly and trace up my pinky finger. On the exhale, I trace down. I do this on all five fingers—twice—before trying to move again.

The motion helps calm my brain and I feel strong enough to walk. I shuffle haggardly toward the sink and flip the handle up on the faucet as I lift my eyes to the mirror. Listening to the monotone sound of the water running into the drain helps drive out the rampant internal thoughts.

After letting it run long enough to know it’s cold, I run my hands and wrists under it. The icy temperature helps shock my nervous system back to reality. My therapist would be proud of me for using so many of the techniques she taught me.

It takes a moment for the effects to kick in, but when they do, my breathing slowly returns to normal. Still, the heightened sensation in my body remains.

Time for a drink—or multiple. I know it’s a bad idea, but I need something to distract me from how I’m feeling.

Panic attacks are part of my life. If I stopped everything every time I had one, I’d never leave my bed.

Now that I’ve calmed down, I notice just how disgusting the bathroom is. Used paper towel and wet toilet paper litter the floor as sudsy water pools across the countertop, and a funky smell permeates the air.

I’m surprised there isn’t an attendant like most of the other clubs in Detroit. Then again, many places are running lean right now and it makes much more sense to have people serving drinks than having someone handing out paper towel and mints in the bathroom.

I glance at myself in the mirror one more time, brushing my fingers through my thick, brown, dishevelled hair. Thanks to long-wearing formulas and near-professional application, my makeup is still on point. Though, my forehead could use a touch-up after contact with the grimy wall. I was sure my entire appearance would be shot to shit after my stint in here.

Screw those people who say social media influencers don’t have any real talent.

How many people have the skills to flip out on a nasty bathroom floor, pick themselves back up looking almost flawless, and get back on the horse?

Everyone’s keeping up with the Kardashians whether they admit it or not. 

Though my legs still feel like noodles, I’ve regained my composure enough to get back out there and join the crowd. My heels click along the floor, echoing through the empty bathroom. As soon as I open the door, a mash-up of Andres Martinez’s latest Latin hit and a popular rap song I can’t name assaults my ears. 

The beat drops and the intense reverberation shakes my chest. While I squeeze through, the crowd jumps around wildly, and the DJ shouts muffled commands into the microphone for everyone to make some noise. The crowd obliges, letting out a series of “woo’s” and screams. I press on, sliding through sweaty bodies, thankful for my height. Being petite allows me to slip through tight spaces easily.

When I emerge from the crowd, I make my way to the tall, dark, and handsome man who has exactly what I need. There’s hardly anyone there, so when I lean against the bar, he immediately comes over to me.

“Two vodka shots and a Long Island Iced Tea, please,” I say, trying to ignore the feeling of anxiety slowly creeping back up.

He nods and sets two shot glasses in front of me, then grabs the well vodka. Before he starts pouring, I place a hand on his. “Grey Goose, please.”

He nods again and switches out the bottles. 

The brand doesn’t really matter since I’m going to have a massive hangover tomorrow no matter which one I choose, but landing my dream job is reason to splurge on the good stuff.

I down one shot before he even fills the second one, then shoot that as he makes my Long Island.

After paying for my order with my card, I slide a twenty onto the bar, winking at him as I grab my drink. Sipping slowly, I shimmy through the crowd to find my friends or a seat. All I really need is a few minutes to give the alcohol time to marinate in my system.

As I scan the room, my gaze locks on an empty chair just off the dance floor. I make my way toward it and take a seat, ignoring the group of guys sitting beside me. Though they’re loud, I can’t make out any of their boisterous conversation over the music.

It’s amazing how easy it was for my body to transition from overly anxious to complete chill.

Grey Goose is my new go-to.

I’m fairly relaxed as I take a sip of my drink, until one of the guys in the group scoots his chair closer to me. That part isn’t a problem, it’s his stare burning into the side of my face.

I ignore him, focusing my gaze straight ahead and zoning out with the straw between my lips. The cold liquid permeates my body, and I smile as that magical haziness kicks in.

I take one more sip before finally looking at the guy beside me. Maybe I should say boy because of how young his features look, but he’s probably older than me.

Who am I to judge considering I’ve had people mistake me for a twelve-year-old when I’m not wearing makeup?

The only indicator I’m above the age of twenty-one is the neon orange band around my wrist. I’m twenty-three, in fact, which infuriates me when I still get confused as a middle schooler.

“Long Island Iced Tea?” he asks, nodding toward the drink clasped firmly in my hands.

I look down at it, as if I need to confirm before I answer. “Yes,” I tell him plainly, looking back up to his face.

He’s totally hot, I must admit. The boyish features I noticed remind me of a young Justin Bieber—but his beautiful, black hair stands out. It’s a little shaggy for my taste, but falls nicely, like it’s been trained to do so. His blue eyes twinkle from either the lights flashing with the music or amusement at my blank stare.

“The name’s Owen. Owen Rayburn.” He shoves his hand out for me to shake.

Shaking hands in a club…okaaaaaay Dad.

I take the bait, removing one hand from my drink and offering it to him. His palm is rough and calloused. I try not to pay attention to how large it is, but I can’t ignore how it completely envelops mine.

“Avery,” I say.

He looks at me expectantly, as if waiting for me to continue, but when I don’t, he shifts in his seat.

I look away, taking another sip of my drink. My body feels warm and jelly-like, and I have to hold in a giggle fighting to escape.

He scoots his chair closer again, further away from his friends. They don’t seem to mind since most of them are scooping out the club.

I try to ignore him, but it doesn’t do me any good. If anything, it increases his interest in me.

“That’s a lovely name,” he says, making me roll my eyes. “I’d love to get to know your last name, too.” His lips turn upwards in a smug smirk, which is slightly annoying.

“It’s a no from me,” I deadpan.

He snorts and bites his bottom lip. “Okay, Simon Cowell. I can take a hint.” He glances over his shoulder at his friends, and I almost think he’s given up. Until he continues, “But you’re too damn beautiful for me not to say hi.”

When he tilts his head and gazes at me with dreamy eyes, I’m instantly ready to engage.

Damn—the man is fine!

“What’s it going to take for you to leave me alone, Cowboy?” I drawl, glancing at the Austin, TX written in scrolling script across the front of his shirt.

His face contorts into confusion. “Did you just call me Cowboy?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Rayburn. The music is a little loud and I thought I detected a hint of an accent.”

“If we’re talking aboot accents, I’m pretty sure I detect one, too, Princess.”

I laugh out loud, bending over slightly as I snort and choke on my drink simultaneously. He places a large, warm hand on my back. The touch makes my entire body tingle.

“Some people find it charming.”

“Oh, I am one of those people. Can’t resist a beautiful Canadian girl.” He bites his bottom lip and squints. “Now what was that question again?”

I laugh and fluff my hair. “I’ve changed the question.”

He raises an eyebrow and leans forward. I place my hand on his thigh and move closer. When my lips are at his ear, I ask, “What’s it gonna take to get you to dance with me?”

He slides a hand across my neck, gently holding my face near his. He holds my gaze. “How about your last name and your phone number?”

I know the first thing he’ll do is Google me, so my last name is off limits until I get to know him better. Some guys get intimidated when they see 3.7 million followers. I’m not ready to extinguish this flirty conversation just yet.

I know I can’t give him exactly what he wants, but I can give him something. 

“It’s either one or the other, but not both. Pick your poison.”

He opens his mouth in protest, but when I raise a singular brow at him, he makes no move to argue. Instead, he pulls his phone out and hands it to me, admitting defeat. I take it, making sure to slide my hand over his as I do. Then I input my info and hand it back.

He observes the screen for a moment. “Avery with two pink hearts,” he says aloud, mulling over how I entered my name. 

“It’s kind of my trademark signature,” I say, looking past him at his friends. Though they didn’t seem to notice at first, they’ve been staring us down ever since Owen and I started talking and laughing. They keep glancing over, then speaking in hushed voices, arrogant smirks adorning their faces.

One face sticks out because I recognize it. And he’s not smirking; he’s indifferent. Probably drowning in grief, just like me.

Heat rises to my cheeks and my shoulders and neck ache with tension.

Ding! Ding! Ding! Panic Attack Round Two.

I need to get out of here fast.

When I jump up, Owen watches me closely, his brows pull together. “Are you alright?” he asks, standing up slowly. “You look pale.”

His voice fades out as the familiar feeling of panic rises and a wave of discomfort spreads from my head all the way to my toes.

Without saying another word, I place my unfinished drink on the floor and high tail it out of there, squeezing through the crowd in a whirlwind to get away. Fresh air will help.

I reach the doors fast, shoving them open with velocity. The bouncer has to step out of the way to avoid being hit.

Damn it.

We’re seriously doing this again tonight.

I place my hand on the cold bricks to keep myself standing but lean forward and place my other hand on my chest, hoping that the sensation of physical contact will help ground me.

My vision zones in on my bare, tanned legs—the part not covered by my dress. At least I look hot while having my second mental breakdown of the evening.

“Yo!” I hear Owen’s voice behind me, snapping me out of my thoughts. When I glance over my shoulder, I realize he isn’t speaking to me, rather, the bouncer.

At the same moment, I realize I’ve buried myself behind a group of people who are standing in a cloud of their own cigarette smoke. The scent causes my lungs to restrict, making it even harder to catch my breath.

I take a few steps forward, using the wall to guide me, and duck into the alley between the club and the building next door.

The smell is weaker here, thankfully, but that’s when I spot a homeless man flopped out on the ground beside the dumpster. He mumbles to himself but doesn’t even acknowledge my presence.

A shadow moves into the yellow light of the streetlamp cascading over the ground in front of my feet, and I look up to see Owen standing there, eyebrows still knit in concern and confusion.

“There you are,” he says when he spots me.

I huff in exasperation. “Leave me alone,” I grind out through clenched teeth, trying to keep myself from spiralling into total chaos again. It’s already difficult as it is, I don’t need some stranger watching me freak out.

He clicks his tongue on the roof of his mouth and bobs his head, looking down the street. “I don’t think I can do that.” He presses his lips into a thin line, looking back down at me with caution.

I try to contain the rage burning inside me and resist the uncontrollable urge to snap at him. I pause to collect myself, trying to hold back the nervous tears brimming my eyes. “Why is that, hmm?”

He leans on the wall, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “You’ve got some admirers around the corner. I overheard them saying you’d be an easy target,” he says with no sign of playfulness in his tone.

“Fucking bastards,” I curse, pinching the bridge of my nose.

He smirks at my foul language. “You’re lucky I came out to rescue you.”

My eyes narrow. “I’ve got eight years of Krav Maga under my belt. I think I can handle myself, thanks,” I bite back, feeling my sense of pride being damaged by his flippant comment.

He looks taken aback but doesn’t say anything.

“I guess it doesn’t hurt to have some help,” I add reluctantly, making him smile in return. That perfect smile hits me with such force, it takes my breath away. Suddenly, I realize I’ve been staring at him for way too long and avert my gaze.

If he minds my ogling, he doesn’t mention it.

“Are you here alone?” he asks.

I shake my head, then clear my throat before speaking. “I came with friends,” I tell him, leaning my head against the rough bricks. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his mouth morph into a frown.

“Do you want to go inside and find them? I’m sure they’re worried,” he says, shifting slowly as if there are eggshells under his feet.

“Not yet.” I reach out and touch his arm. “I need a minute.”

My friends are in there having fun like I’m supposed to be doing. Had they known I was having trouble, anyone of them would have been by my side. I’m not ready to go in and rain on anyone’s party.

There’s a pause in the conversation, but it isn’t uncomfortable. Quite the opposite, actually. A strange sense of comfort takes over, and I realize how much better I feel. Speaking with Owen has taken my mind off the anxiety spike after seeing someone I hadn’t in years.

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About the Author

USA Today Bestselling Author Sophia Henry is a proud Detroit native who fell in love with reading, writing, and hockey all before she became a teenager. She loves writing steamy, heartfelt contemporary romance and hanging out with her two awesome kids.

Commitment to the Be Kind Love Hard motto:

Sophia donates royalties from each book to charity!

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