I slide onto the barstool, propping my elbows up on the rough wood of the bar top, and sigh. Riot arches an eyebrow when he notices me. “I’m not going to serve you,” he says flatly. “Unless you want a soda.” “Soda’s fine. Sprite,” I agree. The last thing I need with the mood I’m in is alcohol. He moves confidently behind the bar, grabbing a glass and filling it for me. His black t-shirt
