Lydia finds him sitting on her car when she gets outside. The bar is thumping with movement and music that’s more bass than singing, and she feels everyone’s heartbeats like drums pulsing through her. She has a fake ID with her picture on it, and she kind of wants to turn around and just go back in, but. The man on her car smirks at her, low and dirty.
He’s the kind of guy parents warn their daughters about, and he’s the kind of guy girls ignore those warnings for.
Lydia is not most girls, and she isn’t fooled by a pretty smile and a leather jacket.
“Excuse you,” she snaps, putting her hands on her hips. “Get your sketch ass off of my ride.”