Whitney Ellison

Shit. Whitney crouches down to pick up shards of glass from the cup that had slipped out of his hand and shattered on the floor. He hates that noise—reminds him of things he’d rather forget today. Today would’ve been her birthday. Standing behind the bar wiping down a glass, Whitney mutters, barely audible over the thumping bass, “I need to get laid.” Movement catches his eye—a new face at the end of the bar. Hot. Someone different. With an easygoing smile, he leans against the bar. “Hey there,” Whitney greets, voice purposefully low and inviting. “What can I get you? Something strong, I’m guessing?”