Physical Distraction (The Physical Series Book 3)

by Sierra Hill

  And that was something Dylan never thought he’d want to do with any woman. Get them in his bed? You bet.

  Enjoy their scent, their taste, their body? Absolutely.

  But hug and cuddle, and whatever else the fuck one did to make a girl feel safe? Not a chance.

  He shook his head to clear his thoughts, Karma whining at his feet to be let outside. Lumbering across the open expanse of kitchen to the French patio doors, Dylan let the dog out, her tail wagging furiously as she bolted across the yard, presumably in search of a squirrel or two.

  Dylan’s pocket began to vibrate with an incoming call. He pulled out his phone and saw the call was from Jason Wells, his best friend since second grade and now employee. The one guy in the world who could get Dylan into any kind of trouble, any day of the week, and make it seem like it was always Dylan’s idea. Chump.

  “Yo. What’s up?” he answered, phone to his ear in one hand and opening the fridge door with the other to pull out a beer. He had to say one thing about his new brother-in-law. Mitch Camden knew how to stock a fridge for guests. Every domestic, import and specialty beer Dylan could think of, and more, were housed in the special beer fridge.

  “Hey man. I stopped by your place to see if you wanted to hang tonight. Where the hell are ya? I want to head out to McGinty’s for a few beers and need my wingman.”

  Jason was a newly single, divorced dad of two kids. Solid, loyal and a man of integrity, it killed Dylan that his friend was struggling to try and navigate his new life. The only comfort Jason seemed to find when he wasn’t working or spending time with his kids was hanging out with Dylan, getting falling-down drunk (a happy drunk, at least), and picking up women. Typical male wallowing, right?

  Dylan was with Jason the night he met his future ex-wife. He’d stood up for him at Jason’s wedding, and was godfather to his oldest son, Nolan. He’d also witnessed the demise of Jason’s marriage to Gina. In Dylan’s opinion, Jason had married too young, and they were both too immature to handle marriage at the ages of twenty and twenty-one. And while Gina was a great mother to their children, she was a lying, cheating, manipulative bitch to his boy.

  Jason was not a saint, by any stretch of the imagination. He often drank too much, wasted their money on unnecessary purchases, and would rather spend four nights a week playing co-rec softball, poker or any other game, than be at home living a domestic type of existence. No, Dylan couldn’t blame Gina for leaving Jason, but Jason didn’t deserve the manner in which it happened.

  So now Dylan had become Jason’s lifeline and social savior on the nights when Jason didn’t have his kids. Not that Dylan minded it so much. He was always up for a good time with his buddies.

  “I’m out at Mitch and Rylie’s place taking care of their dog. I told you that, bro.”

  “Ah, yeah. Shit, I forgot. Man, we should throw a party out there. That house is kick-ass. Call up a few ladies, turn on that hot tub, and we got ourselves a little partttay. We’d get turnt up quick.” Jason snorted and then let out a loud “Whoop.”

  “Not gonna happen, J. We’re not fucking sixteen anymore, snitching out of dad’s liquor cabinet, and looking to trash the place,” he snickered, thinking back to the time they did just that thing when they were sixteen-year-old idiots. “But I can meet you tomorrow night. How about Fitzgerald’s? They have pool tables, darts and I think I even saw an old pinball machine or two when I was there today.”

  Dylan knew Jason wouldn’t pass up the chance to beat him at any of those games. He was a staunch competitor and would do anything to one-up Dylan in any game they played.

  “Oh right. The one you’re bidding on. Right on, bruh. Sounds good. I’ll swing by and pick you up at nine, then. And there better be some hot chicks there, ’cause I haven’t been laid in months.”

  Dylan wasn’t so certain how many women Jason would consider “fuckable” there, considering the clientele he’d seen there the last few times looked like they’d worked the harbor docks for centuries. But he did know the woman who had been occupying his thoughts day and night would surely be present. And that was good enough for him.

  And just that thought had him counting down the hours until Saturday night.

  Chapter Four

  Who knew that the night before Christmas Eve, a little dive bar known as Fitzgerald’s would be so freaking busy?

  Sloane’s feet ached from standing on them for hours. Her shoulders and neck scrunched up at her ears in tight knots, screaming for the strong hands of a Swedish masseuse named Matilda or Helga, or something, to wring out the tight muscles. A direct result of carrying trays full of beer and booze from table to table all night long. She peered down at the face of her watch and groaned. Closing time wasn’t for another five hours.

  Even as a college student, Sloane had never stayed out until closing time at bars. Always the good girl, she was normally in bed by midnight, even on weekends, ensuring she got her beauty rest. And here she was now, serving drinks to people who obviously didn’t care much about getting rest.

  This career of slinging drinks was harder than Sloane had ever imagined. Maybe even more difficult than teaching high schoolers would ever be. It was one thing to deal with a sniveling, whiny teenager in her classroom, who complained over the pop quiz she just pulled. But handling drunken men, who didn’t understand the word moderation, who only wanted to cop a feel every time she walked by? Good grief, she was not cut out for this shit.

  Tonight Sloane had two bartenders behind the bar, a bar back, two cocktail waitresses handling the crowd, and a handful of kitchen personnel on duty, and it still wasn’t enough to handle the chaos of pre-Christmas revelers. Christmas Eve was the next night, and as she took stock of the crowded room, she classified everyone in either one of two categories: they were there to get drunk before having to spend the holidays with their crazy-ass families, or they were there to drink to forget they had no family, crazy or otherwise, to spend the holidays with. Sad, but true. And she’d definitely heard enough of the conversations as she worked the room to know the holidays were a great reason to get plastered.

  Clearing off the glasses from one of the tables, she shut her eyes, briefly trying to dodge the sadness that suddenly squeezed hold of her heart. Because this year, she fell in the exact same boat as some of those people. Sloane would be alone for the first time in forever on Christmas. And while it was somewhat by choice, it still stung. Her folks would have come out to Boston to visit her, but they had to remain in San Diego with extended family visiting from Idaho. And her best friend, Trista, was skiing with her boyfriend’s family in Tahoe.

  She sighed wistfully as she recalled the last few Christmas holidays when she and Blaine joined Trista at her family’s condo in Tahoe. She’d met Trista her freshman year in college, both of them studying to become teachers, and had become fast friends. She was one of Sloane’s few confidants, and was the only person, outside of Blaine, that knew about the reason for their break-up. The unfortunate part was that once Trista found out about Blaine’s cheating, she wanted Sloane to bring it up to Blaine’s principal at his school.

  It had been eating at Sloane for weeks now. It was bad enough that Blaine had done this to her. Broken her heart and ruining her happily-ever-after. But to narc on him and get him into trouble, possibly ending his career? She wasn’t sure she could do that.

  As she stood in the room packed with bodies, Sloane felt like a hot sweaty mess from the stale radiator heat. Wiping her brow, she wondered what Blaine was doing for Christmas. It pissed her off that she was even thinking about him right now. But up until a week ago, before everything went south, she’d been planning on having a simple Christmas Eve by their tree in their new living room. They’d open up their presents to each other, have a quiet dinner by candle light, and then snuggle in front of a fire (even though it would be seventy degrees outside).

  She tried to stop herself from thinking about him, because he didn’t deserve her time or energy. But how could she help hersel
f? She’d loved the man – or had thought she loved him. But that was before…before she’d seen the truth with her own two eyes.

  So now, because of his lying, cheating ways, she was forced to spend her first Christmas alone, suffering through the holiday blues like so many of her bar patrons managed to do year after year. Using alcohol, and the idea that being in a room full of strangers, all drowning in their own sorrows, can at the very least make you feel like you’re not entirely alone. At least that was something.

  A low voice behind her interrupted her depressing thoughts. Sloane pivoted on her heel, nearly tipping the tray of beer glasses all over the person standing behind her.

  Dylan.

  “What does a guy have to do to get a beer and a shot around here?” His voice was low, with a lilt of amusement in his tone.

  Straightening out the wobbly glasses lined on the tray, Sloane’s mouth opened in a surprise “O” at the appearance of Dylan’s smiling face, his deep hazel-brown eyes twinkling in jest.

  She glanced over at the bar, three deep in waiting patrons, Donnie and Staci, the bartenders on duty, scurrying like mice to and fro to dole out the drinks. Turning back to Dylan, she gave a helpless shrug.

  “Good question,” she winked, her breath a little choppy from the handsome sight in front of her. “You might need to impress upon someone in a high-level position. Perhaps the bar owner, for example, to prove that you’re a worthy candidate for a drink.” Sloane moved quickly around Dylan, heading back toward the bar. She glanced over her shoulder, and gestured for him to follow her.

  “Either that, or you may be forced to belt out some karaoke tunes, in hopes that your singing voice earns you some admirers willing to buy you some drinks.”

  Dylan laughed, a loud, throw-your-head-back in hilarity kind of laugh.

  “Well shit. It’s a good thing I know the bar owner, then, because no one, and I mean not even one of these drunken fools, wants to hear me sing. I honestly scare little kids and cats.”

  Sloane bit down on her bottom lip to stifle the giggle that was threatening to burst out. She tried not to think about how damn cute Dylan was. Charming, a little rough around the edges, but a good soul – with a little mischief sprinkled on top. He had a way of brightening her spirits. And she could really use a little lighthearted fun right about now, if only out of self-preservation.

  The last few weeks had been an enormous hit to her self-esteem, self-confidence, and self-worth. Throw in one failing bar on top, one she now owned and didn’t have a clue about managing, and she was just about ready to lock herself away in a psych ward. None of this was ever supposed to happen to her! She was a good girl. She walked the straight-and-narrow. Played by the rules. Had a desire to educate kids. She worked hard. She loved with all her heart.

  But none of that seemed to matter to the universe, because she was still shit on by the very one person she’d entrusted with her heart.

  Screw it. I’m going to have some fun.

  “So, what’ll it be?” she asked Dylan as she moved behind the bar, setting the tray of dirty glasses near the sink. “A beer and a bump?” Sloane turned her back to the counter, reaching for a clean glass and a shot glass.

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” he delighted, slapping down his hand on the edge of the bar. “But it’ll need to be two of each. Let’s make it a Guinness and a whiskey.”

  Sloane felt a sudden surge of disappointment, where she’d just been light and carefree. Dylan was obviously here with someone. Probably a female someone. Maybe he was on a date. She turned her head, looking around the bar to see if she could figure out who the lucky girl was. As if he could tell what she was thinking, he indulged her curiosity.

  Dylan shucked his thumb toward the back of the bar, where the pinball machines were lined up. “My dumbass buddy Jason is with me tonight. He needed some cheering up.” He stopped for a second, glancing around to see who was listening. “He just got divorced a few months ago and is feeling a bit blue. So I’m here doing what friends do. Trying to get him drunk off his ass so he forgets about his troubles for a while.”

  “I know the feeling,” she mumbled under her breath, catching the curious side glance he gave her. Filling the glasses to the brim, Sloane pushed the beer in front of Dylan before following the same process with the whiskey bottle and two shot glasses.

  “You look like you could use a shot, too,” he said authoritatively. “Have one with me.” It wasn’t a question. And it seemed a bit bossy, but she liked it.

  And damn it if he wasn’t right. She could definitely use a shot after the hideous turn her life had taken over the last few weeks. In her opinion, there was no one else in the bar or the world, for that matter, more deserving of a good, stiff drink than Sloane Fitzgerald. She clutched the bottle tight, trying to come up with an excuse as to why she shouldn’t have a drink. She came up blank.

  If a strong shot of whiskey could temporarily take her mind off her loneliness, and her aching feet, and also squelch the insanely hot attraction she was feeling for the man standing in front of her, then screw it. She was going to have one.

  “Fuck yeah.”

  Dylan let out a roar of approval as she filled the third shot glass with the deep amber liquid. Holding it in her hand in front of him, they toasted in celebration.

  “Slainte!” she exclaimed cheerfully, using the traditional Irish toast. Echoing it back to her, Dylan clinked his glass with hers in a cheer, offering her a sexy grin.

  “Slainte.”

  The hard liquor slowly burned a scorching path down her throat, warming her body from the inside out. She could feel the flush already overtake her face, the numbing effect spreading down her neck and across her chest. Which she noticed Dylan happened to be staring at. His roaming gaze helped the liquor warm her further south.

  “No chaser?” he asked incredulously, placing the empty glass on the counter.

  Sloane shook her head and smiled proudly. “Nope. I may look all sweet and feminine, but I can drink like a man. No girly drinks for me.” She crossed her arms over her chest, giving her girls a little boost. She stifled the little grunt of pleasure, seeing how Dylan shifted in his seat, obviously affected by her body.

  He gave her a long, appreciative look, his eyes slowly grazing up and down, until they landed once again on her chest. She wasn’t sure if it was the heat of his stare or the effects of the alcohol, but she felt hot. Tingly hot. Her nipples hardened and the space between her thighs grew tight and achy.

  “I have to admit, I’m pretty fond of your sweet and feminine. You wear it well.” Dylan picked up his beer and took a swig, his expressive eyes never leaving hers.

  Flustered and caught off guard by the blatantly sexual tone of his compliment, Sloane hurriedly cleaned up the glassware, and busied herself with wiping down the counter. With it as busy as it was, she should’ve been waiting on some other customers, but she couldn’t seem to want to tear herself away from Dylan’s attention. It felt good. Like the warmth of a blanket that’s just come out of the dryer. She wanted to wrap herself tight in that cocoon of contentment.

  It had been a long time since she’d flirted with a man. Blaine was her first and only love and they’d been together for years. She could barely remember what it felt like to experience that high. That rush of fluttering butterflies in her belly. The goose bumps that dotted her arms from the thrill of his words. The sound of his voice. Dylan was just so…raw. He had this magnetism about him that pulled her in. Like a fish caught on a line. Every word he spoke, every aspect of his mannerisms reeled her in.

  Sloane knew she had to be careful. She’d just gone through a devastating break-up and loss. She carried along baggage – probably bigger than the Kardashian’s travel luggage. And she now had some serious responsibilities that required all of her focus. She had no idea how she would survive the likes of Dylan Hemmons, even if it only happened to be for one brief sex-filled night.

  Raucous shouts and cheers could be heard over th
e loud, thumping music that played in the background. Dylan and Sloane both looked up simultaneously when they heard his name being yelled from the game area.

  “DYLAN! Get your ass back over here. I need my beer, bro!”

  Dylan hung his head in mock embarrassment. Just as she did the other day during their tour, Sloane had to fight the urge to slide her hands through his short dark hair and capture his mouth with hers. If there was one thing to say about Dylan Hemmons, it was that he was dangerous with a capital D.

  Shooting her an apologetic look, Dylan hefted the beers and the full shot glass in both hands, gesturing his thanks to Sloane. Before turning to leave, he leaned over the bar in a conspiratorially manner, speaking in a hushed tone, just loud enough for her to hear. His warm breath against her cheek sent goose bumps down her arms.

  “I’ll try to keep him in line and out of trouble tonight, but I can’t guarantee what trouble I might cause.” He winked, a sly grin taking over his face.

  “Later, Sloane.”

  Sloane watched him walk off toward the back of the bar, yelling something in snarky protest to his friend, his perfectly sculpted ass on display in the faded jeans he wore. The man had a perfect ass. Designed to be squeezed. And the black T-shirt he wore had every female in the bar coveting the seriously muscled chest, the bicep tattoo now more firmly on display. All she could think about was using her tongue to lick the design, following where ever it might lead on his body.

  Get your mind out of the gutter, Fitzgerald.

  Thoughts like that would get her nowhere. She had too much on her plate right now to fantasize about how Dylan Hemmons’ butt would feel under her palms, or what possible treasure that compass tattoo might lead her to find.