Rock Bottom

by Emily Goodwin

  Gentle yet deliberate. Friendly, yet promising what’s to come.

  “If I had a jacket, I’d give it to you, but I left mine in the car.”

  “Me too,” I say, voice all breathy. I suck down the rest of my wine and set the empty glass on the bar top and adjust the wrap of my Coach wristlet on my arm. The bartender comes over to get my empty glass, and I unzip the wristlet to get out cash to pay for my drink.

  “I got it,” Dean says and tells the bartender to put it on his tab.

  “Well, thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Do you want another?” he asks.

  “I’d rather have a side of cheese fries,” I admit. “I didn’t have dinner.”

  “I didn’t either. Well, I just had pie.”

  “Ohhh, now pie sounds good. Do they have pie here?”

  Dean shakes his head. “No, and if you want to get pie, you need to go to the bakery on Main Street. My sister-in-law owns it.”

  “Must be nice to have family members who own a bar and a bakery.” I inch a little closer. “My brother owns his own vet clinic. I get a family discount on wormer.”

  Dean laughs, and it rumbles right through me. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a laugh I can describe as sexy before, but everything about this man is turning me on.

  “It is nice getting free food and drinks.”

  “I bet. Though I’d probably weigh five hundred pounds after a month of all that free food.”

  Dean grabs a menu and hands it to me. “The house pretzel with cheese is better than the fries.”

  “That does sound good. It’s not too late to order food?”

  He shakes his head. “The kitchen is open until ten.”

  “Good. I feel bad when it’s way too close to closing time.”

  “That’s very considerate of you.”

  “I worked in retail in college.” I give the menu one more glance and decide on the soft pretzel and cheese. “It was irritating when people came in right before closing.”

  “I try not to go anywhere if it’s within fifteen minutes of closing. Unless it’s my sister-in-law’s bakery. Then I’ll go in a minute before and order whatever takes the longest to make.”

  I laugh and meet his eyes, feeling another rush of heat go through me.

  “I’m kidding,” he says. “And she’d probably tell me to get the fuck out anyway.”

  “Oh, I would too.”

  “So…where did you go to college?”

  Shit. I have no idea of the names of any Canadian colleges. “The, uh, Central University of…of…” Canada is divided into territories, right? “…of the Northern Territory.”

  “Never heard of it,” he says right as I realize my so-called college would be abbreviated to CUNT.

  Oh my fucking gosh. If I were to drop dead right now, the universe would probably be doing me a favor.

  “It’s a small school. Private too. And girls only.” Just pick up the shovel, Rory, you’re doing a good job digging yourself a hole to crawl in. “Do you come here often?” I blurt, needing to change the subject.

  “If I say yes it makes me sound pathetic, but since my brothers own the place, we all come here to hang out.”

  I smile. “It’s nice you like being with your brothers.”

  “They can be assholes, but for the most part, they’re good guys,” he laughs. “And the free food and drinks don’t hurt.”

  I feel my phone vibrating with a text. “Excuse me,” I say as I dig it out of my little purse. It’s Lennon, reminding me not to leave my drink on the bar when I turn away.

  “That wouldn’t be your boyfriend, would it?” Dean asks, doing a good job of looking not too interested as he makes sure I’m single.

  “No, it’s my cousin.” I quickly reply that I’m always careful and put my phone back done. “And I’m guessing you don’t have one either?”

  “A boyfriend?” Dean gives me a smartass smirk. “Not at the moment.” He finishes his drink and moves his stool a little closer when a new song comes on, base loudly thumping around us.

  The pretzel and cheese comes already, making me think the bartender pulled a favor for Dean to get the food here so quickly. It’s huge, practically spilling off the plate.

  “Want some?” I ask, sliding the plate in between us. “There’s no way I’ll be able to eat this all.”

  “I suppose I can help you out.”

  “And they say chivalry is dead,” I laugh and break off a piece of the pretzel. We eat a few bites in silence, and when the bartender walks back, Dean orders a refill of both our drinks, along with waters.

  “I didn’t catch your name.” He dips a piece of the pretzel in the cheese sauce and looks at me. Our eyes meet and heat rushes through me again, settling between my legs. We’re talking, having a nice time, but I know Dean’s intentions weren’t to come here to make a friend.

  He’s here to take someone home, and right now, that someone is me.

  I already told him I graduated from Cunt University, and chances are I won’t see this handsome man again after tonight. There’s no harm in having a little fun, right?

  I push my hair behind my ear, aware that Dean just checked out my breasts for the second time. “I’m Blaire.”

  Chapter 9

  Rory

  “Blaire from Canada,” Dean say, and the fake name is sultry on his lips. He smiles at me, and for a split second, I think my cover is blown, that he knows there is no way I’m actually from Canada and that CUNT is a bullshit lie. “I’m very glad you ditched your date tonight.”

  I laugh, high-pitched and nervous. “Poor guy is probably heartbroken over it.”

  “You said he lives with his parents?”

  “Yep,” I laugh, shaking my head. “I mean, there’s nothing wrong with that. I lived with mine for the first year after I graduated college so I could save up my first year having an adult job, but bringing a date back to meet your parents…” I make a face and shake the head.

  “Doesn’t really set the mood,” Dean laughs. I tear off another piece of the pretzel and push the plate to Dean. “Have the rest. I can’t eat anymore. And you were right. That was really good.”

  “Do you want another drink?” He picks up the remainder of the pretzel and dips it in the cheese sauce.

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “Another glass of wine?”

  I think for a second. “No. I haven’t had a Long Island in a while.”

  “I haven’t either,” he chuckles, and orders me one when the bartender comes back.

  “Are your brothers here tonight?” I ask, trying to surreptitiously wipe around my mouth, making sure I don’t have lipstick smeared on my face after eating.

  “Not anymore. They had to go home to their wives and children.”

  “Lame,” I laugh.

  “Right?” Dean’s face breaks out in a smile, but his eyes don’t mirror the same sentiment.

  “But also, not,” I go on, letting out a breath. “It would be nice to have a family. I mean, someday. In the far-off future.”

  “The idea of it is nice,” Dean says, and the cocky confidence is gone for half a second. Then he inhales and angles his body toward mine, putting that sexy smirk back on his face like armor. “But for now, I enjoy my freedom.”

  “Me too. Because as a single adult, I can go out and buy a cake whenever I want to, and no one can stop me.”

  Dean doesn’t say anything for a good three seconds and then he laughs. “I have not taken full advantage of that. Though I did buy a pie today. And ate nearly half of it.”

  “Good. I can have some when I go home with you and see what the hype is all about.”

  “When you come home with me?” He actually looks shocked. Happily shocked, but shocked nonetheless.

  Though he’s probably not as shocked as I am. I don’t feel like I’m living a lie, though, and it’s weird. I’m saying exactly what I want without the fear of repercussions. I’ve always been a people pleaser, trying to think one step ahea
d of what I say or do, overanalyzing how my behavior will affect someone.

  I don’t want to upset anyone.

  Or offend anyone.

  Or act too weird, which is easy for me to do.

  Being one hundred percent honest is liberating. Am I actually turning myself on? I think I am.

  “I mean, if you want me to, that is.”

  The smile is back on Dean’s face. “Let’s see where the night leads.”

  I’m confident if I suggested we leave right now, he’d throw down money on the bar and whisk me away.

  Another text comes through, vibrating my phone that’s face down on the bar. I flip it over and see it’s from Mason.

  “Still not a boyfriend,” I joke and open my phone to read the text. “It’s my brother…warning me about a serial killer.” I roll my eyes and laugh. “It’s kind of his thing.”

  “Serial killers?” Dean cocks an eyebrow.

  “He prefers them, actually,” I go on, watching Dean’s reaction.

  “Because of all the new documentaries or something?”

  I laugh. “No, because he’s a…” I trail off, realizing I almost got myself caught. FBI agents are US citizens. I’m pretending to be Canadian. Dammit.

  “A detective with a background in criminal psychology.”

  “That’s intense.” The bartender brings our drinks, and Dean closes out his tab and leaves a generous tip. “Wait, there’s a serial killer we need to worry about?”

  I wave my hand in the air. “According to him. He’s been forced to take time off from running after criminals after an injury and is obviously way too bored.”

  “So there’s not a serial killer on the loose?”

  “Oh, I’m sure there are tons.” I give a one-shoulder shrug. “Anyone in here could be one. I could be one.” I lean back. “You could be one.”

  Dean holds up his hands. “Busted. It’s not until I’ve bound and gagged my victims until they figure it out.”

  “I’m a fast learner.”

  “I can tell.” He laughs and I pick up my drink. “You have two brothers then?”

  “Three older brothers. Made growing up fun.”

  Dean’s eyes light up, and that cocky air is gone again, and it’s like the real guy is showing through. “I have three brothers too. And one younger sister.”

  “She’s the youngest?”

  “Yep.”

  “I thought having three brothers was awful.” I recoil and make Dean laugh.

  “We gave her hell growing up, but we get along well now.”

  “Same with me. Mason—the detective—is only like a year older than me, and we did not get along when we were kids. But we’re all close now, though we all moved away from Silv—Silver Mapletown.”

  I internally wince. My poker face isn’t what it used to be, and when Lennon and I would go out pretending to be British sisters, we had a hashed-out backstory.

  Why the fuck did I have to go with Canada? I’ve only been there once, and it was ten years ago. I need to be better prepared next time.

  “I miss them,” I go on, unable to shut my damn mouth. “But I’m not that far and I’m sure we’ll all get together for holidays, which is nice and all, but it’s not Friday-night dinner. At my parents’ house, I mean. We all go to dinner. On Friday night.”

  I bring my drink to my mouth, making myself stop talking.

  “My parents still do Sunday-night dinner,” Dean says softly, almost as if it’s to himself. He looks away, lets out a slow breath, and turns back. Smug Dean is back, and damn, that smirk is doing bad things to me.

  I suck down another mouthful of the Long Island, forgetting how strong these things are, and make a face. I set it down and trade it for my water.

  There’s a lull in our conversation now, and these things can easily turn into sand traps for me. Yet I feel comfortable around Dean, which is silly since I just met him.

  “Have you lived in Eastwood long?” I ask, stirring my drink with the straw.

  “My whole life.”

  “And you never wanted to leave?”

  “Oh, I did,” he tells me. “When I was younger all I could think about was getting out of this town.”

  “What changed?”

  “I went away for college and realized how much I looked forward to coming home. And it wasn’t just a house that was home, but the people in the house. It’s lame, I know.”

  I smile, knowing exactly what he means. People can be home. “I don’t think it’s lame. You could have the best house in the world but if you came home alone, what’s the point, right?”

  “Yeah. My friends and family are all here.” He shrugs. “It’s home.”

  “I’m really liking it so far.”

  “That’s good to hear. You’ll like it better in a month or two when the weather finally turns.”

  “Yes, I am very much looking forward to being able to wear sundresses again.” I motion to my short hemline. “And not freeze.”

  “You look good, if that helps.”

  “It does. Though I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to getting under my heated blanket in the near future.”

  “That does sound nice on a night like tonight.”

  “Yeah,” I agree, not realizing that I’ve been messing with my necklace with my other hand, running my fingers over the little moon charm that hangs right above my breasts. I let it fall to my chest, and the metal, warm from my hand, feels good on my skin. Dean is looking me over again, and acting like I don’t notice, I lean back, stretching my long legs out.

  And then I let myself look Dean over.

  He’s tall, taller than me in these heels and is probably several inches over six feet. His hair is effortlessly pushed back, messy yet sexy, and his eyes are intense and hypnotizing at the same time. He’s simply dressed in dark jeans with a leather belt, and a gray Henley shirt. He looks firm and muscular through his clothes, and my body begs me to reach out and see if he feels as good as he looks.

  I look up and see Jane, who I’d honestly forgotten about. Sitting here talking with Dean made the rest of the world stop turning, and it shocks me how much he sucked me in.

  “Want to play darts?” I blurt when I think Jane has spotted me.

  “Sure. You any good?”

  “You’ll have to find out.” I wiggle my eyebrows and hop off the stool, feeling the alcohol hit me as soon as I stand up. I take a small sip of the Long Island and bring it with me.

  The bar is getting really crowded now, thanks to the big group of over a dozen people here to celebrate someone’s birthday. Dean reaches for my hand and I take it, feeling a thrill go right through as soon as our hands touch.

  Someone from the birthday crew shouts something about a “twenty-one-shot challenge” and everyone in the group erupts in cheers.

  “Good luck,” Dean chuckles.

  “He’s going to need it.” I shake my head. “Do people actually follow through with it?”

  “Not here,” Dean tells me. We wind our way through another group of people standing around the pool tables. “I might be spilling a Getaway secret, but when people do attempt that twenty-one-shot challenge, they get cut off after just a few and are given club soda instead.”

  “That’s pretty funny,” I say. “And a good idea. I had one glass of red wine on my birthday and fell asleep during the joust at Medieval Times.”

  “You went to Medieval Times for your twenty-first birthday?” he asks with a glint of amusement in his voice.

  “Yes,” I answer, putting my hand on my hip. “You say that like it’s a bad thing?”

  He’s still holding my other hand and gives it a squeeze. “It’s not. I didn’t expect it. You look like you’d be one of those girls renting a limo and going to a club or something.”

  “And is that a bad thing?” I laugh, and remember when Amber McMillan did exactly that. She invited everyone from our graduation class who was still in Silver Ridge that summer. Well, everyone except for me.
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br />   “I don’t know.” His eyes meet mine, searching for something I’m not sure he’s ever found. “I came here for my twenty-first birthday. It’s a rite of passage in Eastwood. This place was around for ages before my brothers bought it.”

  “It’s a neat place.” I look at the exposed brick on the exterior wall by the bar. “Is the building original?”

  “Parts are. It’s been expanded a lot.”

  “It looks like it could be expanded more.” We go around another couple who are heavily making out, and snag a place in front of one of the dart boards. I set my drink down on the table next to us, sliding it against the wall. I pull a napkin from the dispenser and stick it over my drink, punching my straw through it. It’s not foolproof, but makes it just a little harder for someone to slip something in unnoticed.

  Dean hands me a dart and I line myself up, swaying a little on my feet. I close my eyes, find my footing, and let out a breath. Then I open my eyes and throw the dart, just missing the bullseye by a hair.

  “Dammit,” I mutter and hold out my hand. “Let me try again.” Dean gives me another dart, and this time I hit the bullseye dead on.

  “Well, you’ve officially busted my let me show you how it’s done trick,” he laughs. “And I don’t think I want to follow that.”

  “I’m kind of competitive when it comes to throwing sharp things.”

  “And that’s not something you hear every day.”

  I step back and take another small sip of the drink, not really wanting it but not wanting to waste it.

  “Archery has been a hobby since I was a kid. And the same range that taught archery had spears and throwing axes and that sort of stuff.” I wave my hand in the air, mentally telling myself to stop now before I go on to say how I used to be part of a LARP group who dressed up like elves and fought battles against targets we tied to bales of straw.

  I was one of the few who could ride a horse and use my bow and arrow. It made me a badass in that group. But a nerd at school, though I didn’t let it stop me.

  “Your turn.”

  “Don’t judge me,” Dean chuckles. “I grew up being told not to throw sharp things. You know, like most normal kids.”