by S. L. Scott
Drunk on Love
A Romantic Comedy
S.L. SCOTT
S.L. Scott
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
A Personal Note
About the Author
Also by S.L. SCOTT
Copyright © 2016 by S.L. SCOTT
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
ISBN: 978-1-940071-44-2
Editing and Proofreading: Marla Esposito of Proofing with Style
Editing: Virginia Tesi Carey
Cover Design: Michele Catalano Creative
Cover Image: Lauren Perry of Perrywinkle Photography
For all the lovers and the dreamers, the peppermint mochas, and the coffee creamers. I hope you enjoy this romantic comedy as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Prologue
Blondes.
Vodka soda.
Brunettes.
Rum and Coke.
Redheads.
Amaretto Sour.
Highlights.
Mojito.
Lowlights.
Beer.
Braids.
Margaritas.
Buns.
Gin and tonic.
Bobs.
Moscow Mules.
Long.
Champagne.
Short.
Tequila shots.
Shoulder-length.
Sex on the Beach.
Chapter One
As a dude, who’s not a hairdresser, I know too much about women’s hair. But in my line of work, it’s a bonus. I can call it the second I see them. One quick glance and I know a woman sporting bangs and long layers is going to want something strong like they are, but independent and free-spirited like they wish they were. I’d wager on a Whiskey Sour.
No matter what their hairstyle, the one thing all women have in common is sex. Yup, sex. You might say that sounds trite, even obvious, but it’s true. There’s a basic need, a desire that the right cocktail with the right opportunity at the right time can release, making the most put together woman come undone.
Back to me, which is how I like it, that and a good bob on my knob. I’m the owner, Hardy Richard. Hence the name above the door—Hardy’s Hideaway, where cocktails are served alongside a good helping of cock tales. Sure I could have gone for the obvious, but Dick’s was already taken. The owner of that bar a few blocks from here doesn’t even see the irony in his name. I do, and I own every inch of my iron.
Tucked down a street near the Brooklyn Bridge, the Hideaway attracts not just Manhattanites but locals too. The clientele changes often, each night bringing a parade of the lonely, the content, the happy, the sad, the partiers, and the overt. Women in every shape and size frequent my bar looking for a good time with their boyfriends, girlfriends, husbands, wives, partners, significant others, regular hook ups, and strangers.
They’re all here for the same reasons—a good time and a great fuck. The Hideaway is happy to provide both. Our customers are left satisfied because we’re more than just bartenders. We’re therapists. We’re life coaches. We’re teachers. We’re lovers. We’re sexual healers. Here, under the dim lights, we’re gods. My team is gifted, leaving our patrons smiling and wanting more. Word of mouth has worked its way around the five boroughs and business is booming. Our motto is threefold. The customer is always right, they always come, and they always come back. Goals we strive for night after night.
We’re not particularly hidden being a corner bar, but once you cross that threshold, this is a place where you get to be who you are when you’re alone, the person you want to be, a better version of yourself. No one here judges. I love watching the transformation throughout the evening. They come in here after work or a long day running around doing what unsupervised women do, whether that be—playing mommy to the brood at home or to the man paying them big bucks—this is their escape, where they congregate to wind down.
I wipe down the bar top and throw new coasters down for the after happy hour crowd. We call it the second wave. I look up just as a dark brunette stands a foot back analyzing the liquor bottles lined up against the mirror behind me. Every strand is perfectly in place and pulled back so taut it looks professionally styled. Gimlet. She’s holding onto her designer purse like we’re in a house of thieves. She doesn’t realize it yet, but the only thing we’re looking to steal is that tightly wound good girl image she’s projecting. I’d love to see her lipstick smeared outside her lined lips. I bet she has a solid handful of hair to pull too. Afterwards, I wouldn’t let her put it back up. I’d make her walk out of here freshly fucked with her hair down, loose around her shoulders. She’d feel too good to care how she looked. Too crude? I should start with her first drink. “What can I get you?”
“Gimlet.”
It’s almost too easy. Wonder if she is.
“Coming right up.” And boy am I. I grab a glass from the cooler and go for the chilled gin—top shelf, like her. My gaze relishes her curves she’s trying to hide behind that expensive, but unflattering suit. Charcoal gray. She should never try to look like a man when she’s one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. I won’t make her compete in a man’s world. I’ll show her she can be in charge while I have her submitting to me. Sounds like an oxymoron, but trust me, I know what she really needs. At least when it comes to the bar or the bedroom.
Or the office.
Or the backroom.
Or the bathroom.
Hell, I’ll fuck her on top of this bar if that’s what gets her off.
I pour Rose’s Lime Juice, squeeze fresh lime, and gin into a shaker. With my arms above my right shoulder, I shake. Keeping my eyes on her, she looks up, watching the shaker held in my hands. “I’m Hardy,” I introduce myself.
“As in Hardy’s Hideaway?”
“The very one.” I pour her drink into the martini glass and add a slice of lime to the lip. “What’s your name?”
“Constance.”
Holding my hand out, she slips hers into mine. She doesn’t have to, but I know it’s coming. Her grip begins to compete. It’s a control issue I’m happy to help with and relinquish to her. “Constance is a pretty name.”
Her fingers smooth hair that’s already smoothed, her gaze dipping away as embarrassment colors her cheeks. Now this is unexpected. I want more. I want to watch that blush spread across her bare chest when she rides me and then down her spine when I take her from behind. And before you get all riled up over the sex talk, you should know I enjoy sex. I like to make love. I love to fuck. I like the foreplay. I enjoy the after play. A little cuddling is good after a romp in the sack. Kisses are fine as long as emotions are kept at bay. I’m not broken. I’m not recovering from heartbreak, and I’m not pining over a lost love. Nope. I just like the simple act of connecting with another human on a raw and carnal l
evel. I like the euphoria of hitting that peak and then tumbling down into a state of satiation with bones of jelly and a mind free from daily troubles. I like giving that same freedom to women who seem to struggle to find it.
So I don’t need a lecture on how I’m heartless. I’m not. I’ve been in relationships and they’re just not for me. But I still enjoy bonding physically with women. Many women.
Sitting down on a barstool, she wraps her fingers around the stem of the glass. I watch as she takes her first sip, her eyes dipping closed. Bliss lingers on her lips, glistening against her pinot noir colored mouth. Her tongue slips out to taste the tart liquid. Long, dark lashes lift and she says, “It’s perfect.”
“That’s what I strive for.”
“You should strive for something more tangible.”
“Don’t underestimate the perfection of a good cocktail.”
Holding her drink up, she says, “Touché.” After taking a deeper sip this time, she smiles sweetly, but mischievously. “You have customers, Hardy.”
I like the way she says my name, an upswing on the ending. I can’t wait to hear it two octaves higher rolling off her tongue. “Just whistle if you need me.”
Nodding, she tends to the phone that lights up in front of her. I leave her be, tending to the other ladies looking for love, or drinks. “What can I get you?”
Light blond. Fake—pretty much everything, but it’s working for her. “Are you available?”
“Are you asking for you, or for a friend?”
She bites her lower lip, leaving tracks in her bright pink lipstick. I’ve had that shade wrapped around my cock before. I’m feeling something moodier tonight—to be specific—pinot noir. I purse my lips, and then smile. “Unfortunately, I have a long shift ahead of me.”
“I heard rumors about your long shaft.” She covers her mouth with her hand and giggles. “I mean, shift.” Her flirting is lacking, but she seems nice enough. “Guess I’m out of luck tonight.”
“I’m still serving, if you’re thirsty.”
Dragging her tongue over her bottom lip, she replies, “So thirsty. I could just guzzle you down.”
My cock stirs.
There’s a point in the evening, early on, like now, just after seven when I like to fuck. I’m not sure if it’s the excitement of what’s to come for the night, hopefully me, or the thought of opportunity presenting itself. But almost every shift, my little buddy becomes my hard as a rock friend and is easily tempted the first chance he gets. I’ve learned to curb the craving. I may like sex, a lot, but I’m not easy. “Something to drink?”
“Sex on the Beach.” Pure sugar. No subtlety. Like the woman in front of me.
I’ve had sex with two women—together and separately—in the same night. I’m not ashamed of my sexual history or my sex drive. I’m happy to please and be pleasured. Like I said, it’s part of what makes us human and connects us on a deeper level. But if I was to compare, I’m in the mood for spicier notes with more depth. Tonight I’d rather have one strong drink than a slew of cheap ones. I may have gotten Constance’s drink order right but I called it all wrong when it came to her. I must remedy this, and not with candy-coated fruit punch drinks.
I place the drink in front of her, and then slide down to the other end of the bar. I stop in front of Constance, someone I consider a top shelf among call drinks. “Ready for another?”
The glass is emptied and pushed toward me. “I need to close out.”
“What?” No. “Leaving so soon?”
“My date cancelled, so I’m going to call it a night and go home.”
“Stay. Drinks on me.” Literally, if I’m lucky.
She smiles and if I’m not mistaken, she’s about to take me up on my offer. Looking at what I suspect is the time on her phone, she acquiesces. “Okay, maybe one more.” I’m getting a clean glass before the words leave her mouth, and ask, “Boyfriend?”
“Who?”
“The chump who stood you up. Is he your boyfriend?”
“I don’t think I’ve heard the word chump used in person or ever.”
“Eh, I was being polite. Asshole is what I was really thinking.”
While I shake the fresh cocktail, she laughs a little, then with melancholy tainting our good time, she says, “No, he’s not my boyfriend. I wish. This is the second time we’ve tried to get together and he’s cancelled.”
“Asshole.”
“Lawyer.”
“Same thing.” She laughs louder this time, and I like the sound of it. Wanting to see her smile more, I say, “Don’t wish on falling stars. Wish on rising suns. There’s more hope to be found there.”
“That’s beautiful.”
“You’re beautiful. He’s a fool for standing you up.”
I fill the martini glass, then because I find her so damn attractive sitting there with her heart invested in something it shouldn’t, I suggest, “I have this premium gin you should try.”
Tapping the glass, she eyes it. “If it’s not in here, why are you holding back the good stuff?”
I spend more time than I probably should with her when I know there are others waiting on drinks. “Next one. I promise.”
“I’m going to hold you to that.” She takes the glass and sips. “Mmmm. You are a very talented bartender.”
“Bartending’s not my only talent.”
Resting her chin on her hand, her eyebrows rise. “Oh really?”
Constance is quite the conundrum. A Gimlet Girl never blushes like she just did. Then for her to turn around and speak words in seductive purrs. She’s a mystery I want to unravel.
Unfortunately my name is being called back to tend to Sex on the Beach. Since I never told her my name and she’s using it like she’s got stock in it, I’m guessing my reputation brought her in tonight. I’m not sure what’s keeping her here though after making it clear it’s a no-go. I tell Constance, “I’ll be back.” I tap the bar top and walk back down to the other end. “You ready to close your tab?”
She looks offended. “No. I was hoping for another.”
“Sure thing.”
“Yes, I am.”
“I appreciate the offer,” I say, pouring the drink straight out of the premixed batch I made earlier. “But I’m gonna have to pass tonight.” Firm and clear.
She shrugs. “No problem. Now that I know where this place is, I’ll be back.”
I set the drink down and busy myself with other customers. I thought this would be a slower Monday, but apparently the whole city decided to stop in tonight.
Chapter Two
The Hideaway is packed. I look out at a sea of pretty people and smile. It will be a good night for business. It will be a great night for hookups. I’ve got Eddie and Will working behind the bar with me to keep up with orders.
I notice an empty glass a few barstools down and make sure I’m the one that fills it. “How are you doing, Constance?”
“The Gimlets are great.” Her mood has improved significantly, and I like the way she’s looking at me.
She’s funny. “How about you?”
“Feeling . . . crowded in.” She glances over her shoulder before returning her eyes to me while a finger runs over the top of the glass. “I’ve been thinking that I might like a taste of that gin you mentioned earlier.”
“I can arrange that,” I reply, getting closer and making sure only she hears me. “We have a rule here at The Hideaway though.”
Leaning in, she asks, “What’s that?”
“We keep the good stuff in the back.”
A smile tickles her lips and a giggle slips out. “Am I allowed back there? I’d hate to get you in trouble with the boss.”
Fuuuuck. She’s playing a game with me. I knew I liked her. “Could be risky.” It’s good to be the boss right now.
Sliding off the stool, she grabs her purse, and says, “Risks are just dares you were brave enough to take. Are you brave enough to take me, Hardy?”
“I can take you.” O
ver my knee. From behind. Sprawled out across my desk. Against the liquor locker. My cock pings against my jeans, and I shout behind me, “Cover me, Eddie.”
“Gotcha covered.” He eyes Constance and gives me a look of approval.
I toss my towel in the corner before I walk around and hold out my elbow for her to take. Her slender fingers wrap around my arm and we walk through the crowd toward the hall that leads to the offices. A door is pushed open and the crowds and music fade behind us. I say, “Right down here.” I pull my keys out and unlock the door. Letting her go first, she steps in and looks around the large space. “It’s big.”
“You haven’t seen anything yet.”
With a laugh, she leans her fine ass against the desk and I can’t say I disapprove of this—her ass on my desk. My dick is starting to ache. “You’re very good with the innuendoes.”
“I’m good with a lot of things. Want me to show you?”
All the bravado that she carried in here starts to sink. “I don’t do this.”
That’s okay. I’m kind of liking the banter enough to continue, “Do what, Constance? Taste good gin?”
Her smile is back, but it’s a weaker version of the one that lit up the bar earlier. Her hand waves between us. “This. Did you make that last drink stronger?”
“Despite what you might think, I don’t get women drunk to get laid. I don’t have to.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
Moving in, I take hold of her flailing hands, and still them, hoping to reassure her. “It’s okay. You’re nervous. I get it. We don’t have to do anything but taste some gin together. Would you like that?”
She blows out a breath, and nods. “I’d like that, but not much. I’m feeling lightheaded.”
Our bodies are close, her knees against my legs. “We can do this another time.”
When she looks up at me, I can see the trust in her eyes. “I want to be here.”
“Okay. Be here with me.” Not a question. A request.
