by S. L. Scott
“Ryan. My last name is Ryan.”
Virginia Ryan. I like her name, almost as much as I like her. Sure I’m still a little mad at her, but that’s just my stubborn side keeping me from a good time. “It’s funny we have two first names as our last names.”
That keeps that smile, though unsure, hanging on her face long enough for me to memorize her features and see the beauty in her uncertainty. “That is funny. And if we ever got married, I wouldn’t have to change my initials.”
Normally the reins would be pulled way back at the mere mention of marriage, but when she says it, I find her too cute. “Yep, because stuff like that is important,” I tease. As the amusement fades, I get to what I can tell she’s anticipating, maybe dreading. “Why did you leave with that asshole?”
She sighs. Shame covers her when she looks down as if that is the last question she wanted to answer. When her gaze lifts, she takes a deep breath and then exhales. “I don’t want to lie to you.”
“Then don’t.”
“I’ve not told anyone about this, except Katie who called me out on it.” I wait, seeing how hard this is for her. I don’t want to interrupt since I’m more curious than before. “It may sound naïve . . . I may sound naïve, but I’ve had a crush on him since the day I started working at the company. He’s one of the lawyers there. And I’m completely invisible to him.”
“Because he’s an asshole.”
She laughs. “I guess I’m attracted to assholes.” I’m not an asshole. “But it is what it is.”
“Did you have sex with him?”
A gasp comes out and her eyes are wide. “What? No. Of course not. Why would you think that?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” I don’t know if my relief can be seen, but I feel it in every cell of my body. Annihilation of rule number one while reloading to take out rule two. Shit. Back up a bit. I need to slow this roll down. “You were wearing the same clothes this morning in the cab that you wore last night and you said you live in Manhattan, but you were driving in from Brooklyn.” My replay of her morning appears to entertain her, so much that her laughter echoes around us. The beautiful sound captures an audience from a few nearby tables. “What’s so funny?”
“You.” Though she’s still giggling, she moves in closer, and says, “If I didn’t know better, I would say you were jealous.”
“Me?” This time I scoff. “To get jealous you have to care and last night was just another night at The Hideaway.”
“Wow, way to make a girl feel special.”
“You were feeling special. Now that, I will never forget.”
“Well my answer is not exciting. I stayed at Katie’s. The, as you call him, asshole, was meeting friends in the area. I told him I would be in Brooklyn too and that we should get a drink. I never expected him to come. As I said, he’s stood me up before.”
“You said you were invisible to him. He wouldn’t have walked into this bar if he didn’t see how beautiful you are.”
“He looks at me like I’m one of the guys. I want him to look at me like I’m one of the girls.”
“Sex and emotions don’t always have to go hand in hand. I’ve hooked up with plenty of women and we both walked away satisfied and didn’t need to exchange numbers and talk about it afterwards.” Her eyes are set on mine, hanging on every word. “Look, Virginia. If he showed up, he has some interest, but I know his type. It’s not to have a conversation and romantic walks with you on the beach.”
Absorbing what I’m saying, she ponders a moment, and then asks, “You’re saying that just because he talks to me doesn’t mean he wants more than sex with me?”
“Exactly.”
“I might be okay with this.” Her eyes widen, the light at the end of the tunnel coming into full few. “What you said. I need to do sex things without worry and just have fun. Then he’ll see me as more than the numbers girl. If I keep it light and then make my move and seduce him, he won’t be able to resist.”
“That’s not really what I was say—”
“This is perfect. Hardy, you’re amazing.” She sets her sights on me now. “I need your help since you’re so good at separating sex from emotion.” I should be upset that she sees me this way, but her train of thought intrigues me. “I have a proposition for you.”
The only problem I see is that my emotions are so entangled in her that I’m not sure if they’re hers or mine anymore. I need separation from her to get proper perspective on what she’s really saying. There might be an insult hidden in there, but Katie’s advice is not the greatest. She clearly needs my help. I finish my drink and set the glass down. “Go on.”
Fidgeting, she says, “I want you to look at something.”
“Shoot.”
She reaches into her purse and pulls out a photo, then sets it on the table and pushes it toward me. “Look at this.”
I pick the photo up and stare at it. It’s not a flattering photo—some girl with thick-lensed glasses and braids, an odd orange tint to her hair and headgear. To add more salt to this poor girl’s wound, she’s wearing a canary yellow turtleneck and purple sweatshirt over it. Glancing up, I put the photo back down. “What is this? Who is this?”
“That’s me.” She actually manages to hold a straight face when she confesses this.
Grabbing the picture back from the table, I hold it up again. “This is you?” I fail at keeping the astonishment from my voice.
“It is. Senior year in high sch—”
“Senior year? Holy shit.” Oops. “I mean, wow. You’ve changed.” Looking at her suit, I add, “Mostly.”
Shock rolls over her and she grabs her jacket by the lapels and looks down. “What? You don’t like my suit?”
“Ummm, it’s okay.”
When her shoulders sag, I add, “I mean it could be worse.”
“Not really by the sound of it. Geez. As if I didn’t feel bad enough—”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to hurt your feelings. I’m just in shock.”
“Am I that hideous in the photo?”
“You were never hideous. You were just hiding behind,” I start to say, moving my finger over the top of it, “a lot of shit. There’s a lot going on here.”
“That’s why I need your help.”
“How can I help you?” I ask not sure where this is going.
“I want your help to win Lowry.”
“What’s a Lowry?”
“The asshole. That’s a Lowry.”
Whoa. Whoa. “Whoa. Back up. You want my help winning the attention of that asshole from last night?”
She eagerly nods with a wide smile. “Yes. Exactly.”
“Maybe I’m a bit slow, but let me get this straight. You want me to help you somehow get the attention of some guy who doesn’t deserve your attention, much less your time of day?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you know how to get everyone’s attention without even trying and then you know all that other stuff.”
“What other stuff?”
“The sex stuff.”
This time, my eyes go wide before they narrow in utter confusion. “What sex stuff?” Oh man, that pink I love so much colors her cheeks. How does she work the bravado shy girl thing so well? She’s not even aware of how she affects men. Unicorn.
Leaning over the table, she glances around to make sure no one hears her. “Last night. What we did last night.”
Dot.
Dot.
Connect.
“You want me to teach you sex stuff?” I didn’t think my eyes could go wider but now they’re practically hanging out in disbelief.
She nods.
I repeat, “You want me to teach you sex stuff to get the attention of that asshole who doesn’t deserve your attention, nor time of day?”
She nods again. “Will you help me?” I’m not sure how long I’ve been staring at her, but it’s long enough for her to clap her hands in front of my face. “You still with me?”
“How?”
“How what?” She sits back down, looking a little confused herself.
Shaking my head, I ask, “How do you want me to teach you?”
The way she talks about this as if this is so ordinary, like we’re figuring out where to order takeout tonight. “I’ve been thinking about it. You made me realize last night that it would be like lessons in love, in romance.”
“In seduction?”
“Yes.”
“You understand that’s nuts, right?”
“I do, but what I’m doing now isn’t working.” Looking down, she holds her jacket out. “At all. I need help. Your help. You get any woman you want. Women throw themselves at you. You know how to read their wants and needs. You know how to make a woman feel special without feeling dirty.”
“Unless they want that.”
That makes her laugh. “Yes, unless they want to feel dirty.”
“Hey, Hardy?” Eddie calls from behind the bar, and waves me over.
We both look over and then back at each other. I say, “They need backup.”
“What do you say? Will you help me?”
“I’m not even sure what this entails.”
She pushes the photo back toward me. “When is your next night off?”
“Sunday.”
“We can talk then, go over the details. You can decide after that. If you say no, I won’t blame you. But if you say yes,” she says, her excitement growing, “we can plot it all out, set the rules and such.”
Standing up when Eddie calls me again, I run my hand through my hair. “This is crazy.”
She stands as well, close to me, too far for my liking. “I can tell you like living dangerously.”
I don’t like when the danger involves my heart, but I know I’m going to accept the challenge, ready to put it on the line. “I don’t do things on dares.”
“Then what will get you to do this?”
“I like homemade lasagna.” I’m a mighty good cook, but I might just have fun with this, and score a home-cooked meal out of this nutball idea.
“Done. How’s seven?”
I like her too much to say no. “That works.” I hand her my phone. “I’ll text you directions to my place.”
She quickly adds her number into my contacts and says, “I put my number under my new favorite drink.” Handing it back to me, she bounces once on her feet and then lifts to hug me.
My arms wrap around her and I inhale the sensual vanilla I’ve come to love into my lungs. My body relaxes, and I wish we weren’t in the middle of the bar. Stepping back abruptly, I say, “I’ve gotta go.”
“Thank you.”
I nod and head to the bar. When I look back at her, she’s heading for the door.
Eddie says, “Jagger called in sick.”
“Is he?”
He laughs. “I think he’s dick deep in the girl from the corner deli.”
TMI. I look at the door, hoping to see Virginia once more, but she’s gone. “I’ll fill in. Just cover a few more minutes.” I dash to the door and push it open. When my feet land on the snow covered sidewalk, I look right and then left, searching for her. When my eyes land on her great body, I call out, “Hey Virginia?”
Snow is falling, little white dots covering her hair when she turns with a flourish, a sweet smile on her lips. My heart hurts just looking at her. She’s so beautiful. I open my mouth to tell her—You were never invisible to me—but that doesn’t come out. Instead, I chicken out, and say, “See you Sunday.”
Her smiles grows and she replies, “See you Sunday, Hardy.”
Chapter Seven
My night is more than cocktails. Along with drinks, it’s quite busy with offers. When I serve twelve tequila shots to a bachelorette party, the favor is returned in the form of an insulting two-hundred-dollar offer to strip. I’m worth way more than two hundred bucks. And if I were to strip, it wouldn’t be for money, but for fun and hopefully sex at the end. What the fuck am I talking about? Oh, and no offense to any strippers who might be reading this. Virginia has my mind all mucked up tonight. She wants me to give her lessons in love. I’m seriously the luckiest fucker to walk this planet.
Back to the offers . . . when I serve a merlot, an offer of a blow job comes back instead of a tip. A bottle of tequila celebrating a girls’ night out is delivered and with hands that lean more on the pawing side they offer to take me home and ravage my body like, and I quote, “a dingo to a baby.” I tried to shake the disturbing thought from my brain, but when I couldn’t, I didn’t bother to answer. I just walked away.
I’m too tired to fend them off, so it’s time for me to go before I regret staying and doing something I’ll regret even more in the morning. The guys can handle the last hour before closing. The temps have dropped even lower than earlier and I didn’t bring my heavy jacket. The two blocks I cover in the snow at a breakneck pace keeps the chill at bay.
The streets are quiet, which I like, and if I listen carefully, I can almost hear the snow falling. I stop in front of my building and look up, closing my eyes, and listen. Hardy, I want you. Her words from last night echo through the night and down my street in the wind. Opening my eyes, snowflakes land on my lashes. Lessons in seduction. “Woohoo!” I jump up, feeling like I just won the lottery. Seduction. I’m the king of it. I cannot wait for Sunday night. I punch in the building code. A little wining. A little dining. A little romance and a lot of seduction. Now that is what I call a jackpot.
When I unlock my apartment, the place is dark, the only light coming from the streetlight at the corner of the block, which is too far to be a bother. I toss my keys in the bowl and shut the door. Standing in the middle of my living room, something new washes through me. A feeling I’ve never felt living here. I brush it away and go about winding down. It’s hard to do when you were wired thirty minutes prior.
I take a shower, hoping the warm water relaxes my muscles and my mind. It does neither. Neither does Virginia. Speaking of muscles, Big Richard is hard. Again. Wrapping my hand firmly around my cock, I start slow with images of that pink, my newest favorite color. My speed picks up when we kiss—soft, plush, willing lips. So close. So fucking close. Her lower lips even softer, wetter. My fingers slide through and fuck her all over again . . . and I’m coming. Fuck me. Fuck.
My free hand is against the tile, my head under the shower spray, and I loosen my grip. God damn it. She’s going to be the death of me, and Big Richard. We’ll see who can survive the longest come Sunday night.
* * *
Wednesday. Check.
Thursday. Friday. Check. Check.
Saturday. Fuck.
I’m in no mood to be here. I pull at the noose around my neck and order another whiskey. Neat. Stepping off to the side, but sticking close to the bar, my comfort zone, I survey the room. That’s when I’m blindsided or maybe it’s more of a sideline tackle. Either way, I didn’t see it coming. Or her, more specifically.
“Hardy Richard. It’s been too long.”
Not long enough. “Has it, Isabella?”
“You were always so funny.” It’s impressive how she manages to say that without smiling. Maybe the Botox has gone two layers deep, which is about as deep as Isabella Collins, formerly Isabella Treaton when I dated her, gets.
“My parents call it sarcasm. You might remember it got me in a lot of trouble.”
“You were always in a lot of trouble.” She touches my tie to straighten it, but I cover her hand and kindly remove it. “But what’s the fun in playing it safe? I like this burgundy tie. It’s so festive for the season.”
I ignore the compliment. They always come with ulterior motives that I’m not interested in getting involved in again. “As for playing it safe, you have a kid, and a husband who commutes from Connecticut. Do you also have a dog and a Mercedes?”
“A Cavalier King Charles, more specifically, and a Mercedes GLS SUV in Iridium Silver.”
“You don’t exactly walk on the wild side.”
“You think because you’re single, I’m still assuming by that bare ring finger, and you live in Brooklyn that you’re living the high life?”
“I didn’t say I was, but I’m living, experiencing, and I’m better off than I was four years ago.”
“Better off?” She appears reflective as she sips her champagne. When her light blue eyes hit mine, she asks, “We had some good times together, right?”
“We were alike in many ways, but we were terrible together.” God’s honest truth. We were lucky the cops were never called during one of our blowout fights. The woman knows how to use words that cut right to your core. She also has always had a philandering problem. That’s why it’s just better to avoid that catastrophe of locking oneself down to another altogether. Then when you fuck around with someone, no one else gets hurt.
“I remember us so differently. Living in the city with great paying jobs right out of college. You had that great apartment with the view. So many good memories were made there.”
“Our family’s connections afforded us our degrees and careers. It was never what I wanted. I was working to protect the Richard name while destroying myself.”
“You didn’t seem unhappy.”
I finish my whiskey in one go. “I was drowning in my life, waking up every day wishing I was living another.”
Eyeing my empty glass, judgment creases her forehead as she raises an eyebrow. A motion I’m surprised she can still make. “You’re doing a good job now.”
“I have different reasons to drown out tonight.”
“You sound bitter, Hardy. It’s sad to see someone with so much potential throw it all away on a walk up in Brooklyn and a run down bar.”
I set my glass on the tray behind the bar and walk away. It’s a bad habit I’ve developed. Once I turned twenty-eight, I ran out of patience for people who carry negativity around like the latest designer bag. Isabella Collins is the queen of holding my past against me. She was always one for the low blow.
