by Natalie Wrye
I release an unshaken breath. “You’re forgiven, Cyn. What kind of fucked-up best friend would I be if I didn’t?” I exhale out loud. “And I’m sorry about my part. You’re right; I’m definitely in ‘go’ mode, but that doesn’t mean I have to be in ‘asshole mode,’ too. I’ll try and change that now.”
She snorts out loud. ‘Now, there’s the hound I know and love.”
I wait. “So are we good? Do I have to lick your hand and do a trick like a good little doggie for a treat? Or can I get back to what I was doing now?”
She huffs. “Yes, Noah, of course.”
I lean forward against the dark back wall, focusing all my attention back on her…and the company. “And let me worry about Quinn Real Estate.” I hesitate. “Have I ever let you or Jase or Lach down before?”
She pauses for a single second, and I feel a shiver I know I shouldn’t. Her voice is steady when it returns.
“Never, Noah. I trust you.” She exhales. “I believe in you.”
The guilt is palpable at this point. But I’m learning to swallow it.
Shame is as hard a pill as any. But like anything else, the more you wash, rinse and repeat, the easier it goes down.
Which was good. Because I was going to need all the washing I could get.
The shame pills were piling up.
I say instead, “It’s alright. You can make up for it with the best Brooklyn meal you can think of. Lunch tomorrow?
“Works for me. Doggie Chow at twelve o’clock?”
“You’re on. I’ll bring the chew toys.”
Cyn chuckles into the phone. “See you later…hound.”
I end the conversation, spinning on the heel of my shoe to head back into the general area of the bar when I see a walking miracle in front of me.
The waitress.
My entire night’s been a disaster. But suddenly, everything—including the area between my legs—is finally starting to look up.
SOPHIA
The second Nancy leaves behind the bar, I order myself a drink and make it a triple.
Ten minutes ago, Nancy found me after my second Act tango with the bankers, and in the midst of tucking back in my Bronx upbringing, I mentally pat myself on the back for a job well done. For pushing the days when I would have personally sprinkled rat poison in the drinks of jerks like that in my past. Days I’d like to think are behind me.
Until my boss catches me.
“What do you mean?” I shrug, shoving my crumpled tips into my grungy apron when Nancy, the co-owner of The Alchemist, questions me. “That hot coffee leapt into that guy’s lap last week, I swear…”
“Uh huh,” she raises a strawberry blonde brow. “Sure. And the anti-spicy food stock broker?”
I wince. “Still a mystery how the ghost pepper ended up in his sauce.”
“Right. And the handsy doctor?”
“At least he ended up at his own hospital.”
“Soph.” Nancy rounds the bar, her ginger-hued hair sweeping across her shoulders with her head bowed. The look in her eyes is serious this time, and when her green eyes finally rise to mine, I feel my heart beat harder, a thundering pulse picking up under my skin as she sweeps strands of her reddish bob behind her ear.
My heart sinks.
“You know how much you mean to this place, don’t you? You know how much you mean to me?”
I nod. “I think I do.”
“Good. Then I’ll take that as sign that the next time you have trouble with a patron you’ll come to me first, yeah?” She nudges my shoulder, her pink lips curving. “No more taking matters into your own hands?”
I nod again, a knot working its way in my throat as I croak the words. “Yeah, I think I can do that.”
It’s a promise I don’t know if I can keep, and I hate myself immediately. But by minute eleven after she leaves, the alcohol in my system is erasing as many brain cells as it can find.
Downing the tequila, I try to burn the nerves away at how fast my life is unraveling—job and all.
Without lime, lemon or salt, I’m still inhaling the fiery liquid when I swallow my third shot and grimace.
I wince, leaning against the bar. Not from the burn of the hot ounce, but from the pit in the hole of my stomach that the alcohol still won’t fill.
I motion to Danny the bartender behind the oak slab.
“I’ll take another chilled shot of the silver.”
He tosses a quick nod my way, his greasy white tank nearly soaked through with sweat. I enjoy the silence that follows when he turns and wrestles with the large bottle of Don Julio.
I set my neon-red nails to twirling the edge of a nearly empty glass, their smooth edges tapping across the surface, and realize I’ve spoken too soon when a voice cuts through the quiet reverie of my alcohol-tainted thoughts…like a silken blade.
His words are soft, the voice strangely familiar. Each one sweeps across my skin.
“Ripper way to lose a liver.”
I glance over the edge of the bartop to find Danny still occupied. But the man beside me is anything but.
Removing his black suit jacket as I wait with nothing but my thoughts to keep me company, he slides the sleeves of his crisp white button-down shirt up to his elbows, and my own gaze slides with it, finding muscular arms, broad shoulders, dark hair and a handsome face.
I double-take.
He’s not just “handsome,” actually. He’s effing gorgeous.
Dark lashes settle over a pair of sharp cheekbones as his gaze remains fixed on the bar’s mahogany surface, and I blink, almost believing I was mistaken.
Until he speaks again, his glare unmoving.
“I said ‘that’s a ripper way to lose a liver.’”
It’s the stranger. The one who snapped at the bankers.
I’m sure of it.
It’s the way he talks, some slight accent—British or Australian, and I straighten on my stool, as he sets his suit jacket aside, a dark drink in his large hand. I squint, analyzing his face.
“How do you know I’m not trying to give one away?” I ask.
“I can think of better places for a liver to go.” Definitely Australian.
I raise a brow. “Looking for an organ donor, are you?”
“No.” He finally skims his eyes upward to my face, shocking me. “But you might be, if you take another drink of that piss. I got a whiff of that stuff as it was served earlier, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was medicine-grade rubbing alcohol. Bought right from the pharmacy.”
I grin. “Who says it’s not?”
He points behind the bar. “Why not try the DeLéon?”
I follow his gaze. “Too weak.”
“The 1929?”
“Too strong.”
“How about the Savion?”
My eyes widen. “Would you prefer I pour gasoline down my throat?” I glance openly at him. “Because that would be kinder.”
His eyes, slightly slanted but full, are a deep ocean color tinged with hints of silver as they meet mine, at last. Under the dull gold light from behind the bar, they are almost misty, and I realize that tonight might not be the lost cause I thought it was.
I stare into the small tumbler as Danny saunters closer, pouring me another ounce of the tequila I’ve been drinking for the past half an hour. I pick it up, tipping it in Mr. Cloak and Dagger’s direction.
I raise my chin. “Well… I say ‘Cheers.’ And a toast to the man who invented tequila.”
“And an RIP to the brain cells we plan on frying tonight.”
A smile cracks on his full curved lips, and I’ve never felt so understood. He shrugs. “Of course your brain cells will be the ones screaming bloody murder, ‘Goldy-liquor.’” He grins. “If you believe that rubbing alcohol is ‘just right.’”
I inhale, bringing the thick glass to my lips. “The better to cleanse my soul with, my dear.”
His blue eyes spark as I set the glass down once more, a small smirk settling on his rugged
face. He blinks. “Well, I’m not the best at knowing American fairytales. Truth is: I’m a Stephen King man myself, but I do believe you just quoted the wrong story there, Goldy.”
But I don’t think I have.
Not when this man—a man who looks like he could be a dirty Disney prince—gazes at me that way, like he’s worthy of being a hero of his own in some X-rated fantasy.
He shrugs. “Guess it doesn’t matter.” His mystic blue eyes go bright. “As long as I can be the Big Bad Wolf, of course.”
His words taper off as I raise my glass to my lips again, peering over its edge. “Then I would like to be ‘Little Bear’ instead.”
“It suits you.”
Several seconds of agave simmering inside my system do nothing but prove that my fourth shot failed at making me forget the danger I’ve put my job in tonight. I turn towards my unexpected audience, quiet desperation drugging my senses.
The tequila might not do the trick. But this man might.
Broad shoulders. A sexy Australian accent. Striking eyes that can see right through my soul.
I saunter over, taking the seat beside him as he flashes me a wolfish grin worthy of his title. He signals for another tequila.
Chapter 4
NOAH
2AM Saturday morning
This is the only night I haven’t fully prepped every detail of in a long ass time.
The only concern I have right now is getting the woman I now know as Little Bear alone. And beyond that?
My plans are as uncertain as the future of my company.
She laughs, full and long, in the backseat of the yellow cab we’ve hopped into at two AM, the dotted lights of the city and holiday themed window displays in our periphery. Manhattan’s streets are completely silent at this late hour, filled with nothing but the remnants of memory of the day, and with more alcohol than blood now in our veins, we scramble atop the leather cushions, a tumble of ruffled clothes and spilling tequila.
The waitress sets the bottle of Mexico’s best beside us.
“Think we’ll get fired?” She asks.
“Well, I don’t work at that bar. But seeing as how you just stole a bottle of their best tequila from the top shelf, then yeah, I’m guessing you might be.”
I gaze at her, handing over a few bills to the driver who turns to us with an accent thicker than oatmeal. “Where to?”
I’d look to her for the answer, but I already know where I want to go. “Her place.”
She places a hand over her heart, giggling, a tiny tattoo on her wrist visible as she leans against the headrest. “My place?” She glances at me, wide-eyed.
I nod, unhooking the top button from my collar. I stare at her face.
“Why not?”
“Well, seeing as how I barely have a place…” She bites her bottom lip, and an ache I didn’t know could exist burns in my chest, making it tighten. “Why not your place?”
“Sure.” I shrug. “Just one question: Are you familiar with Stephen King’s Carrie?”
She peeks up at the ceiling of the cab and then back to me. “Yeah. Why?”
“Nothing. She’s just my new decorator, that’s all. But it should be fine, you know, if you’re into that hurricane-just-hit look.”
A twinkle enters her eye. “Can’t be any worse than my place.”
“You’d be surprised.”
The second the cab stops, we stumble past my stone-faced doorman, into my apartment building’s marble lobby, and up to the penthouse elevator.
Once inside the steel and carpeted cage, Miss Hazel eyes turns to me, that bottle of tequila still dangling from her fingertips.
Her starched, short-sleeved, white collared shirt is now wrinkled, her black skirt askew. Hair messy, red-stained lips slightly smeared, she is still easily one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever laid eyes on.
And I’ve laid my eyes on plenty.
She points an unsteady finger eye at me, her hazel eyes slightly hazy.
“Now you’re not going to kidnap me, are you?”
“What would make you say that?”
“Well, I don’t know you,” she slurs just a little bit, her mouth twisting ever so slightly. “You could be a serial killer.”
“If I was, I would let you know.”
She raises a finger. “Aha! That’s exactly what a serial killer would say.”
“Trust me.” I hold a hand to my heart. “I’m no Jack Torrance, even if I wanted to be.”
“Another Stephen King reference…” she muses as the lift finally stops. “That’s it. I knew it. You’re a freak.”
I have no choice but to chuckle. “Not a freak. Just a fan.”
I lift a brow, daring her to walk out as the double doors open. She hesitates just a second, and for a moment, something unfamiliar enters my gut.
A feeling of fear.
In a night of zero normalcy, I wouldn’t be surprised if she did walk away.
For the first time in my overachieving life, I’ve failed at almost everything. Failed at securing my company’s financial future. Failed at finding my father’s watch.
Failed at making myself forget about the last two.
The alcohol couldn’t do it. The mess I made in my apartment barely made a dent.
But that’s what I was hoping the brassy brunette could do.
Fuck me into forgetting.
I know that’s why the need for her is so strong right now. She’s the only part of my day that’s succeeded in making me think of anything else other than my guilt.
I wait as she considers her choices, regarding me with the quiet scrutiny of a doctor examining her impatient patient.
I stand still, letting her analyze away.
And just as the silver double doors start to close, she holds a hand between them, and they jolt apart.
She arches one chocolate-brown eyebrow.
“If you’re a serial killer, I’ll kill you first.”
“Duly noted.”
We both ignore the ridiculousness of her assertion, and I exit the elevator ahead of her, heading down the hall to my apartment, my heart beating a reggae-like rhythm in my chest.
I open the front door, holding it open for her as she passes inside, her golden-green eyes scanning the walls. And then the tornado disaster I’ve left in my wake.
Pillows, papers litter the hardwood floor, and she glances over her shoulder at me.
“Nice decor… At least I know you’re not a liar.”
If only she knew me at all.
I swallow another guilt pill down the gullet, closing the door quietly behind me.
The dark hardwood of my floors stretch in front of me, and I take a long look at the loft myself. The wide windows. The dark wrought-iron railings. The floor to ceiling glass overlooking the festive city filled with the glimmer of red and gold lights.
I can almost smell Christmas in the air this time of year, and as the second level of Grandfather Quinn’s renovated penthouse apartment looms overhead, I imagine what the hell will happen to the place that’s been my New York home for seven years.
Ever since the old man kicked it, leaving everything behind.
A part of me—large and looming—has always hated being back here for that reason. Back in this city. Back in this state. But standing here now in the small foyer gives me new eyes to gaze at the space.
My eyes wander over to my gorgeous little waitress, waiting—her saucer-like eyes expectant, and despite it all, a small smile creeps onto my face, my skin vibrating as our gazes connect.
Until I realize why my skin is vibrating.
In the pocket of my slacks, my phone rings incessantly, and with little finesse, I fish out, staring at the damn screen.
Who the hell could be calling me this late? Or early, as it was.
And then it occurs to me.
Becky. Shit.
I left the little blonde in the hotel room I rented for the night. Because I completely forget about her.
Another fa
ilure.
I may not be a serial killer, but I was a fucking asshole.
I just took a woman home while having another in my hotel room. And the stack of shame pills that have been piling since I’ve been back in New York taunt me from my subconscious with the same mantra they’ve been singing all night.
Bottoms up.
SOPHIA
“I don’t do this with men like you. I don’t even like men like you.” The sound of my voice is slurred in the minimally decorated loft. And loud.
Even I can tell that.
The Tequila Gods are being kind to me tonight. I haven’t even thrown up.
But that doesn’t stop the word vomit from coming up, and my drunken mind tries to take its frustration out on the walking orgasm who just sat me down on his couch.
A couch that’s now spinning.
I lose control over my tongue. And like the drunkard tonight has turned me into, I hear myself talking, hear myself berating the dark suited man in front of me, unable to stop the words from coming off my loose lips.
I kick off my black ballet flats, watching them fly, my bleary eyes trying to focus on my drinking buddy’s suit.
I blink three times. “You’re just another fuckboy like those guys back at the bar, aren’t you?”
He glares. “I’m not sure what a fuckboy is, but if it’s causing you to spit like that, then I’m guessing it’s an insult.”
“Oh, don’t patronize me, Aussie Boy. I know what your type is like. I’ve been there. More times than I care to count.”
“Been where?” Big Bad Wolf’s stare sears, just as the room takes another twirl. I swallow a mouthful of spit that tastes like tequila.
I keep talking anyway. I can’t seem to stop.
“Been around, you know. With you lawyers.”
“But I’m not a lawyer,” he asserts.
“Sure you aren’t. With those pricey Italian shoes and suit, you probably should be one, though. All of you bastards are liars.” I hiccup loudly without shame, wondering who the hell that girl is who keeps talking.
Oh right, it’s me. She sure doesn’t sound like me.
