HUDSON (The Beckett Boys, Book Six)

by Olivia Chase

  “Jee,” Isabel says, wiping an invisible spot off her mouth. “Zus. Christ.”

  “Uh huh.” I polish off my drink and motion to the bartender. “How about a Lightning Bolt this time?” I don’t even know what’s in a Lightning Bolt. But it’s Vulcan’s signature drink, and what better time to order one than tonight?

  The bartender gets busy, pulling all kinds of bottles out, and a couple of stools down from me, a guy in a gray hoodie and baseball cap watches my drink being made with interest. He’s been keeping to himself since Isabel and I sat down, and this is the first sign of life he’s shown. He’s pretty good-looking, at least the side of his face is – strong jaw, chiseled features, just the right amount of stubble. Which means he’s probably a dick. He gives me a brief look before going back to watching the Lightning Bolt. Actually, upon seeing his whole face, he’s really good-looking. So, probably a massive douche. After the shit my ex, Becker, just pulled, I’m pretty sure the hotter a guy is, the more of a dick he probably is.

  I gulp my drink. “And you know what really drives me crazy?”

  “When girls line their lips above their actual lip line and it’s obvious?”

  “What drives me crazy, not you. The fact that I look like a corpse right now, and he’s probably somewhere having a blast.”

  Isabel opens her makeup bag. “Here. Borrow some of this and go fix your eyes.”

  I shake my head. “I’ll just cry it off again.”

  “No, I’ve got the good shit in here. This new mascara’s like tar. Won’t come off even in a bath of hot lava, I swear.”

  I almost smile. If Isabel’s offering me her designer makeup, which costs like a hundred bucks for two items, I know she feels awful for me. Isabel owns every high-end beauty product ever made. I don’t know why she doesn’t just study cosmetology instead of Human Development, which is her major. But she claims she could never be a makeup artist because she couldn’t stand using her beloved products on other people, even if they’re paying her.

  Isabel’s phone buzzes and kind of spins in place on the bar. “Oh my God,” she says, grabbing it. “It’s that professor. I’ll be right back.” Isabel’s been trying to get some internship gig assisting a prof with research so she’ll look better on grad school applications, and God knows she deserves a little break from listening to me vent, so I wave her on.

  My Lightning Bolt tastes like… hmm. “Heaven,” I murmur, taking a long, slow sip.

  The man in the gray hoodie leans over towards me. “Slow it down a little.”

  I turn and see a pair of dark eyes fixed on me. “I did,” I say. “Nice, slooow.” I demonstrate an even slower sip. “See?”

  “Take it easy,” he says, glancing at my rapidly lowering drink level before locking his eyes back on me. “You’re going kind of hardcore tonight.”

  Who is this guy? “Maybe I go hardcore every night.”

  He smiles but shakes his head. “I’m going to go ahead and guess that’s not true.”

  “Typical dude,” I mutter. “Giving yourself permission to go ahead.” I take an enormous swig. “With whatever dumb decision.”

  “Like what?”

  “In this case, assumptions, apparently.” Another sip. “I mean, you did just say that.”

  He raises his eyebrows, which sucks because that only emphasizes how handsome his face is. “You’re setting yourself up for a hangover from hell.”

  “I’ve already been to hell today.”

  “Yeah,” he says, “I heard.”

  “From who?” I demand.

  “From you,” he says. “The whole bar heard. Jesus, chill.”

  “Chill out,” I say. Alcohol always brings out my best sarcasm. “Slow down. Change everything.”

  “Not everything. Just your intake speed.” His cocky smile makes me want to punch him. “That’s all you need to change.”

  I set my drink down. “Maybe you need to change.”

  He gives a lighthearted shrug, the smile never leaving his face. “I suppose that’s possible. Don’t we all need to change something or other?”

  “We’ve got Dr. Phil in the fucking bar,” I declare. “Woooo!”

  He looks like he’s suppressing a laugh. Why does he have to be this hot?

  God. He’s annoying.

  “Alright then,” he says. “I’m a talk show host. What do you do?”

  Even in my inebriated state, I freeze at this question. He looks older, maybe close to thirty. I don’t want to tell him I’m a twenty-one-year-old college student. That will just cement his opinion that I’m some unsophisticated girl who can’t handle herself. “I’m… an office manager.” An office manager? What the fuck? Quick, turn it back on him. “What do you do when you’re not being a talk show host?”

  “I’m still trying to figure that out,” he says, taking a long sip of his beer.

  Okay, well, he clearly doesn’t want to go there, either. Which is fine. That probably means he won’t prod me about work. Although he seems totally comfortable prodding me about my alcohol consumption. And I mean, really. Who does this guy think he is, my parole officer? What’s it to him?

  I give him a smile that I hope is condescending AF. “I guess you’re not in a position to be giving life advice, then.”

  He shrugs. His indifference somehow bothers me and for some inexplicable reason, makes me feel like I need to explain myself.

  “Listen,” I say. “I’m actually a very nice person under normal circumstances.”

  He looks at me, his eyes hitting mine, and a shiver runs up my spine. His lips are full and perfect, and I wonder what it would be like to kiss him. I look away quickly.

  “What I don’t get is why you’re mourning the loss of a guy who sounds like an asshole.”

  I don’t get that, either. But then, I didn’t know until tonight that Becker was enough of a loser to do something like this, to be such a coward. Through a friend? Coward. Through a friend and a text? Double coward.

  But this guy doesn’t need to hear about that. While I stare at the scratches on the bar’s wooden surface thinking of what to say to that, the man’s dark eyes drift to someone walking by in a Bristowe shirt.

  Shit. My college.

  “Bristowe Blues,” he reads off the shirt. “I’d never heard of Bristowe until a few weeks ago.”

  “What the hell is a Blue, anyway?” I ask, hoping he gets away from talking about the actual school. “A color can’t be a mascot.”

  “Don’t tell that to the Harvard Crimson.” He smiles. “Or the Stanford Cardinal.”

  “Fuck those schools.”

  “Hey,” he says, laughing. “I went there.”

  I scrutinize him some more. His too-handsome face. His perfectly cut dark hair. The expensive jeans, the white t-shirt, the dark leather jacket. His annoyingly perfect, accent-less speech. He does have that Ivy League-esque too-perfect vibe, now that I think about it.

  “Oh?” I ask. “Which one?”

  “Both of them.”

  Oh, of course.

  “I’m sure you did,” I almost yell. “I’m sure you fucking did.”

  He turns to the bartender and tilts his head my way. “She’s cut off.”

  “You’re fucking cut off,” I tell him.

  “I’m not the one drinking too much.”

  “What business is it of yours if I drink too much?” I ask. “That’s the real question.”

  “It’s my business,” he says, “because I wouldn’t feel right taking you home with me if you’re hammered out of your mind.”

  Whoa.

  I set down my drink and stare at him. Who the hell is this brash? I’ve met confident guys, but none of them have ever made a declaration as bold as this. He thinks after a mere few minutes of playing intervention for a girl who doesn’t even need it is going to make me want to go home with him?

  It’s infuriating.

  So then why the hell is it turning me on?

  “That’s fairly cocky,” I say after a fe
w seconds.

  He smirks.

  “We don’t even know each other.”

  He pulls a black credit card out of his wallet, then apparently decides to just pay cash, and drops a large bill onto the bar. “Hers, too,” he informs the bartender.

  “You’re paying my tab?”

  He shrugs. “Since your friend’s drinks were on the house.”

  Maybe he’s not so bad.

  He glances towards the Western swinging doors that lead to the small foyer and outside. “You coming?”

  I have no clue what I’m thinking, but my legs slide off the barstool, and I realize that I am.

  What am I doing? I ask myself as I find myself walking with this stranger—this tall stranger—God, he’s taller than Becker. That’s nice. And now that he’s not sitting down, I can see he’s got a great ass. Even better.

  Isabel’s standing a few feet away, her phone to her ear. She does a double take when she sees me approaching the taxi with this dude.

  “WHAT THE FUCK?” she mouths.

  I try to wave her concerns away, but the bugging eyes and open mouth don’t go away. “I’m fine,” I whisper. “It’s fine.”

  “You just met him,” she hisses. The person on the other end of her call is still talking. He sounds pretty monotone. I hope Isabel isn’t missing anything important.

  I glance at the guy, embarrassed, but he’s talking to the cab driver. “I’ll be okay, I promise. Okay?”

  “How drunk are you?”

  “I’m good,” I insist. “I’m in control. I can make good decisions.”

  “Ha,” she says. “Just be careful. And if I don’t hear from you tomorrow, I’m calling the cops.”

  The taxi driver starts the engine, and I pat Isabel on the elbow in what I hope is a very reassuring way. My companion gives me another smirk as I join him at the curb. He opens the door for me, and I slide into the backseat.

  “1029 Sunlight Park Road,” he instructs the driver as he settles in next to me.

  “Sunlight Park?” I ask. “You’re in Sunlight Park?”

  “Well, the house I’m renting is.”

  Wow. That’s the really nice part of town. It’s over by the resort and golf course, where a bunch of second homeowners live only part-time. My first job was watering plants and bringing in mail for those people whose homes sit empty for a good part of the time. But it figures. Stanford Harvard here wouldn’t bother vacationing in Deer Falls, Texas unless he was going to do it right and stay somewhere nice for a week. Or a few days. However long it is. Doesn’t really matter, since he’s here now, and what I need is a wicked hot hookup. That he’ll be gone soon couldn’t be more ideal, honestly. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before.

  I wonder how close I should be sitting to this guy. I wonder if he minds that our thighs are touching. He must be okay with it, since he’s not moving away. And since he invited me home in the first place. “It’s small, but pretty,” I say as we cruise up Main Street, nodding towards the old courthouse and the historic buildings lining the street.

  “Pretty,” he repeats. He gives the town out the window a fleeting glance and though the light isn’t good, I see his brown eyes zero in on my face.

  I swallow. Now that we’re in the cab, I can smell a trace of some aftershave I can’t name.

  I’m not sure exactly how many minutes we sit there riding along in silence. Silence, even though the driver has music playing. We sit staring at each other as downtown Deer Falls slips into more narrow streets and more trees.

  The next thing I know, he’s kissing me.

  He tastes like alcohol and mint, and he takes control of the kiss, his tongue pressing past my lips. Damn. This guy is a good kisser. Maybe this is where that arrogance comes from.

  His hand tightens on my thigh. I don’t discourage it.

  We kiss some more, and I pull back and sneak a glance at the driver, but he’s luckily focusing on the street in front of him. The telltale flash of reds and blues is just ahead, and a white Audi sits on the shoulder of the road, some spoiled girl no older than nineteen outside of it with an officer, trying to walk a straight line.

  “Her daddy’s going to love that,” the guy remarks, squeezing my thigh.

  I’m breathless, filled with want, my face flaming from the kiss.

  His lips return to mind and his other hand caresses my shoulder, then down my arm. His fingers graze the side of my breast and I feel my center clench.

  A few moments later, he pulls back from me suddenly.

  “You can just pull into the driveway.” His voice is strong, in control, while I’m dizzy and light-headed, my panties already wet.

  We pull up a long driveway to a gorgeous two-story home, and in the headlights, I can see it’s all Austin stone. Mystery Stanford Harvard gradually slips his hand off my leg, like it pains him to, and reaches in his pocket, pulling out his wallet. He hands the driver some bills and we almost tumble out of the cab.

  A large bill passes from one hand to another, and the driver lights up when he’s told he can keep the change.

  “Come on,” my host says, his hand on the small of my back. He unlocks the glass double doors, and we step into an immaculate stone entry, with steps down into an elegantly furnished living room. A curved flight of stairs leads up from the foyer, and I spot another flight of stairs off a hallway beyond the living room.

  “What a gorgeous house,” I comment, trying not to gawk. I’ve been in some nice homes—the one Isabel grew up in is pretty stately—but this place could be in a magazine. I want to own a house like this someday. And buy my parents one, too.

  “Hey, there’s a bar over here,” I announce, like he doesn’t know. I walk into the wide hall with the second flight of stairs, which sit opposite the bar. I grab a random bottle off the shelf.

  “Tequila.” He looks from the bottle to me, and shakes his head. “Not trying to send you to the hospital tonight.”

  “Okay,” I concede. “Got any vodka?”

  He doesn’t answer me, instead walking around the bar and leaning over to open a glass door. It accentuates his ass. In the best possible way.

  “Here,” he says, after digging around in what looks like a freezer/fridge combo. That tiny thing is probably worth more than my parents’ Frigidaire. He emerges with a can of Red Bull and a bottle that reads “44 North.”

  “Hell’s that?”

  “Huckleberry vodka.”

  “Sure!”

  “Not for you.”

  He pulls two shot glasses from a shelf, sets them on the granite next to him, and opens the bottle.

  “Ooooh,” I say, admiring how deftly he pours. “Are you a bartender?”

  “Something like that.” He fills one shot glass with the vodka, the other with Red Bull.

  I grudgingly accept the Red Bull. “Cheers.”

  He pours me another, then walks around the bar to hand it to me. He halts directly in front of me, and we stare at each other.

  Handsome. My mom would say this guy is movie star handsome.

  “You’re movie star handsome,” I inform him. “You’re welcome.”

  Movie Star Handsome sets the shot down on the bar and puts his hands on my knees. His eyes, deep and dark, are a nice contrast to his blondish-brownish hair. When did he take his baseball cap off?

  “Blue eyes,” he says. “You have blue eyes.”

  His hands inch up past my knees. I give them a glance, then look back at his face.

  He parts my knees, my skirt rising to my thighs, his gaze flitting to my crotch. If it were anyone else, I would snap my legs back together in a heartbeat, and maybe slap this guy across the face. But he has a power over me I can’t explain.

  “Great legs,” he murmurs. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

  “No,” I say honestly. Not even Becker paid me that compliment.

  “You must spend some time outside,” he observes. “You’ve got a Cali tan.”

  “Cali?” Oh right, Stanford.
“We get some sun down here in Texas, too.”

  “Down here,” Stanford Harvard repeats. He nods toward my crotch, shielded from his view only by my underwear, and raises his eyebrows.

  I blush.

  His grin is shameless, just shameless. If he weren’t so ridiculously hot, I would not tolerate it. In fact, I would jump down from this bar and leave.

  If he wasn’t making me feel this stirring sensation on the other side of my panties.

  His hands inch up some more. The stirring continues.

  He peels his eyes from between my legs and pushes his body closer, into the space between my knees. He leans down, his hand on the back of my neck, and pulls me to him, kissing me hard and deep.

  As his tongue meets mine, I stop thinking about the house, stop thinking about the bar. I consume myself with this unfathomably sexy guy, this amazing kisser whose aftershave smells so good, whose five-o-clock shadow brushes my face just right.

  When his hand travels up my thigh, I groan.

  When his other hand skims my other thigh and slides up to my chest, I groan harder.

  He hand brushes my breast, and his touch intensifies. His fingers find my nipple through my shirt and bra, which isn’t difficult, since both are pretty thin.

  My nipples harden immediately, popping up like pebbles, betraying how turned on I am.

  He kneads them, hard. His hands are big and he palms my tits, the whole time never breaking our kiss.

  When he finally pulls back, he raises my arms above my head and pulls my shirt off slowly. His eyes rove over my body, and suddenly I feel shy, exposed. I cross my arms over my bra but he pulls them down and holds them at my sides, forcing me to let him look at me for as long as he wants.

  “Fuck, you’re sexy,” he breathes.

  I blush again. The bra is midnight blue—not navy, not royal, but that delicate blend of black and indigo that you can’t not notice. The trim is sheer, and the edges of my nipples lay uncovered, two pink semicircles that his dark eyes can’t seem to stop staring at.

  Harvard/Stanford fiddles with my shoulder straps, his touch on my collarbone getting my pussy even wetter than it already is. He leans and plants a soft, silent kiss on my shoulder. Then another, and another. He kisses up my neck, and I lean back, closing my eyes.