by Brynne Asher
Heather Stewart Soligo, you’re a kickass alpha reader and didn’t even know it. Thank you for your time and input exactly when I needed it. And, as always, thank you for your never-ending support.
Annette and Michelle with Book Nerd Services, you are my lifelines during releases. I’m so lucky I get to work with my friends.
Rebecca Arvieux with Bex Book Revieux and Sarah Poulton with Sarah Loves Reading Romance, when I needed special skill sets and knowledge on my characters, you both stepped up and saved the day. Thank you for your time and valuable input. Without you, Scars wouldn’t be what it is.
Gi Paar with Gi’s Spot Reviews, Carrie Marie with Carrie’s Bookshelf, thank you for always having my back and reading my words early. I treasure you both.
To Emoji, despite 2020, it’s been a good year and I can’t wait to see where the next twenty-five bring us. It’s a gift to live life with you.
To my Street and Review Teams, you ladies are the shit! Quick on the draw to spread the word and unwavering support. It’s an honor that you’ve chosen me to spend time with and support.
Lastly, to my Beauties. Every single one of you feels like my next-door neighbor. I could stand in the driveway for hours and chat with you. Thank you for spending time with me and helping to create one of the best spots on the Freakybook.
Humbled and grateful forever.
Thank you for reading.
BA xx
Chapter 1 of Bad Situation
Four Minutes
Jen
Adult purgatory.
I swear, it’s where I’m stuck.
I don’t have time to keep up with old friends. I’m drifting in nowhere-land, somewhere between I’m too old to act like this and I’m popping out babies. Since there’s no way I’m popping out a baby anytime soon, I finally relented and let the friends who are too old to act like this twist my arm.
Earlier today, I shut my laptop and stored my Jimmy Choo’s away in their neatly labeled storage container on their assigned shelf in my closet. I traded my smart business chic for ripped jeans, a slouchy blouse, and threw on my favorite vintage Manolos because my college friends from SMU called me over a week ago and talked me into reliving our college days. When I’d reluctantly said yes, I hadn’t planned on my week turning into a shit show, but they wouldn’t take no for an answer.
In the past four hours, I’ve drank enough to be slightly buzzed and more-than-slightly bloated. The good old days aren’t what they used to be.
Not to sound like a boring hag, but I don’t have the luxury of wasting an entire Sunday recovering from an exhausting night out. I have important meetings first thing Monday morning about our newest—and biggest ever—acquisition and, since I just flew in this afternoon from New York, I need to work all day tomorrow.
But unlike years ago when we were drinking Boone’s and downing cheap tequila, we’ve all graduated to martinis, top-shelf mixed drinks, and fancy shooters that don’t go down like a sack of nails.
A couple standing next to me at the bar have been all over each other for at least the last fifteen minutes. Juggling enough drinks for a small tribe, they’re finally off to deliver their big-ass order that took forever to fill. As soon as they clear out, something—or someone—catches my eye and I can’t make myself look away.
Leaning into the bar is a man who doesn’t belong and it has nothing to do with his appearance. He’s tall, solid, and clearly not out to impress anyone and even less impressed with those around him. In fact, by the stony expression engraved into his profile, he seems to be enjoying himself less than I am—and that’s saying something.
He lifts a glass of ice water to his full lips to take a swig, causing his jaw to flex and his Adam’s apple to bob. I find myself staring unabashedly, making the pounding of the music and roar of the crowd melt away.
Tipping my head, I study him—strong and resolute, yet aloof and melancholy. He exudes boredom even though he’s subtly surveying the room, attentive in a way that’s odd for this time on a Saturday night. As the crowd around us creates a brash hum with bodies clashing, he invites none of it, creating a wide berth around himself.
I’m not sure what makes me do it since he’s clearly not making eye contact with anyone, but for some reason the words pop out of my mouth anyway. “So, you’re the DD?”
His eyes move first, jumping to me so fast it might be an optical world record, followed by a lazy shift of his head. His dark eyes minutely narrow but the rest of his face remains stoic. He looks me up and down and when he speaks, he doesn’t even raise his voice, yet his low baritone comes out loud and clear. “Yeah.”
I raise a brow, wondering what the fuck is up with this guy. No one intimidates me—besides my dad when he’s pissed off—and, since I’m bored, I turn to him and take a step, closing half the distance between us. It’s probably my personality mixed with the buzz and a strong dose of my own boredom, but I really want to get this guy to talk.
I love a challenge. Hell, I get off on it.
“How did you draw the short straw?”
His apathetic countenance breaks and he turns to me, setting his water glass on the bar and leans farther into it. When his arms cross on his wide chest, my eyes go straight to the tattoo of some sort of intricate map running down the outside of his forearm. Just when I’m trying to make out the words entwined within it, he says, “We didn’t draw straws. I’m new to town and my co-workers insisted on dragging me out tonight. When I saw the rate they were going, I switched to water.”
“The responsible one.” I tip my head and raise a brow. “I like it.”
He lifts his head once and doesn’t seem interested in my line of conversation, but still doesn’t take his eyes off me. “You drew the short straw?”
I shake my head. “Nope. Just sick of being here but trying to act like I’m having fun for my friends’ sake.”
“You’re not a very good actress.”
“Ouch,” I feign before correcting him. “The PC term these days is actor—equal opportunity and all that.”
He gives me a lazy shrug. “I don’t give a shit about political correctness.”
For some reason this makes me smile. I’ll take someone real over a bullshitter any day of the week. “I should be offended but since I’m not an actor, I find that strangely refreshing.”
“I’m not here to impress anyone,” he adds.
“Oh, I can tell.” I smile bigger and extend my hand. “Jen.”
He pauses and looks me up and down for a split second, warring with himself. After giving his head a minute shake, he puts his large hand in mine with a very firm grip. “Eli.”
“Eli, the politically incorrect, straight-talking, new guy in town. Welcome to the Big D.”
He doesn’t let go of my hand, hesitating, but I’ll never know what he was going to say because we’re interrupted and his hand is ripped from mine.
“Jensen-fucking-Montgomery!” Becca yells over the music as she breaks our hold like in a Red Rover playground game. Her sloppy grin is wild and her hair even wilder from dancing. She shoves another glass at me, this one is filled with pink liquid and has an orange slice tucked on the rim. I start to shake my head and push the drink back at her, but she interrupts. “Those guys who’ve been eyeing us for the last hour finally got off their asses and sent us drinks.”
Rolling my eyes, I glance over my shoulder toward the duo Becca has been talking about for what seems longer than an hour. Sending a drink is lame and cliché, not to mention, I have no clue what this is.
Becca lifts her glass to her lips and takes a sip, shrugging. “Cosmos. It’s not the same in a highball, but whatever. Still good.”
I don’t take a drink and not because I hate cranberry juice, but because it’s late, and, again, I’m bloated and should’ve been out of here two hours ago. Not to mention, I don’t know if this came straight from a waiter. No way am I drinking this even though Becca will no matter what. It’s past one in the morning and as I hold a
fresh drink from some lame-ass man who thinks all women love fruity drinks, I decide it’s time to get out of here. I shove the glass back at her. “I’m not drinking this and you shouldn’t be either. I’m texting Donny.”
I pull out my cell to call for the car that’s been on hold all night, but Becca pleads, “Noooo. You’re a fucking workaholic and we never get to see you. We’re closing the place down. I won’t take no for an answer.”
I shake my head and press send. It shouldn’t take long for my driver to get here. “Sorry, Becca. What can I say? I can’t keep up with you anymore. If you want to stay, I’ll send Donny back for you and the rest of the girls so you don’t have to Uber.”
She huffs and nudges me with her elbow, sloshing her drink in the process, but she’s at the point where she just doesn’t give a fuck. “Are you kidding me? You work circles around everyone in that company and you’re going to stand there and tell me you can’t stay for one more hour to close the bar? I call bullshit.”
“You know I have no choice but to put in long hours. I have to prove—”
I trip over my words when her eyes go big as she looks over my shoulder right before she announces in a way that is not cool or low-key, “Oh, shit. Here they come!”
I turn and she’s right.
Dammit. Not only do I have to tear myself away from Becca and the girls, but now these guys, too.
“Hi!” Becca’s voice is too high as she bats her lash extensions and thrusts the cosmo back at me. I only take it so I don’t wear it. Plastering her Miss Ft. Worth First Runner-Up winning smile from back in the day across her pretty face, she goes on. “Thanks for the drinks.”
“How have you ladies not been snatched up by this time of night?”
I do my best not to groan and look up at the not quite middle-aged man and his friend. The leader of the duo has dirty blond hair that’s perfectly messy, falling over his sun-kissed forehead. It’s late October and, unless he works outside for a living, which I highly doubt, that tan utters nothing but vanity. His eyes come to me and a slow smile spreads across his perfect, all-American-man face. When his lips part, I’m surprised his teeth don’t twinkle like a cartoon from over-bleaching.
His partner in crime isn’t any less beautiful … if you’re into that. I might wear Jimmy Choo’s and have a shopping addiction that would rival any junkie, but I prefer my men to be all man. I’ll take rugged over beautiful any day of the week but, at one o’clock on a Sunday morning, I only want my empty bed. Patience is not my friend on a good day, but when I’ve had too much to drink in a way that’s only made me tired and not a fun party companion, I’m over it. Any tolerance I would normally have for a man who has prettier teeth than me has flown the coop.
I set the glass down on the bar between us and give Mr. Blondie a tight smile. “Thanks for the drink, but I’m done for the night. My ride is on its way.”
“Jen, no!” Becca starts in again but the blond steps forward and puts his hand lightly on my arm, interrupting, “Just one dance.”
I shrug him off and take a step back. “Like I said, no thanks.”
Blondie’s friend slides up to Becca and she doesn’t argue. She reaches over and gives my hand a drunken squeeze. “Come on. The other girls are out there, too.”
Becca and her new dance partner disappear as my phone vibrates. I unlock my screen and see that Donny will be here in five minutes, but I don’t have a chance to respond when I feel a hand on my bicep, stronger this time.
Looking up, I try to pull away but his grip tightens. I see those perfect teeth inside a fake smile and it makes me internally roll my eyes. “We should go hang with your friends, sweetheart.”
“Let go,” I demand.
He doesn’t let go and gives me a pull. “Loosen up. Your friends are all on the dance floor.”
Fuck. My dull buzz has disintegrated and I grip my phone. Planting my feet, I start to pull my arm back but, just when I’m about to take control of the situation, I feel a large, warm hand on the small of my back. I look down in time to see a tattooed forearm snake around me. It’s so close, I can make out the ring of the beautiful inked compass right before his other hand turns into a vice on Blondie’s arm.
“She’s with me.”
When I look up, I get lost in deep, dark eyes void of all emotion looking over my head at the same time Blondie lets go of me. Eli, the designated driver, whom I found to be a challenge just minutes ago, wraps his hand around my hip and pulls my back to his front.
From this angle, I have multiple choices to get out of his hold. If I wanted to.
That’s a big if.
Because for some reason, I feel safer pretending I’m Eli’s rather than having creepy blond vie for my attention. And with the way Blondie’s glaring at me right now, I’ll do everything I can to get away from him.
The blond gestures to Eli but says to me, “I’ve watched you for an hour and you’ve not so much as talked to any man—let alone this guy.”
I slip my phone into my back pocket. “Well, he pissed me off earlier, but here we are.” I look up at Eli who, for the first time since I laid eyes on him, has tipped his lips on one side and I say over the music, “Let’s go.”
I take his hand and pull him away from our spot at the bar, but more importantly, away from the man who almost got clocked on the underside of his nose. I’ve got an iPhone case as strong as a bullet and I know how to use it. Blondie might look pissed off as I walk away with my politically-incorrect pretend friend, but he’s clueless to the fact he most likely dodged a broken nose.
That would’ve messed up his pretty, perfect face.
I have no idea where I’m going besides away from where we were, but I feel Eli’s grip on my hand tighten as we go. Since the place is packed, I stop at the edge of the dance floor and turn to look up at him.
“Thank you,” I yell over the hum of the crowd.
He’s back to stoic and shrugs. He leans down and I feel his lips next to my ear. “The guy was an ass.”
Just when I’m about to agree with his assessment, the DJ booms over the speakers, doing his job to get the masses riled and excited and, all of a sudden, we’re not on the edge of the dance floor anymore. We’re swallowed by bodies when the beat of the music changes. The decibel increases and the energy of the crowd, that was already off the charts, hits another level altogether.
People start to move, some holding their drinks high, others using both hands to do exactly what the song states, exploring their partner, as Ed Sheeran croons on about clubs, dancing, and lovers.
I find myself pressed between strangers whose names I don’t know and another I only know as Eli. My friends are nowhere to be seen and I feel hands on my hips steadying me. Holding me tight, Eli stands tall in the crowd and scans the area around us before catching my eyes again. The lights disappear other than strobes that spark to the beat of the music.
When I look into his darkened features, he says nothing, but he tips his head and cocks a brow.
An invitation.
A silent one … but still, an invitation all the same.
No way would I ever dance with creepy blond guy—but Eli? The new-to-town, responsible man with a fascinating tattoo who stopped drinking to make sure his friends get home safely? Yeah, I can stay for one more song for him.
My only answer to his silent bidding is to bring my hands up to cover his that are still low on my hips and let the music take over. I might have started it by the sway of my hips under his big hands, but that’s all it takes.
After that, it’s all him.
Pulling me tight, every muscle of his body moves with mine, from my shoulders to my knees. And every inch of him is lean and rock hard and warm.
No. Not warm.
Hot.
His hands move, one holding me tight at the small of my back and the other snaking up to twist my hair in his fist, forcing me to tip my head and look into his rugged dark features. From this close, his strong, stubbled jaw is in line with
my eyes, and my already-heated body goes into overdrive when his tongue sneaks out to wet his full lips.
Holy fuck.
I exhale a whoosh of air. That must have gotten his attention because his eyes jump to mine right before he pulls me closer. His breath is warm on my temple as Ed sings on, his words and music impossibly sexier than I ever realized while in the arms of a stranger named Eli.
Just as I drag my hands up his body, feeling his abs and wide chest through his thin tee, his hand drops to my ass for a quick squeeze before he spins me, holding my back to his front. But now, I feel all of him, his hands tight on my hips and his face dips, pressing into my hair. I let my head fall back onto his shoulder when his groin moves against my lower back and ass. His hand sneaks around my waist, dipping under the hem of my blouse to tease my bare skin, and it’s all I can do not to give him my weight.
In all my thirty years, I’ve never experienced a sexier four minutes. At this moment, I think I’d do anything he asks as long as he never stops touching me.
My body is buzzing in a whole new way—a better way. An off-the-charts way.
But all good things end.
It seems to be the fucking rule of my life because, just as the song is winding down, I feel my phone vibrate in my back pocket.
Like a bucket of ice water, the warm body encasing mine stills. As if an alarm woke me from an erotic dream filled only with music and a stranger, the tremor of my phone rocks us both out of the moment. My dance partner’s hands tense and, just like that, I lose his heat.
He lets go of me and I have to catch myself on my heels from the loss of his support. I turn to look at him and what I see is not what I expect.
His expression is hard and he’s glaring as if I’ve committed a crime—a terrible one, at that.
I try to catch my breath and he brings his hand up and roughly grips the back of his neck as his glare intensifies which makes my insides tighten. Dammit, I’m always in control—of myself and most definitely my emotions. I almost jump when my ass vibrates again and I hate that I’m left feeling rejected after only one dance with a stranger.
