Love Me Not

by Reese Ryan

  Jamie started up the truck and backed out of the drive as Jo gave her a feeble wave, her eyes still glassy. Jaw trembling and heart thumping, Jamie yanked the truck into a parking space on the street. She hopped out and walked up to Jo. “Look, I’m sorry, but I can’t do this right now.”

  Jo stared at her, the corners of her eyes damp, her cheeks red. She nodded. “I get it. Maybe some other time.”

  Jamie walked back to the truck then stopped and looked back over her shoulder. “You gonna be okay tonight?”

  “I’m going back to the shelter. It’s actually better than the trailer I was staying in when I lived in Florida.” She forced a laugh and shrugged. “I’ll be fine.”

  Jamie struggled to bite back the words forming on her tongue, but she said them anyway. “You need a ride somewhere?”

  Josephine asked for a ride to the bus stop less than a mile away. Jamie obliged. Before she climbed out of the truck, Jamie opened her wallet. She kept five bucks and stuffed the rest of the tip money she’d earned the previous night into Josephine’s calloused hand. The touch of her mother’s hand on her skin gave her a sickly chill that made her angry all over again. She clenched her teeth and swallowed the anger boiling to the surface.

  “Here, take this. In case...you know, just in case.” Jamie handed Josephine one of the business cards she’d made a few months ago. The cards that proclaimed she was an artist.

  “You always was good at art.” A tiny smile curled the edges of Jo’s cracked lips. “Thanks for the card and for—”

  “Forget it,” Jamie said abruptly, already chastising herself for giving an ounce of credence to Josephine’s story. She wanted to forget she’d given Jo the money and to pretend she wouldn’t head straight to the liquor store or a crack house with it. “Just...take care of yourself.”

  Jamie turned her head, signaling the end of their conversation. Jo closed the door without another word, and Jamie sped away. There was no chance of her being early for work. Now she only hoped she wouldn’t be late.

  Chapter Two

  Jamie had arrived at Tahlia’s with barely a moment to spare. She’d been on edge most of the night, still angry with herself for showing Jo the slightest bit of compassion.

  For years she’d imagined what it would be like to run into her parents again. When she was seventeen, Ellie and Lou had forced her to see the school therapist. She’d pretended she hated it, but the truth was, it was a relief to finally get all that shit off her chest. The school therapist, Ms. Yeager, had told her to write a letter containing all the things she wished she’d been able to say to them. She’d bristled at the idea initially, but once she’d started writing the letter it was cathartic. The anger and hatred had been building in her chest like pressure in an old radiator, nearly ready to explode. Writing those letters was painful, but slowly she’d felt like she was becoming human again.

  Her lip curled as she remembered the shock on Ms. Yeager’s face as she’d read the profanity-laced letters to her parents. To her credit, the woman had listened politely, though she’d squirmed the entire time, her face red as a beet. After she’d finished reading the letters, the color had slowly returned to the woman’s face.

  “Now dear, don’t you feel better?” Ms. Yeager had said.

  She’d laughed, not sure which of them was more relieved it was over.

  For more than ten years those letters had been tucked in her sock drawer. She’d memorized every single word and rehearsed the proper inflections, hoping that one day her parents would return so she could unleash a tirade of obscenities on them.

  But they never came.

  Eventually she stopped rehearsing the letters, then burned them. The words slowly faded from her memory, though the feelings would not.

  She’d finally gotten her chance to give Jo exactly what she deserved. So why hadn’t she? Living with the Gordons had made her soft, or maybe just more human.

  “Rough night, huh?”

  Jamie looked at the man who’d taken a seat at the bar. He wasn’t one of the usuals. She’d never seen him before. But he was the type. Tahlia’s wasn’t a dive bar, like the ones she’d worked at in the past. It was an upscale bar and grille that catered to affluent tastemakers. In fact, the only reason they’d given her a shot, with her jet-black hair, penchant for black leather, tattooed arms and nose piercing was because Tahlia Vega was a friend of a friend of Ellie’s. She’d landed the job because she was good.

  The man flashing his brilliant white teeth at her definitely fit the bill. Ridiculously gorgeous—like every line of his face had been precisely chiseled from stone by Michelangelo himself. A nose befitting a Greek god. A faint moustache was perched above his upper lip and a barely there beard crawled its way along a jawline with just enough of a pleasing curve to prevent it from being described as square. His hair—a sandy brown just a shade or two shy of venturing into blondiewood—was slicked down on the sides, with the top longer in a fairly conservative faux hawk. But those eyes...they were the color of pristine Caribbean waters. So blue they made a girl want to get naked and go for a swim in them. He was wearing a navy linen blazer with a crisp white shirt beneath it. The large face of the stainless steel TAG Heuer on his wrist nearly matched the color of those eyes.

  Rich, gorgeous and probably spoiled. The only thing missing was the rail-thin model-type hanging on his arm. He was definitely the Tahlia’s type. He just wasn’t hers.

  “Everything’s great,” she said to him. “I was just thinking about...I was making sure we had enough lemons, that’s all. Can I get you something?”

  “You take your citrus inventory very seriously, I see.” An animated smile spread across his handsome face, and his eyes flickered with amusement as they followed her movement. “Well, I for one appreciate your dedication.”

  She bit her lip and wiped the counter with a rag. If she’d still been working at Chuck’s Biker Bar, she’d have told this guy to go fuck himself. But at Tahlia’s, the customers were far more delicate. They didn’t appreciate being cursed out by the help. “If I can get you anything, let me know.” She turned to walk away.

  “Wait. Actually, I would like something. I’d love a Satan’s Whiskers. It’s—”

  “One ounce gin, one ounce orange juice, half an ounce of dry vermouth, sweet vermouth and Grand Marnier, a dash of bitters and a twist of orange peel. Or would you prefer it curled rather than straight?” Teeth clenched, she pressed her lips into a hard smile. Maybe she didn’t look like the dainty little bartenders he was used to, but she knew her shit.

  “I apologize.” He ran his hands through his spiked crown, giving his hair a tousled, just-tumbled-out-of-bed-and-I-wasn’t-alone look. “I didn’t mean to imply that—”

  “Forget it. Anything else?”

  “You guys serve food, too, right?”

  “Absolutely, would you care for a table? I can—”

  “Actually, I’d like to eat right here at the bar, if that’s okay—” he leaned in closer and squinted at her name tag, “—Jamie. I think I’d prefer your company to eating alone.”

  Don’t do me any favors, buddy. She surveyed the man, struck by how his blue eyes danced when he smiled at her. Her knees wobbled slightly. She was glad he couldn’t see them.

  “If that’s what you’d like.” She reached behind her and handed him a bar menu. “Just let me know when you’re ready. Would you like your drink now or with your meal?”

  “With my meal, please. Until then, how about a glass of water? I’ll take it with one of those lemons.” His devilish smile widened.

  Was he making fun of her, or just trying to piss her off? If it was the latter, it was working. “Coming right up.” She forced the words through a smile so fake it’d give Barbie a run for her money. She grabbed a glass, dumped in a scoop of ice, filled it with water then put a lemon on the side. “Here you go. Just call me when you’re ready.”

  “Sure thing.” He pulled out his phone. “But I’ll need your number first.”


  The overwhelming desire to punch the dude in the face subsided the moment she saw that big, stupid grin. He was a harmless flirt. She could deal with that, no problem. “Ha-ha.” Her face remained expressionless as she tucked the rag into her apron.

  He laughed. “Okay, that was pretty corny. I apologize. I’m usually far more clever than this, but today...I got nothing.”

  “Rough day, huh?” She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow.

  “Touché. And yes, it has been a challenging day.” Lifting his chin slightly, he stroked his beard, regarding her with amusement. “But things are beginning to look up.”

  Leaning against the bar, she shifted her weight as she surveyed his expensive haircut and clothing. She’d bet anything he was wearing a pair of overpriced loafers the kind of guys she preferred had never even heard of, and that he drove an “entitlement” car. If she talked to him for a few more minutes she’d be able to determine whether he drove a Beamer, Benz or Bentley and could make a reasonably accurate guess as to the color.

  The guy might be goofy and slightly aggravating, but he had the potential to be a good tipper. No matter how irritated she was, she knew better than to fuck that up. Jamie took a deep breath and gave him a dead-eyed smile that skirted civility without encouraging further interaction. “Maybe you’ll feel better if you tell me about it,” she said. “After all, isn’t that why you came here?”

  “Hmm...I’ll bet you get that all the time. Rich bozos sitting here whining about their wives, mistresses and tennis elbow.”

  She choked back the laugh rising in her chest before it could escape her lips. Covering her mouth, she cleared her throat and managed a straight face. “My customers are not bozos.”

  “How politically correct of you to say so.” He tapped the bar lightly with his index finger. “But I have an idea. How about we turn the tables tonight? Tonight, why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you?”

  This guy was really beginning to bug her. Since when did a complete stranger give a damn about what was bothering her? Where was this guy from anyway, Mayberry?

  A regular came in and sat at the bar. She was glad for the distraction. “I’ll be right with you, Pete,” she told him before turning back to the man who’d managed to get under her skin. “Excuse me—”

  “Miles.”

  “I’m sorry...?”

  “You called him Pete, right? Well, I’m Miles. Miles Copeland. It’s nice to meet you.”

  She cleared her throat, her jaw tight. “I’ll be back to check on your order in a few...Miles.”

  * * *

  Miles stared at the large, heavy backlit menu. Quite an expense for a bar menu. Tahlia’s had gone all out to impress its high-end customer base.

  He looked around the place. It was filled with people presumably like him. People with pockets deep enough that they wouldn’t flinch at paying twenty bucks for a fancy salad or a plate of calamari in downtown Cleveland, Ohio.

  The concierge at his hotel had highly recommended the place. He reviewed the menu. Escargots stuffed with Boursin cheese, pan-seared salmon, ahi tuna, porcini penne with a hazelnut pesto, tamarind-glazed duck, bourbon pork chops and blue-cheese-crusted filet mignon. It all sounded delicious and he’d been starving when he’d walked through those doors fifteen minutes ago. But honestly there wasn’t anything on the menu half as interesting as the green-eyed beauty behind the bar.

  The woman was mysterious, yet familiar—bearing a faint resemblance to someone he’d once known. Someone he’d once cared for. He sipped his water slowly, stealing a glance at her. About five foot eight. Lean, athletic body punctuated by sensual curves that made him fully aware of a need to adjust his trousers. Without turning his head, he watched as she sashayed behind the bar, hips swaying, her black pants clinging to her curves in all the right places. Suddenly she threw her head back and laughed, exposing her creamy neck. Her shiny black hair, loosely twisted low at the back of her head, shifted and for a moment he had the visceral sensation of tangling his fingers in it. She laughed again, more quietly this time. Pete was a regular funny guy. With him she seemed comfortable, relaxed.

  Returning the glass to the bar, he picked up the menu again. She was apparently immune to his particular brand of charm. He hadn’t been able to solicit so much as a smile from her, let alone any genuine interest.

  But then, maybe it was too soon to say.

  Jamie stood in front of him, her arms folded tightly across a very impressive rack. Not that he was staring. It was just hard not to notice the strain of her breasts against the tight rayon shirt. The top buttons were open, revealing ample cleavage, a black camisole underneath and glimpses of a colorful tattoo. “Ready to order?”

  Was he ever, but what he wanted tonight wasn’t on Tahlia’s menu. “Everything looks delicious.” Miles made sure he’d returned his gaze to the menu before he said it. After all, he didn’t want to come off like a complete sleaze bucket, even if all he could think about was how amazing those breasts probably looked beneath that snug shirt. “It’s impossible to choose. Maybe you can recommend something.”

  She studied him for a moment then put down her iPad. She held her hand out, waiting expectantly, and he handed her the menu. Her eyes roamed over the menu quickly before returning it. “You’re not a vegetarian or anything, are you?”

  “No.” He smiled. “I’m definitely a carnivore. In fact, the more meat, the better.”

  She pursed her lips then returned her gaze to the menu. He responded with an inward grin, reasonably certain she was trying her damnedest not to smile. It gave him hope. Maybe Jamie the Bartender wasn’t a lost cause after all.

  “My hands-down favorite meal off the bar menu is the blue-cheese-crusted filet mignon with port wine sauce. It’s seriously a stroke of genius. Like an orgasm for your mouth.” She stared at him for a moment, seemed to enjoy watching him squirm on the bar stool.

  He picked up his glass of water and almost missed his own mouth as he attempted to take a quick gulp. Setting the glass back down, he wiped the water from his beard with the back of his hand. “Yeah,” he said, barely able to raise his eyes to hers. “I’ll take that.”

  “Perfect.” A full grin crept across her pretty mouth.

  Yep. She was definitely fucking with him. And she enjoyed it. This girl was more than he bargained for. Yet there was something about her that made him want to barrel straight through the Danger: Keep the Fuck Out sign she was clearly projecting.

  “So, how do you want your potatoes?”

  “Potatoes?”

  “You know, the brown things that grow out of the ground? We serve them here. Six different ways.”

  “Oh yeah, umm...garlic mashed potatoes, please.”

  She nodded. “Good choice. Side salad, Caesar salad, broccoli or the vegetable of the day?”

  “What’s the vegetable of the day?”

  She glanced behind her to look at the chalkboard with the special, soup and vegetable of the day written neatly in white, red and blue chalk. “Brussels sprouts in a white wine reduction.”

  “Yeah, I’ll take that.” He folded the heavy menu closed, then handed it to her.

  A wicked smile was perched on her dark lips. Did she have the slightest clue how incredibly enticing that smile was? “Great. Will that be all?”

  He peered deeply into those bewitching green eyes framed by dark, smoky, cat-eyed makeup. “For now.”

  Now it was her turn to squirm a little under his stare. She put the menu back behind the bar and turned to walk away.

  Miles tapped his finger lightly on the bar. Maybe his prospects with this girl weren’t looking so bad after all.

  * * *

  Jamie wiped crumbs from the bar and dumped them in the sink then rinsed the rag. Without looking up, she could feel the man’s gaze, like a hot ray burning into her flesh. An inferno raged beneath her skin as heat crawled up her neck and into her cheeks, and she didn’t like it one bit.

  She worked at a bar, for chrissake, and
far worse bars than this one. She’d been ogled, propositioned, fondled and groped by any number of losers, and she’d been able to handle herself with every one of them.

  She knew how to flirt just enough to keep them tipping but without giving them any real hope they had a shot with her. She’d been tending bar off and on for more than ten years. So why in the hell did this guy feel...different?

  Maybe it was because of that stupid grin and those mesmerizing blue eyes that warmed her from the inside. Sure, he was physically attractive, but it was more than that. He was provocative and irritating. Yet she found herself stealing glances at him more than once. A guy like that spelled trouble, and that she didn’t need.

  She dropped the glass she was washing in the sink. It didn’t break, but her cheeks grew warm as everyone nearby turned toward the sound.

  Jamie turned the faucet off and wiped her hands on her apron, taking a deep breath and trying to relax. Maybe it wasn’t that Miles Copeland was so intriguing. He was just right. She’d had a really shitty day, so she was a bit susceptible to a handsome guy fawning over her. Maybe the fact that he’d read her the instant he met her, and acted like he gave a shit about how she felt, caught her off guard.

  She glanced at him sideways without turning her head, not wanting to encourage him. He was still eating that damn steak, bit by tiny-ass bit, making his meal last for two whole hours. It was ridiculous. What grown man ate that slowly? The steak was cold an hour and a half ago and he was still playing over it. Why couldn’t he just finish and go?

  “Jamie.” He held a finger up, his expression warm and open.

  Maybe he was finally leaving. She perked up as she approached him. “Ready for your bill?”

  A wide grin spread across his lips, which looked slightly glossy—probably from the filet mignon he’d been French kissing for the past two hours. But as he spoke, her eyes were drawn to his tongue, and she couldn’t help but wonder...

  “No, actually, I’d love another Satan’s Whiskers. It was pretty amazing. Best one I ever had.”