Manhattan Millionaire: Book Three in the Kendall Family Series

by Jennifer Ann

  I release a barking laugh. “Wow. Is that all you've got for me this time? Please tell me you’re just warming up, because that’s a pretty lame delivery by your standards.”

  The second he grabs me by my forearm, Kory snarls, “Leave her alone.”

  Someone clears their throat, slow and deliberate. Our heads all swivel to where the hot stranger stands with his hands on the back of a stool, chest puffed out, dark eyes narrowed on Decker. He looks undeniably dangerous and scary as hell. A suffocating rush blossoms throughout my chest with the sight of him.

  Without having to say a word, the man comes off as a legitimate threat that even my dip-shit ex is apparently smart enough to take seriously, because Decker releases me and steps back. “You and I need to have ourselves a talk, so don’t go anywhere,” he whispers. He cuts the stranger an annoyed sneer before leading his minions to the back end of the bar.

  Shaky, I turn to take the last swig of my fifth beer, giving my nerves a chance to calm. There’s a loud crack of pool balls followed by laughter as Decker and company settle in for the night. Even though I want to get far away from the band of douche-nuggets, going home to my empty apartment seems more depressing, and I feel at ease with both Kory and the stranger nearby.

  “Want me to have Classon chase them out of here?” Kory asks, popping the top on a fresh beer and setting it in front of me. “I know he’s on duty tonight and the sheriff isn’t.”

  I shrug and hand Kory my empty bottle. “Don’t bother. I don’t need a reason for Decker to start harassing you too.”

  “This is bullshit,” Kory mumbles as he hands me another drink before moving over to serve the town drunk sitting on the other end of the bar.

  Embarrassed when I realize the stranger most likely heard Decker’s comment about my “snatch”, I swipe beer number six and take a long gulp with my eyes closed. The icy-cold drink does little to take away the heat that has settled in my cheeks or the wave of nausea that ensues whenever Decker is near.

  “That punk-ass needs to be taught a lesson,” a deliciously low, scratchy voice says at my side. “Are you okay?”

  Biting back a squeal, my eyes flip open to find the stranger has slid into the seat right next to me. Beautiful, cornflower blue eyes stare into mine, waiting for me to answer. His woodsy scent tickles my senses until I’m sure I’ll melt right off my seat. My body’s so heady with the sight of him that it doesn’t seem like that big of a stretch of the imagination.

  “He can’t help it, he was born a puke bandit,” I assure the man, feeling my entire face warming. “But thanks for making him run off with his tail between his legs. Whatever you heard—”

  “It’s none of my business.” He pauses with his glass held to his lips and adds, “But there’s still no excuse for talking to a woman that way.”

  No lie, I shiver with the darkness in his voice as he takes another pull of his drink.

  When several minutes pass and it seems he’s slipping back into his world of solitude, I tuck a stray strand of my hair back behind my ear to get a better look at him. Up close his complexion isn’t as perfect as it seemed from a distance. Day old stubble makes his features more rugged and manly as hell. A nagging part of me worries this is all an alcohol-induced dream and I’ll wake in my bedroom with a wet sheet tangled around my legs.

  I smile and offer my hand, surprised when I have enough willpower not to reach out and paw him. “Phoebe Carson.”

  Those piercing blue eyes shoot back up to meet mine as his warm, large hand wraps around mine. Rather than shaking it, he squeezes gently before letting go, sending a ripple of pleasure racing through me. “Jace.”

  “What brings you to the lovely town of Chesterville, Jace?” I ask, loving the sensual way his name rolls against my tongue. “Bad GPS directions?”

  His gaze darts back to his drink as his shoulder become rigid. “Just passing through.”

  Okay, so maybe he doesn’t like talking about himself. Picking at the label on my new beer, I wonder how in the hell to make things less awkward. Then I motion to the nearly empty glass clutched in his hand. “Can I buy you another drink? It’s the least I can do after you saved me from more public humiliation.”

  “I have to get going,” he answers quickly before working his jaw.

  Hells bells, it’s like pulling teeth and I’m sure as shit no dentist. Why did he move closer if he’s not in the mood for friendly conversation? Am I laying it on too thick? Damn Kory for making me question my moves. I tear the entire label off my beer and begin working on the other side. Maybe I should call it a night. This is obviously going nowhere fast.

  “Are you from around here?” he asks after another long pause.

  “Most unfortunately, yes.” I look back his way. His beautiful lips turn up at the edges with a small smile, so I decide to run with it. “You’ve entered redneck country, my friend. You have no idea. Decker and his buddies are the norm. Anyone who sets foot in this bar is a blue-collar worker who has been on the wrong side of the law at least once. It’s guaranteed every last one of them is into shooting things and has a closet full of camouflage.”

  His eyes skip over the cowl-neck shirt dangling from one of my shoulders, down to my fashionably torn capris and my red cork sandals before slowly dragging back upward. I can’t decide if he’s spending extra time gawking at my boobs or if it’s only my sick little fantasy. “You’re not what I would call a redneck. What makes you stick around?”

  Heat spreads across my cheeks once more. Was that a compliment?

  “I’m not really sure,” I lie, trying to decide what version of the twisted truth would sound best. Looking back at the naked brown bottle in my hands, I release a long sigh. “I guess I’ve become too comfortable here. I know pretty much everyone. I’ve always been relatively close to Ellen—er, my mom—so I jumped at the chance to live in the studio apartment over her garage when it became available. Pathetic, I know.”

  From the corner of my eye, I see his shoulder lift. “Everyone has a reason behind the lifestyle they choose. I’m not one to judge.”

  “That attitude will make you stand out around here like a sore thumb.” I snort. “Everyone in Chesterville thinks they know everyone else’s business. If they don’t, they’re so bored with their own lives that they don’t think anything of making shit up about other people to make it more interesting.”

  That’s almost the exact same line Logan gave me when wild stories began to surface of him sleeping with strippers and doing drugs.

  Jace makes a little grunting noise. “Sounds miserable.”

  “Yeah, I’m not really sure why I didn’t finish community college and get the hell out of town.” Total bullshit, though I’m not about to admit to Jace that it has everything to do with Ellen’s control over my very existence. “It’s not like there’s anything here worth sticking around for.”

  One of his thick brows lifts. “What did you go to school for?”

  “Definitely not clerking at the local grocery store. I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life right out of high school, and I’m still not really sure. Ellen says I’m good with people. Maybe I should’ve gone into psychology.”

  Though I keep waiting for him to offer a piece of information about himself, he seems more interested in getting to hear my pathetic story. Annoyed from the rehash of my monotonous life and the background noises from Decker and crew, I pull out my phone and tap on the music app.

  “This place needs some livening up.” I give Jace a little grin. “What’s your favorite song?”

  “Anything heavy that’ll get my blood pumping,” he answers with the most animation since we started this conversation. “I can’t listen to country or pop music without wanting to stab a fucking fork in my eye.”

  Giggling, I say, “Right on. I’m more of a metal girl myself.”

  I choose Logan’s favorite Pop Evil song and smirk to myself when the sick beat starts. My brother was inadvertently the one who got me into this kind of mus
ic. The day he left, I jacked his entire CD collection and quickly became hooked on the feel-good world that came with gritty guitars and strained vocal chords.

  When I glance back to Jace, he’s grinning and subtly bobbing his head. “Solid choice. These guys are killer in concert.”

  A spasm licks right between the center of my legs. Could this guy be any more perfectly suited for me? “I would love to see them in concert. I won tickets to see them open for Disturbed and Rob Zombie last spring, but had to sell them when something came up.”

  Something being the fact that my musically-inept boyfriend was pissed when he discovered I was going with Kory. I should’ve known Decker was the type to cheat when I reflect on how little he trusted me.

  Jace’s eyes widen. “No shit? Damn, I would’ve given anything to catch that tour!”

  Right in the middle of my music-gasm with the beautiful man, Kory returns, throwing a smirk my way. I desperately want to kick him for moving in when things were just getting interesting.

  “Another beer?” he asks, tipping his head at my bottle.

  “Kory, this is Jace,” I say. “I’m only having another one if Jace will let me buy him another drink.” Pressing my lips together, I turn to face my new friend and widen my eyes, waiting for him to challenge me.

  “Sure, why not,” Jace gives in, chuckling. “Guess I could grab a room at the motel down the street as long as no one will mess with my bike.”

  “Bike, as in motorcycle?” I ask with a little squeak. The hotness points with this guy are never-ending. I wouldn’t be surprised if he admitted to rescuing orphaned puppies in his spare time.

  “You ride?” Kory asks, pausing to examine Jace a little more closely.

  Jace bobs his head. “I recently bought a Street Glide. You?”

  “My uncle gave me his Heritage. Needs a little work, but he gave me a pretty sweet deal.”

  Lovely. As a day job, Kory works as a mechanic. Now I get to hear him go off on one of his motor-head rants. I’d glare at him if I weren’t afraid Jace would see and think I’m a bitch for infringing on their dude convo.

  “What year?” Jace asks.

  “I’ll be right back,” I say, hopping down from the stool and heading for the bathrooms.

  I’m not exactly surprised when I wobble a little on my feet, having drank all six beers without “breaking the seal” or bothering to stand. And I remember a second too late that I have to walk past Decker to get to the bathrooms. Before I can turn back, he’s standing directly in my path, smiling like a complete lunatic.

  Also by Jennifer Ann

  STANDALONES

  * * *

  Fighting for Phoebe (coming 11.28.16)

  The Missing Ones (coming in 2017)

  * * *

  KENDALL FAMILY SERIES

  * * *

  Brooklyn Rockstar

  Ten Nights (exclusive to newsletter subscribers)

  Midwest Fighter

  Manhattan Millionaire

  Oceanside Marine (coming in 2017)

  * * *

  NYC LOVE SERIES

  Adam’s List

  Kelly’s Quest

  Chloe’s Dream

  Keeping reading for a preview of Adam’s List, book #1 in the NYC Love series.

  Entire series now available!

  Adam’s List

  ONE

  THE OLD HOUSE BUZZES with angry rock, brazen laughter, and occasional screams from girls; it’s an audio explosion of brass sounds that once again make me question my agreement to come in the first place.

  Smoke irritates my nose, some of it smelling like the green variety. The “no smoking” sign near the entrance is clearly more of a loose suggestion than a rule as I’m pretty sure I’ve seen over a dozen people with lit cigarettes in hand, some of them among the guys hosting the party. A thick haze drifts through the room above the crowd, the smell even more robust than the cheap keg beer.

  Sticky goop, probably a mix of spilled beer and strawberry margarita mix, covers the bottom of my newly purchased wedges, making a sick, sucking noise whenever I move my feet. Empty red solo cups litter every crevice of the room, apparently because we’re in college and no one can make us follow our parents’ rules.

  The crowd’s an odd combination of jocks, hipsters, preps, and kids who don’t belong, like me. At least not anymore.

  An oversexed freshman who’s built like Jonah Hill—pre-diet—grinds up against me every few minutes, even though I’m nowhere near the area designated as the dance floor. I’m not amused. Clearly, my desire to be alone isn’t obvious by standing in the least active corner of the house.

  Ladies and gentlemen, this is my life.

  Or it has become my life anyway, ever since the powers-that-be decided I was way too happy and secure, deciding to give me a healthy dose of reality to choke on.

  My reflection stares back at me from an old beer sign on the wall. The narrow nose and dark blond eyelashes I inherited from my mom appear exaggerated in the warped glass. The cornflower blue eyes I inherited from my dad have lost their luster, although it could just be the low lit room overpowering their normal vibrance. But who am I kidding. My lips are perpetually cracked because I don’t care enough to drink enough water or keep applying balm. The long, curly locks spilling well past my breasts are in serious need of not only a brushing, but also a touch-up at the roots. Because I’m too lazy to call the salon for an appointment, and quite frankly, I don’t give a shit.

  I wasn’t always a fun hater. I had it all in high school. I was a cheerleader with shining blond hair straight out of a L'Oréal commercial, and a killer body that every guy wanted to sack. My long-term sweetheart, Jason, was at the top of the girls’ lists for hotties, and just happened to be the star quarterback. Every girl either wanted to be me, or hated my guts because of my perceived perfection. The social world was at my fingertips. I was living the high life as our school’s queen bee.

  I don’t think anyone was neither sympathetic nor surprised when I was so unceremoniously knocked down.

  I look away from the mirror, down to the cup in my hands filled with flat beer. Until recently, I was usually among the typical party girls you see at these kinds of things, slamming down shots of vodka and tequila just as quickly as they’re handed out. I would’ve possibly hooked up with some random guy, and woke in a strange room the next morning.

  Then my depression meds were kicked up a notch at my mom’s request. Now I’m just kind of numb to life. Taking a pill doesn’t magically make a person’s mental health better. It doesn’t take away all the hurt and anguish over something that forever changed you. The alcohol doesn’t mix with the drugs—I know this—but sometimes I just need to mask the pain of my past.

  I simply go through the motions of each day, going to classes, work, and letting my best friend drag me to these stupid parties, meanwhile waiting for a booty call from my current fling. I have no drive, no vision of what I want to do with my life. Some days I really don’t care if things ever change. Other days I think I’d be doing the universe a favor if I just didn’t wake up in the morning.

  You will become what you deserve.

  Did some ingenious poet with a MFA say that, or was it something I saw on Pinterest?

  I dump my drink into a half-dead fern in the corner that’s doubling as an ash tray, and check my phone for the billionth time in the last ten minutes. As usual, my best friend/roommate/wing-woman, Kelly, has become MIA, most likely hooking up on her way to the bathroom.

  Before I can leave in search of her, I’m approached by someone so incredibly tall that he’s possibly headlining in the circus. His dark eyes fall on me, filled with that drunken haze most guys get after a healthy dose of hard alcohol. His short, reddish-blond hair looks messy from some kind of playful scuffle with a buddy. The gray t-shirt he dons with the school’s logo and mascot plastered across the front looks wet from mid-chest down, most likely the result of a spilled beverage.

  “Hey, beautiful,” he co
os in a deep voice.

  Yep. This is about to happen.

  “Hey, random, drunk guy,” I answer, folding my arms over Kelly’s red shirt that shows far too much. One of these times I’ll stand up against her brash orders on what I can and can’t wear to these nightmares. These days I’m most comfortable in things that cover every inch of my skin, like a moo-moo or a snowsuit.

  He leans against the wall at my side, grinning in the cheesy way really cocky guys do when they think they’re being charming. “What are you doing here all alone, sweet thing?”

  “Oh, you know. Trying to avoid anyone who thinks because I’m standing here alone that it’s an open invitation to come hit on me.”

  His eyes narrow like he’s trying to focus. The smell of booze blasts off him with all the appeal of a skunk in heat. “I haven’t seen you around. You probably know who I am, right?” When I shake my head, he touches his chest with both hands. “Cal Howard? Starter on the basketball team?”

  “A baller?” I fake a gasp. “Shut. Up.”

  The kind of foolish, drunken smile that can make a guy look like a complete moron appears on his lips. Though I’ve never been to a game, I’m sure if his coach knew he could easily blow a .3 about now, he’d be on his way to developing a healthy dose of bleacher-butt next season.

  “A pretty little thing like you probably doesn’t know much about basketball. I could take you down to the court some time, teach you how to shoot. Maybe play a little one-on-one?”

  I send an SOS text to Kelly, hoping she’ll give up among her throws of passion to save me.

  Where r u? I’ve exceeded my capacity 4 douchery

  “You textin’ someone?” Cal asks, leaning down to get a look at my phone. Leaning way too close, I might add. The only thing worse than a sloppy drunk is one who’s big enough to fit me in his pocket, and even worse yet, determined. How exactly did I let Kelly talk me into coming here?