Muscle

by Lexi Whitlow

“I do. But like I said, I don’t have much at stake. I can do what I want.” Finn doles out second and third drinks to the gaggle of girls watching him and giggling at his every word. Charismatic. Charming. The smart one.

  “Yeah, well. I guess you can.” I keep my eyes locked on the girl. Skin so pale, eyes big and searching. She’d probably give anything for a night with a guy like me. She looks like one of those romantic types, too. “I might be a guy with an idea. What you said makes a little bit of sense. That thing about not just having a one-night stand. I told you I was always thinking of Brie.”

  “You’ve said that, yeah.” Finn steps to my side. He looks at me, meaningfully, like he does. “Forget what I said, Liam. Just lay off any stupid shit right now. No runs for the family. No girls. You might have a goddamn good lawyer. Mickey Donnelly is terrific as a lawyer. But judges don’t like guys like us, and not every one of them around here is in our pocket. It’s not 1970, and Dad doesn’t have the hold he used to. Just a fair warning. Your hearing is coming up in—”

  “Thirty days,” I say. It’s automatic. The number is seared into my brain. A few days before I see her again, before Marta drags her in front of our lawyers. Then maybe a supervised visit if they let me, if everything looks good enough and everyone agrees. Twenty days until the next supervised visit, maybe an overnight. And thirty until the hearing.

  Everyone in my family thinks I’m a fuck-up. A man-whore. But I did make it off parole without a single violation. I haven’t touched a single drug besides beer in two years, and my every waking thought outside of getting pussy and tending bar goes to her. There’s no reason I can’t work a good idea in between getting girls and tending bar. Really, it’s Finn’s idea. I can blame him if Mom gets pissed at me. Though I can’t really use that excuse with Marta.

  I keep looking at the girl. There’s something about her.

  Finn nods. “Okay. You can keep your shit together for that amount of time. Maybe.” But he can see I’m not paying attention to him anymore. He looks in the direction I’m looking and grins. “That’s Rhiannon Maguire. She’s out of your league. Can’t say I blame you for looking.”

  “Not the redhead. The girl with her. The one with the curves.”

  “That I don’t know. All I can tell you for sure is that she’s definitely out of your league. Stay far away. Far, far away. She looks like she woke up one morning and decided she wouldn’t be a nun after all.”

  I cuff Finn on the shoulder, and he hits me back. “Every single goddamn girl who walks in this bar has heard of me. And they want to fuck me. They know what I can do—”

  “Yeah, fine. But those girls aren’t the ones who come in the bar every night. Rhiannon is some kind of—therapist, I think. And that other girl—she probably walked out of Columbia University yesterday. Nice jewelry. Nice haircut. No dye, no fake tan. Like I said, that one—” He points at the dark-haired beauty conspicuously. “She’s way out of your league. Trust me on this, bro. You need to leave her the fuck alone. And do me a favor—forget I ever implied you should have a relationship. For some people, that would be a bargaining chip in court. For you, you’d find a way to make her into a liability. She’s way too good for you.”

  I watch her for a few seconds more. She looks down. Runs her fingers through her hair. Something inside of me tightens, like it wants more. More of all of that. And she’d be damn perfect for a relationship. She’s a judge’s wet dream. Proper, smart, college-educated. And she’s hot as hell in that way that a librarian is hot. Like a school teacher who gets dirty behind closed doors. Something tells me she hasn’t been too naughty before, but I can change that. By the time I do, she’ll be happy to stay.

  I shrug. “Let’s just hope she doesn’t know she’s too good for me. She’d be perfect in front of the judge. And the lawyers. And I think she could help keep Marta away from that money I have saved for Brie.”

  “Don’t think about it. Stop thinking about it. I never should have said anything,” Liam says, groaning. “How the fuck am I related to you again?”

  “You think it’d be easy enough to get her name on that trust?”

  “Jesus, I don’t know, Liam.” Finn turns and grumbles, paying attention to the women coming in instead of me.

  My lawyer Mickey Donnelly would know exactly how to arrange every damn bit of it. This girl is ripe for it. A scam like I used to run every once in a while, except this is for a good cause.

  She’s damn hot, too.

  And I’m also hoping she’s available for the next thirty days.

  My cock twitches. I almost like the idea of taking her to breakfast, if I get to wake up next to her and fuck her all over again. The family is supposed to come over tomorrow morning, anyway. Fucking, breakfast, lay the surprise on that she’s my girlfriend. Fiancée. Whatever. Sure, that could work.

  I smile. Just looking at this girl, I know she’ll be a challenge. She doesn’t have one night stands. She doesn’t mess with ex-cons covered in tattoos, and she’s not out for a casual fuck. And I’m almost certain she’s not a mafia groupie girl.

  I imagine her bouncing on my cock, throwing her head back in ecstasy.

  I nod at my brother and start walking toward the girl. He sighs and shakes his head. All he sees is the screw up, the one who never does anything right. Well, I’m damn good at being a dad, and it’s about fucking time I got custody of my own damn flesh and blood. The judge has been on me about getting a stable environment together for Brie. Wifey, house, breakfast on Sundays.

  This girl has that wholesome shit written all over her. She’s a poster child for stability. And she’ll be begging me for more once I get a hold on her.

  It’s impulsive, reckless. Probably idiotic.

  I nod at her, and she blushes.

  But, I’m going in for the kill—and I never miss.

  Skye

  “You need a casual fuck,” Rhiannon says. She hands me a drink. “It’ll fix everything. Trust me. I know one of the guys who owns this bar. One of his brothers will apparently deliver exactly what you need. My friend Trista said it was like nine, ten inches at least. And he knows how to use his tongue.”

  “That’s good,” I say. “I guess. Isn’t that like—too big?” I blush, cheeks hot and red. He looked at me. I could swear it.

  I should be home re-reading Harry Potter and The Prisoner of Azkaban. Or listening to that podcast I downloaded. Pouring myself one, measured glass of chardonnay. I could put it together with that fig and honey cheese I got from the farmer’s market.

  That’s my life—measured, boring, reliable, predictable. My own mother said I needed a little bit of adventure in my life. But adventure seems dangerous. My heart hurts when I think of any kind of adventure, stomach dropping. I’m not good at that stuff. Not redheaded or talkative, or much of anything at all.

  “In my personal experience, that’s juuuust right,” Rhiannon says. “Trust me. I know you’ve only slept with Charlie, and by the look of his truck, he was definitely covering up for something. You need a walk on the wild side. This guy is an ex-con, and now he owns a bar. He’s the kind you won’t see again, so it doesn’t matter. What does matter is the glorious size of his reputation.”

  I blush even harder, though I don’t believe that’s humanly possible. The redness extends all the way to my ears, like my own body is trying to prove to everyone in the bar how lame I actually am.

  “Ha. Yeah,” I choke out. It seems like the kind of noncommittal response Rhiannon would give. “Size of his reputation. I get it. That’s funny.”

  My dearest friend in the world has no idea I’m a virgin. You’d think Charlie would have taken the opportunity to finally fuck me in the six years we were together, but he didn’t. He was always way too focused on Jesus. He wanted us both to wait. He made me wait all this time, and where did that get me? Nowhere. I just turned twenty-three, and I’m still a virgin. In every way. I’ve only ever been kissed.

  The mere mention of a cock that big—it makes me quiver wit
h fear. But it also makes me feel empty inside, and intensely excited in a way that I haven’t been before. I take two giant gulps of the Cosmo Rhiannon got for me, and I choke and sputter. Too much at once.

  Much like a dick that’s too big? I wouldn’t know.

  I always thought about it a lot. Sex. Then I met Charlie, and I thought he was the one. Pretty stupid idea. Rhiannon might be right. I might need a casual fuck, as she says. But it terrifies me. What would it even feel like to have a man touch my body? To have him inside of me?

  I shiver. Maybe not tonight. Another time.

  Pretty ridiculous for a girl who always wanted to be a romance author. I always liked the parts with the sex. My mom’s old Harlequins were dogeared and cracked on the seams. There were a few that opened right up to the good parts—the pirate capturing the maiden, taking her down to the hold for the first time, her dress ripped, exposing one fair, virgin shoulder.

  It was romantic in those books to be a virgin. A maiden. Maidens are sexy. Virgins are lame.

  For a grown-ass woman in the publishing business, it’s just pitiful. And hilarious, if I’m looking at it on a good day.

  “You look smoking hot, Skye. That bad boy is here for you. Like a gift from God. He’ll show you how it’s done. I’m sure Charlie had no idea.”

  “Oh, you’re right. He had literally no idea at all.”

  I look around and sip my drink, slower this time. The guys here are hot. They’re all bad boys. They’ll give me a good time, pay for my drinks, and fuck me silly until morning. And what’s more, they won’t expect me to come back around. I try psyching myself up.

  That one guy, the one behind the bar, he looks at me again. A chill runs down my spine.

  “Trust me. You’ll definitely find what you’re looking for here. That outfit looks fierce as shit.”

  “I’m… passable.” I’m wearing a shirt that’s far too low cut, a skirt that’s far too short, and a thong that Rhiannon made me buy at Target. It feels weird. Not just the thong; the whole outfit she dug out of her closet and forced onto my body. She shoves me up to the bar and flags down a second drink. She’s like that—always easygoing with her personality, with her body.

  I usually end up watching people from a corner and taking notes on their names and body language on my phone. I do it for myself—for the novels I’d like to write someday. And for my boss, Mariella Davidson, the famous romance author who writes about exactly this type of guy. I told Rhiannon that this bar would be good research—but I told her that when we were a bottle of wine into our pre-gaming, back at her apartment. I’m feeling way too sober to be here right now. Low lights, the smell of beer and old smoke, alpha male types laughing way too loud and talking over one another. And girls, every one of them taller, thinner, and more charismatic than I am.

  Rhiannon shoves another drink in my hand, and I sip it tentatively, like it might bite me. Like everything in here might. This one is clear, and much stronger.

  “You look way more than passable. I keep telling you, guys like boobs. And you’ve got them. And an ass like Beyoncé,” Rhiannon says. “Well maybe not quite like her, but you know what I mean. It’s really good. It’s a real nice ass.”

  I laugh. “I don’t think Beyoncé would like that comparison.”

  “She would. I promise you that.” Rhiannon points at me, tottering from side to side a bit.

  Clearly, Rhiannon is not feeling her sobriety. I laugh and try the drink again. “You’re full of shit. But I’ll take the compliment. I kinda doubt that guy is going to notice me though. It seemed like a good idea back at your place—”

  “The Dougherty brothers own this place. I know Finn. And his brother—the one I was telling you about—he’s the guy. Ten inch cock. Or nine, whatever.” Rhiannon shrugs like it doesn’t matter. “And with you, looking like you do—you could pull him into the bathroom, just like that.”

  I cringe. “The bathroom? Isn’t that a little…”

  “You’re right. It’s gross. But you need to get laid. It’s been forever, right? This is the place to do it. And it’s your research. For science.” Rhiannon looks at me and winks. She pulls off the whole sex kitten thing really well, even though she’s an overworked social worker by day. She polishes off the last of her vodka tonic and clinks the ice in the glass, signaling the bartender again.

  “Oh yeah, research.” I look down at my drink. Is it straight vodka? What the hell did she order for me?

  “You’re a romance author. This type of thing should be part of the job!” She laughs, loud. Too loud.

  Nervously, I look around to see if anyone heard Rhiannon. If that guy heard her. The one with the bedroom eyes, like they say in the old Harlequin romance novels. When she’s drinking, her voice gets twice as loud and an entire octave higher.

  “Oh God, no. I’m not an author at all.” I groan. “I assist Mariella. That’s all I do. She’s the romance author. I’m just the intern. Barely paid. I get coffee. I look over proofs. I get her marketing and interviews and all that shit. That’s not called being an author. It’s called being an English major with no direction in life. But I will take down some notes and get a list of good names. I like doing that kind of thing. And I’m good at it. Maybe that’s the best thing I can hope for tonight.”

  Rhiannon rolls her eyes and tries to get a few more drops of vodka out of the bottom of her drink. “You want to write like her. That’s what you said. And this is the place to get laid, get the juices flowing. It’s all in the name of research. For science. It’s bad boy central. And this is the best place to learn your trade.” She gestures broadly to all the bar, and I catch her hand, bringing it quickly back to her side.

  “Rhiannon, come on.” Researching bad boys and hooking up with strangers had seemed like great ideas when we were drinking wine at her apartment an hour ago. But now—it seems sort of terrifying even if it’s exciting, too.

  “We came here for bad boys. So, you need to actually start talking to boys. One in particular, I think. His name is Ian or something. Something Irish. You need to talk to him. So, you can, you know—” Rhiannon makes an obscene gesture with her fingers, and I bury my face in my hands. “Seriously—it’s been—how long?”

  It’s been never. And yes, I get it, I’m pathetic. Especially if I want to be a writer someday.

  “Six months or so. I guess. That’s how long it’s been.” I take another long swig. It burns my throat. The way this conversation is going, I decide to finish it off, hoping to get some of the buzz back that I lost when we came in. With Rhiannon, drunk-yelling about my sex life, I’ll definitely need something more than a buzz. The drink is gone now, and I’m still about to jump out of my skin.

  Rhiannon clinks her glass against the bar again, and finally, the bartender takes a step closer. A shadow falls across him, obscuring his body. But even from here, it strikes me—he’s the kind of man that could be an adventure, a major life event. The kind Mariella might write about if she weren’t so in love with billionaires at the moment. It’s like he materialized straight from one of the covers of her books.

  “Another one for her too!” Rhiannon shouts at him. “She’s thirsty. For vodka. Or whatever. And men. Definitely men.”

  The bartender steps into the light, laughing and polishing a glass instead of focusing on the growing crowd and line of customers. He nods to another man behind him, who starts taking orders. He takes a step closer to us, and my heart catches in my throat for a second. I had that tingling sensation before when he caught my eye, but as he approaches, I see what Rhiannon was talking about. This is the kind of guy who would be called a legend in my high school. He’s a swaggering, muscle-filled, chiseled masterpiece. It might be the alcohol, but this guy—he takes my breath away. I close my eyes for a second and imagine him as the pirate, the one who took the maiden down below deck.

  I open my eyes again. He’s still there. Looking at me, harder than he did before.

  Rhiannon taps on the bar again, gesturing at hi
m wildly.

  I hope he doesn’t walk over here. I hope he does.

  Fuck.

  Not that I’m into that sort of thing beyond the research I’m doing or the novels I like to read. Or that I even really know what that sort of thing is like. Hazel eyes, beneath dark eyebrows, flash in our direction. When he smiles, it sends another tiny shiver down to the base of my spine. But I’ve known guys like him—all talk and flashy watches, black t-shirts, and pick-up basketball. Not the type that gives a second glance my way.

  He did glance at me before. But that was probably a trick of the light.

  “What do you ladies want? I can’t come down there just to wait on a couple of pretty girls. I have responsibilities. Customers.” He takes a step toward us, his voice steady and deep. There’s a slight rasp to it, like he’s been talking all night. When he comes closer, I can see the faintest hint of dark stubble. Beneath the sleeve of his black t-shirt—or is it dark gray?—I can see the beginning of a multi-colored tattoo. His eyes catch mine for a moment, and he gets a beer from the tap for himself. When he drinks it, the tiniest bit of foam clings to his upper lip. Even from here, ten feet away, I can see the fullness of his lips, the square jawline, the hooded intensity of his eyes.