“It’s my specialty, what can I say?” Audra says, with a cutesy shrug and expression.
“Ten Hail Marys?” Nova suggests, laughing. “Or…maybe ten Hail Marys per guy you slept with?
Audra cackles. “I’d be saying Hail Marys for the rest of my life!” She smirks at Nova. “Going by the stories you were telling, though, I don’t think you’re too far behind me.”
Nova just smirks. “Wouldn’t you like to know? Nobody knows my number.”
Imogen frowns. “Her number?”
Audra fishes a credit card out of her purse. “The number of guys she’s slept with.”
Imogen laughs. “Oh. Well…I can tell you my number with one hand, and I’m not sure if I should be embarrassed or proud of that.”
I hold up my hand for a high five. “Same! Single digit partners sisters.”
Imogen high-fives me. “Unlike Señora Slutty Buns here,” she indicates Audra, “who would need to use both hands, both feet, both tits, and most of the hairs on her head to count, like, half of her sexual partners.”
Audra glares. “Are you slut-shaming me, Imogen Catherine Irving?”
“Yup!”
Audra breaks into cackles, leaning into Imogen. “Fair enough.” She turns serious, her eyes on me. “I think you should just get it over with and sleep with Ryder.”
I huff. “He stopped answering my calls and texts. Just…poof. Gone. Nothing. Nada.”
“So?” Audra gestures at herself and then Imogen. “We know where he works.”
“So, I’m not going to chase him. If he stopped wanting to talk to me, I’m not going to force it.”
“He’s just chicken because he likes you.” Audra flags down the waitress. “One more pitcher, and the bill on this card.” She hands the waitress her credit card before any of us can protest.
“Hey!” Imogen snaps. “We’re splitting it!”
“Not anymore!” Audra slaps the table. “I’ve made an executive decision for the group—we meet here once a week, and we take turns paying the entire bill. It’s a standing date, no breaking it for anything except the most important events.”
The other three of us exchange glances, and then Imogen nods and shrugs. “I’m in.”
“Me too,” Nova says. “I needed this in a bad way.”
“I’ll probably have to take out a loan to pay for it with the way we drink, but I’m in too,” I say.
The waitress comes by with another pitcher of skinny margaritas and the bill for Audra to sign, and then, for some reason, all attention is on me.
“What?” I ask. “Why is everyone looking at me?”
Imogen smirks, tapping me on the tip of the nose. “We’re waiting for you to tell us what you’re going to do about Ryder.”
“Nothing. I’m going to forget about him.”
“So why did we come here, then?” Audra says, frowning. “I thought this was about talking you into fucking him.”
I choke on margarita yet again. “No! I said it was about talking me out of fu—out of thinking about him.”
Audra just snorts. “Bullshit.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s not opposite day, Audra.”
Nova raises a finger. “I’m with Audra on this one. You wouldn’t have brought all four of us out to talk about Ryder unless you secretly, deep down, wanted us to talk you into seeing him again.”
“You went on, what, four dates? You go out with your girlfriends to get over a serious boyfriend, not a guy you went on four dates with.” She shoots me a questioning glance. “Did you do anything with him?”
I shrug, shaking my head. “Not really.”
Audra’s eyes fix on mine. “Not really? What does that mean?”
I blush. “It means we made out a little, and that’s it.”
Nova laughs. “You messed around, you mean.”
Audra moves her fist toward her mouth and pokes her tongue against the inside of her opposite cheek. “Yeah…messed around.”
“We kissed, mouth to mouth, and that’s it,” I say, feeling my cheeks burn.
Audra’s eyebrow arches. “After four dates all you did was kiss?”
I shrug. “I move pretty slowly, and I told him that up front. I’ve got a son, so I have to be careful about who I let into my life.”
Audra snickers. “Maybe that’s why he ghosted? You didn’t put out soon enough.”
Imogen slaps her on the arm again. “She told him up front that she wanted to take things slowly.”
“Yeah, but only kissing after four dates? That’s glacially slow.” Audra gives me a grin that says she’s just giving me crap.
“It’s totally normal,” I say. “Fucking on the first date is what’s unusual.”
Audra nods as if in agreement. “That’s why I didn’t date. I just fucked.”
“I fuck, hard,” Imogen quotes, making her voice deep and gruff, and we all cackle. “You’re out of your league with this one, Laurel.”
I laugh. “Oh, I know.”
Imogen pours the last of the margarita into our glasses. “You should at least find Ryder and talk to him, see why he suddenly stopped answering your messages. There’s got to be some kind of logical explanation.”
“What if his explanation is that he just doesn’t like me?” I ask.
“We get together again, and the margarita pours are a little heavy in your favor,” Nova answers. “And we ask for double the tequila.”
I just laugh. “If you get me hammered on tequila, you’d better be ready to babysit me, because tequila-drunk Laurel is…a handful.”
“I think that’s just the nature of tequila,” Nova says. “It has that effect on everyone.”
I sigh. “I don’t want to want his explanation. I don’t want there to be an explanation.”
“Why not?” Audra asks.
“Because I like him too much, and I just know he’s only going to ghost me again, and I’ll be even more invested by that point.”
Audra smirks. “When you called me, what you said was that you had fallen for him.”
I glare. “That was me being emotional—and tipsy. It was an exaggeration. You can’t fall for someone after four dates.”
Audra and Imogen just laugh, exchanging significant looks.
“What?” I demand.
They just laugh all the harder.
“Keep telling yourself that,” Audra says. “It’s not true, but it may let you sleep at night.”
I sigh, because the evidence does seem to be in their favor.
And it was a little bit more than a kiss that happened between us that night.
He knew it, I knew it, and chances are, that’s why he vanished on me.
UGH.
I just know this isn’t going to turn out well. But I’m a sucker for punishment, it seems, because I’m all too aware that I’m going to go talk to him.
“You’d better make it triple the tequila,” I say with a long sigh. “I have a feeling I’m gonna need it.”
Chapter 2
I check my makeup in the rearview mirror of my car, purse my lips, make sure I don’t have any lipstick on my teeth, and then angle the mirror downward. I plump my breasts, tugging the top down a little and pushing the girls up, and then huff in irritation at myself for putting so much effort into this. I rearranged my schedule today, skipping lunch and condensing things so I’d be able to leave before seven in the evening—and made sure Nate’s babysitter could stay later than her usual six p.m.
And I’m dressed to kill: tight knee-length black skirt that shows off all the work I do in the gym to keep my butt tight and some fairly plain but comfortable black heels that add to the effect the skirt has on my butt. I paired the skirt with a peach-colored top that leaves my arms bare and shows off just enough of my expensive cleavage—meaning these great tits are displayed to maximum advantage, with the aid of the low-cut top and a push-up bra. My hair is brushed to a glossy sheen and hanging in loose spirals around my shoulders. My makeup emphasizes the pale green of my ey
es and my naturally tan skin—which is a gift of genetics from my Sicilian mother…along with a heck of a temper and a voracious appetite for carb-loaded foods.
Assured that I look as good as possible, I straighten the mirror, take a few calming breaths, and then shut off the car. I step out, close my car door, and tug my skirt down a bit…then huff and tug it back up, letting the hem sneak up just above my knees. This isn’t about seduction—the opposite, if anything—but it won’t hurt to use what advantages I have, right?
It’s seven on a Friday evening, and I have it on good authority that Ryder McCann is in this building—Billy Bar. A dive bar with a reputation for being crammed to capacity most evenings, serving stiff drinks at decent prices, and bouncers that only step in and break up fights if they threaten to damage the décor. Billy Bar is a former Pizza Hut building with new blacked-out windows and a cool new paint job. I’ve never been inside before, but a few of my coworkers have and they swear it’s nicer inside than you’d expect. The parking lot gives me anxiety, though—or rather increases my feelings of being out of place. My car is a five-year-old BMW 4 series convertible that I bought pre-owned as a reward to myself for getting promoted to regional manager—it’s white with a tan interior, and there’s a booster seat in the back, and the inside is clean. The rest of the vehicles in the lot are, almost exclusively, either Harley-Davidson choppers or big masculine chest-thumping, macho-mobile pickups, most of which have lift kits and oversized tires, racks for ladders, enormous silver toolboxes in the beds, grille guards that could withstand a charging rhino, LED light bars, and interiors cluttered with soda bottles and fast-food wrappers and cigarette cartons.
Yeah, my little Beemer is out of place.
But Ryder is here, and it’s a public place. Not exactly neutral, as this is his favorite bar, according to Imogen and Audra. In fact, this is where all four of the Dad Bod Contracting guys come to drink. Today, though, it’s just Ryder, and maybe James—neither Franco nor Jesse was certain of James’s whereabouts.
I march into the bar, mentally repeating my orders to myself:
Keep an open mind; listen to what he has to say; don’t get sucked in by those mesmerizing hazel eyes…
And most importantly—don’t end up in bed with him.
I repeat this in my head over and over again as I enter Billy Bar and stand just inside the entrance, scanning the interior. It’s hypermasculine—an entire motorcycle hangs on one wall, with light fixtures made from car parts and industrial steel tubing, exposed beams and ductwork, giant beer signs and mirrors and neon tube lettering. Hard rock is blasting just loud enough to be an assault on the ears, but not so deafening that you have to shout to be heard. Most of the clientele is male, bunched in clusters with pints of beer and tumblers of whiskey clutched in fists with scarred and tattooed knuckles. There are plenty of women, but most of them seem to be paired up with other men, clinging to bare, burly arms and nodding at their every word with vapid giggles.
Ugh—I’m being judgmental.
I’m sure they’re nice intelligent women.
He’s hard to find—Ryder is huddled into a corner booth, alone, sipping from a beer and, strangely, doing nothing else. Just sitting there with his beer, alone.
I let out another deep breath and then cross the bar, twisting and shimmying between clusters of men—most of whom give me a once-over…and a twice-over…and a thrice-over, and more than a few lingering stares as I walk past. I feel so many eyes on me that I’m half tempted just to bolt right back out that door.
“Hey, babe. You must be new here,” a rough voice says.
I look up at the enormous, tattooed, bearded man blocking my way. “Hi. Yes, I am, and I’m actually meeting someone, so…”
He just stares down at me—or, rather, at my breasts. “He can wait. Have a drink with me.” It’s not really phrased as a request.
I glance past at Ryder, who is in the act of taking a long pull of his beer and then pausing to skim the bar with his eyes.
He sees me. His eyes widen, and then abruptly narrow.
I’m hemmed in on all sides by clusters of men, some of whom have noticed me, some of whom haven’t. Short of shoving or kicking—and making a scene I’d rather avoid—there’s no way past the man in front of me, who does not seem at all inclined to move.
“Like I said, I’m meeting someone, and I’m afraid I’ve already kept him waiting, so if you’ll excuse me…”
His laugh is a dark, ugly snarl of amusement. “This ain’t the place you go meetin’ boyfriends, sweetheart. Whatever he’s paying you, I’ll pay double.”
It takes a moment to fully comprehend what the man is implying, and then when I finally do, anger rifles through me. “Excuse me?” I hear my voice go high and shrill, as it does when I’m pissed. “What exactly are you implying?”
He reaches for me, a big paw wrapping around my waist and yanking me toward him. “You heard me. I’ll pay you double whatever he’s paying. Been a few days since I’ve gotten my dick wet, and your mouth looks awful pretty.”
I shove him backward as hard as I can. “Get off me!”
A thick hand covered in reddish hair and freckles shoots out, latches onto my assailant’s wrist and clamps down until his knuckles go white. My assailant grunts, and I watch as Ryder steps forward, twisting his hand until my assailant hisses. Ryder’s unruly thatch of bright red hair is tangled in front of one hazel eye, and a small mischievous smile curves his lips.
“Don’t apologize to the lady,” Ryder says in a voice as hard as nails and crackling with threat. “Seriously, I’m begging you, don’t do it.”
The other guy is as puzzled as I am; his voice, when he finds it, is tight with pain. “Wh-what?”
Ryder’s other hand is empty, hanging loosely at his side—he’s giving off the impression that he’s barely exerting any effort. “I really, really don’t want you to apologize to my friend.” His grin turns positively scary. “Because if you don’t apologize right the fuck now, I get to pummel you into a bloody pile of dog meat.”
“I’m—I’m sorry, lady. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Beg her to forgive you.”
“For—forgive me—please forgive me.”
Ryder’s knuckles are pale, his hand trembling with the power of his grip, which has the man’s arm and wrist and elbow all twisted in the wrong direction until it’s obvious that with one quick jerk, Ryder could snap multiple joints at once. “Tell her what a piece of shit you are.”
“I’m—I’m a piece of shit.”
“A puny, pathetic, filthy piece of shit who couldn’t get pussy he didn’t pay for if his life depended on it.”
“A puny—”
I touch Ryder’s arm. “Enough,” I interrupt.
Ryder’s eyes flick to me, to the man writhing in pain, and then back to me. “I heard what he said.”
I hate that a part of me finds this thrilling. “So did I. You’ve made your point—you’ve avenged my honor.”
His grin is quick but amused, and then he turns to the man, releasing him with a shove. “Take a swing—I fucking dare you.”
The man just stumbles away, shaking out his arm, looking pissed but unwilling to push it. With an ugly glare back at me and Ryder, he lurches out the door.
Ryder just smirks at me. “Fancy seeing you here.” He indicates the booth he was sitting in. “I’m over there.”
I follow him over and slide in opposite him—Ryder must be some kind of preferred patron or something, because a waitress appears almost immediately—she’s young and pretty, with brown hair and blue eyes and a cute smile for Ryder that I’m surprised to find isn’t at all flirtatious.
“Another beer for you, Ryder?” Her tone is familiar, personal.
Ryder nods. “Yeah, I’ll have another.”
Her eyes go to me, friendly and welcoming. “And for your friend?”
He glances at me. “Laurel?”
“I’ll have a gin and soda with a slice of lime.”
>
When she’s gone, Ryder turns his hazel eyes on me, brushing a lock of hair out of his eyes with a thumb. “So. What brings a classy broad like you to a dump like this?”
I snort. “Classy broad? Not sure if that’s an insult, a compliment, or both.” I look around. “And I wouldn’t call this a dump. It’s nicer in here than I expected.”
Ryder laughs. “I think most people expect it to be either a strip bar or a dirty hole in the wall.”
I snicker. “Well, that is pretty much what I would have expected, just looking at it from the outside.”
The waitress returns with our drinks; Ryder thanks her and then turns to me. “So. What are you doing here?”
I just grin and shrug. “This can’t simply be my favorite bar to come to alone on a Friday night?”
Ryder snorts. “Not likely.” He gestures around. “I helped Billy with the renovations of this place—all four of us did, actually—and I’ve been coming here every weekend since then.”
“Oh. So you’re saying you’d know if I’d ever been here before.”
“I’m saying the clientele of this place is almost exclusively contractors—the only women that ever come here are with a date or looking for…well, not a date, and let’s just leave it at that.” He scratches at his beard. “So…why are you here?”
I sigh. “I had it on good authority that you’d be here.”
He nods, sips his beer. “I see.” His smirk is cocky and annoying and knowing. “Stalking me, huh?”
I roll my eyes at him. “Stalking would be crazy, and I’m fairly certain I’m not crazy.” I fix him with a stare. “Maybe that’s why you stopped answering my texts.”
His eyes narrow. “Who have you been talking to?”
I counter his question with one of my own. “Why did you stop responding?”
He laughs. “A Mexican stand-off, it looks like.”
“I think a Mexican stand-off has to be more than two people,” I say.
He nods. “Ah, true.” His eyes search mine, and then make a brief but noticeable trip downward before sliding away to scan the crowded bar. “So how about this—we both answer each other’s questions at the same time.”
Nailed Page 2
