by Sonia Hartl
“I doubt you have trouble approaching women.” I swept a hand up and down. “With all of that going on.”
He blushed—actually blushed—and if I’d thought he was sexy before, I was definitely in trouble now. “It’s not that easy meeting new people in the city.”
“Tell me about it.” I’d tried dating after Aiden, but it took so much energy, and most men I’d matched with on Tinder felt too much like work. Literally. “The bar scene is a nightmare, but I like it here. This place seems way more my speed.”
He looked around, as if just becoming aware that we were in a public place, though the private cubby we occupied wasn’t nearly as public as the main bar area. “This is more my speed too. I come here most Tuesdays. It gets busy out front, but I can still have a drink and feel like I’m making an effort to go out. Even if I keep to myself.”
I wanted to touch his hand, a small physical connection that said I understood, but it was time to get this setup moving again. “It reminds me of the library at Northwestern.”
He tilted his head. “You went to Northwestern?”
I had. A sore spot in the series of disappointments known as my life, but he didn’t need to know that. “I work there.” I paused. “I was practically raised in their library too.”
Why had I told him that last part? I’d picked the Northwestern library specifically because I knew it so well, in case he was familiar with it. He only needed to think I worked there, nothing more. But I couldn’t seem to stop the truths from coming out. My mother had been so determined to make me follow in her academic footsteps that while other kids spent their summers chasing down ice cream trucks and braving the freezing waters of Lake Michigan, I spent mine in the library with my mom as she tried to get me interested in her research. It was where I’d first discovered books on art and realized what I really wanted to do.
“I spent a lot of time at the library as a kid too.” He ran a thumb over his pouty bottom lip. “Is that where you picked up an interest in art?”
“Yes.” Screw it. I’d already blown my studious librarian persona, and I still had his interest. Part of being a Heartbreaker involved leaning into the curves when a date went off-track. I relaxed as more of myself bled into the character I was supposed to be playing. “Working at Northwestern pays the bills, and that’s okay for now. One day I’d like to have my own gallery though.” One day would be within a few months if I kept saving my killer commission from H4H. “Immersing myself in art is all I’ve ever wanted to do. I’m not confident enough to show my own paintings yet, but I’d love to showcase other types of work from local artists, like sculptures, beadwork, photography. A mishmash of different media all in one place.”
“Are you thinking of staying in Chicago? Or trying a larger market, like New York?”
“Chicago is my home, and the art scene here is pretty amazing. It doesn’t feel as cold or competitive as the New York market. There’s a real sense of community here.” And I’d officially talked about myself too much. I needed to steer this ship back toward him. “What about you? Was Harvard or Yale ever your academic goal?”
“Nope. My family is here. I enjoy teaching at UoC and living in Chicago for much the same reasons you do. I’d like to have a full-time position though.”
He went on to share the specific areas of anthropology he connected with most. His area of expertise was modern culture, though he also had a passion for history. His enthusiasm for teaching was evident, though it felt a bit distant. As if the act of teaching meant more to him, but he had to hold back and play the part of the distinguished professor.
I knew all about playing parts.
Two hours later, which went by way too fast, I paid my tab with the waitress. She gave me a wink as she discreetly pocketed the second twenty I gave her for her silence. I should’ve moved this evening along faster, but I didn’t want it to be over just yet.
“Can I take you out this weekend?” he asked.
His easy question jarred me out of this temporary fantasy where I was just a woman in a bar having a conversation with a man I found interesting. It couldn’t go past this point. The thought made me inexplicably sad. I should’ve maneuvered the conversation while we were talking about his work and gotten him to say something disparaging about his position while I discreetly recorded him on my phone, but in the end, I didn’t have the heart to do that to him. Emma would call me soft. Margo would probably try to elbow her way back into overseeing my assignments. I’d just have to say he hadn’t gone for me. Not every target fell for the bait.
“Where do you want to take me?” I asked.
“Anywhere you want.”
“So eager to please.” I rubbed my thumb and finger up and down the stem of my glass, aware of the way Mark tracked the movement.
“I’m always eager to please.”
“Hmm.” I took a last sip of my drink. “Give me your number and I’ll call you later this week to make plans.”
As much as he intrigued me, as much as I wanted to see him again, I was a professional. Mark couldn’t be for me, but it wouldn’t hurt to get his number. I’d probably end up deleting it tomorrow when I was thinking more rationally anyway.
We stood, and I stumbled before I found my footing after sitting for so long. Mark put a hand on my shoulder to steady me, and I looked up at his storm-cloud eyes. His gaze once again dropped to my mouth—as it had been doing all night. I swallowed. This was so, so bad, but for some reason, I couldn’t recall why.
CHAPTER 4
Forgetting my role, my job, what I was supposed to be doing here this evening, I pushed up on my heels and caught his bottom lip with my teeth. I’d been wanting to nibble on it since I first saw him at Finnigan’s. He groaned, cupping the back of my neck as he dragged my body flush against his. He was rock hard. Everywhere. My hands roamed over him, as if I were desperately searching for a soft spot and coming up empty.
He backed me into the corner, tilting my head back to kiss me deeper. Heat pooled in my core. As my lips parted to let him in, a moan soon followed. His tongue, so gentle, brushed against mine before becoming more demanding. Wanting more, taking more, I dug my nails into his shoulders, going straight through that ridiculous sweater-vest. I needed to get closer.
He ran his hand under my skirt, gripped my thigh, and hauled me up against him. Right there. Oh God. Exactly where I wanted him. I was panting, literally panting. My hips ground against him, and I was on the brink of having an orgasm right in the middle of the bar.
Suddenly he broke away. I might’ve whimpered. Not my proudest moment, but dry-humping a guy I was being paid to manipulate in a public bar left little room for pride.
He ran a hand through his hair. “Christ. I just mauled you like an animal in the bar I come to every week. I’m so sorry.”
“I’ll accept your apology if you do it again.” That sounded dangerously like begging, which I had personal issues with, but screw it. I’d been too close to let him quit on me now.
He huffed out a shaky laugh. “I live a block from here, if you want to keep this going.”
I nodded. It was wrong on so many moral and ethical levels, not to mention it broke Margo’s cardinal rule—but no one had to know. I could do this one thing. One time. Just let go and take because I wanted to. It had been too long since I’d had a man’s hands on me, and while I managed to get by on my own, I missed the feel of being pressed beneath a hard body.
He took my hand, practically dragging me out of the bar. As soon as we stepped outside, he hoisted me against the stair railing, fitting me against him again. I attacked him with my mouth, dragged my lips up his throat, sank my teeth into his neck. I lost all sense of self and reason and became a writhing ball of need. My entire existence homed in on the pressure between my legs. The urgency of release. Just as I began to build once again, he pulled back.
“One block,” he said. His eyes were the color of tornadoes, and all I wanted him to do was rip right through me. He took my hand again,
and I had to sprint to keep up with him.
We managed to make it the full block without tearing each other’s clothes off. No small feat. I recognized his building as one I passed whenever I walked to Emma’s for girls’ night out. We took the stairs because he lived on the second floor and I doubted we would’ve made it out of the elevator. As soon as we hit his front door, I buried my fingers in his thick dark hair and yanked him against me again.
He fumbled with his keys as I rubbed him through his pants. The door flew open behind me, but he had a steady hand on my back to prevent me from falling. I didn’t even have a chance to look around as my hands and mouth brought us both near the edge.
His apartment was dark. I could barely make out the shapes of furniture in his open living room. The backs of my legs hit a bench by the door, and I sagged against it as he dropped to his knees. His hands trailed under my skirt.
“Is this okay?” His voice reminded me of rich bourbon over gravel, smooth and dirty.
“Yes,” I gasped. “It’s more than okay.”
He pushed my skirt up until it bunched around my waist. Hooking my lacy thong over his thumbs, he tugged it down. “I’ve been dying to taste you all night.”
I clenched a fist. Trembles raced up and down my spine. I would explode if he didn’t put his mouth on me. “Please.”
He trailed kisses over the inside of my thigh, breathing me in as he took his time torturing me. “God, you’re beautiful. Better than painted flowers.”
“Don’t make me laugh right now, I’m barely keeping it together.”
His chuckle turned into a hiss of pleasure as I sank my fingers into his hair and tugged him closer. He pushed my legs farther apart, fully exposing me, and dragged his tongue right up my center. I shuddered around him.
“So fucking sweet.” He put a finger inside me, then another, pumping in and out as he licked me again. “I bet it’ll be even better when you come.”
I moaned. I couldn’t even form words. I pushed against his mouth, gasping as I rode his tongue. He buried his face in me, like he couldn’t get enough.
“You’re so close.” His thumb circled my clit, and I nearly blacked out. He kissed the inside of my thigh. “Come for me.”
White spots clouded my vision as everything in me gathered down to that one point where Mark continued to work me over with his mouth. Something buzzed against my hip. What the hell? It had been a long time since I’d had an orgasm that wasn’t self-induced, but I didn’t recall it feeling like that.
It buzzed again, and I straightened up. My purse. My phone. Shit.
“What’s wrong?” Mark squeezed me behind my knees.
Emma and I always called each other to check in after an assignment. It was an extra layer of protection and gave us both a chance to vent. If I didn’t answer, she’d call Margo and demand she activate the tracking app. She was overprotective that way. Mark’s apartment would be swarming with police within minutes. And I couldn’t answer the phone in front of him. I’d have no way of talking myself out of that one.
I pushed my skirt down. “I need to leave.”
“What?” Mark sat back, his sex-glazed eyes clouding with confusion. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No. You were great. This was… great.” My phone buzzed again. I grabbed my purse and hauled ass out his front door. “I’ll call you,” I yelled as I let it slam behind me.
I made it to the stairwell entrance before I heard his door open behind me. Without looking back, I tore down the stairs. One of the heels on my cheap shoes gave out. I crashed against the railing, gripping it to keep from falling. My purse flew out of my hand, scattering the contents across the stairwell. I scooped them all back in as quickly as possible, then kicked off both my shoes and ran.
“Brinkley! Wait!” Mark was following me down the stairs. “Is everything okay? Let me help or apologize or, shit, I don’t know.”
The buzzing from my purse became a scream ringing in my ears. My pulse pounded in my throat. If I answered it within Mark’s hearing range, it would be all over for me. Why had I gone back to his apartment? There was no way this could go anywhere. I didn’t have time to date. I didn’t even have time for a quick little fling.
I skidded out of his building and rounded the corner. My gaze darted around the alley. I was trapped. Without thinking, I dove behind the dumpster and crouched down. I prayed to every god I could remember by name that he wouldn’t look back here.
“Fuck.” On the opposite side of the dumpster, Mark slammed his fist on the lid. “I’m such an idiot.”
I didn’t dare move as his defeated footsteps trailed away. I was shoeless and thongless, and I’d accidentally bumped my leg against a splatter on the wall. Something slimy slid against my ankle. On my list of Piss-Poor Life Choices, this currently ranked number one.
My phone buzzed again, and I forced my breath to steady as I answered it. “Sorry I missed check-in,” I said. “I’m just leaving the bar now.”
“I was about to call Margo,” Emma said.
“I couldn’t risk answering the phone in front of him.”
Emma paused for long enough that I pulled my phone back to make sure she was still on the line. “Call me when you get home.”
I hung up, heaving a sigh of relief as I slunk out from behind the dumpster and took the ultimate walk of shame home. And because the universe enjoyed mocking me, every corner showcased proper and normal couples in love. Outside a corner bakery, a guy with a shock of red hair kissed a girl with dark curls. The next street over, a guy so pale he was practically translucent got on one knee before a woman who had a face like a fish.
“Get out now, before he really screws you over,” I said as I passed them. Judging from both their expressions, I was very lucky I didn’t get punched.
By the time I made it to Finnigan’s—limping after I’d stepped on a discarded bottle cap and who knew what else on the filthy Chicago sidewalks—my bun had come half-undone and strands hung over my forehead in a tangled mess. And that slimy thing I’d felt on my ankle? Rotten coleslaw. The stench of it trailed me all the way back to my neighborhood. If I were a self-portrait, I’d title it Woman Gives Up.
So, of course—of course!—I had to run into the one person I never wanted to see again. The man who had broken me so completely, I didn’t paint for months. The reason I hadn’t had a proper date in more than two years.
“Brinkley?” I cringed at the sound of his voice.
I gritted my teeth in what I hoped passed for a smile. “Hello, Aiden.”
He looked the same as he had the last time I saw him. Same sandy-colored hair, same thin mouth, same condescending expression. The woman at his side clung to him like a partner in a three-legged race. It was a shame I didn’t have a bottle of Boone’s Farm wrapped in a brown paper sack, that would’ve really set off my whole ensemble.
“How are you?” His voice was laced with faux concern, purposefully, so he could make certain I knew he pitied me. The Midwest version of “bless your heart.”
“I’m doing very well, thank you. A few of my paintings recently sold for six figures, and I started dating one of the Cubs.” I might’ve oversold myself there, but Aiden had a way of bringing out the absolute worst in me.
His eyes narrowed. “Which Cub are you dating?”
“Jeter.”
“You mean Derek Jeter, former shortstop for the New York Yankees?”
Okay, so I knew jack shit about baseball. “No. The other, less famous, but still highly paid Jeter of the Chicago Cubs. Google him and cry.”
“We should go, babe.” The woman attached to his hip tugged on his shirt.
“Agreed.” His gaze passed over me with polite indifference. “It was good seeing you again. Send my regards to… Jeter.”
If karma were kinder, he would’ve caught me wearing a slinky cocktail dress and making out with my six-two, Mack truck boyfriend outside our private helicopter, while he developed gangrene on his nuts from a routine shaving
accident. But that wasn’t the way the world worked. At least, not for me.
CHAPTER 5
I slammed the door of my apartment, peeling my clothes off and leaving them behind in the hall as I headed toward the shower. Catastrophic didn’t even begin to sum up the night. I could never go to Finnigan’s again. In fact, it might be best if I moved out of Chicago altogether. Possibly the United States too, just to be safe. Running into Aiden had truly been the cherry on top of the enormous shit sundae I’d scooped myself into.
Hot water poured over me, washing away the lingering stench of coleslaw à la mode. If only I could reach inside my head to scrub my brain too. I’d thrown away the job with Mark when I needed the money, all for the temporary feelings I’d caught just because he listened and treated me like a human being. It sounded so pathetic laid out like that.
Worse, Selena would get her thousand dollars back and get to gloat about how I couldn’t land her target. She’d be so smug. It nearly made me want to lie, but I had no proof I’d done my job, and that’s what most clients wanted.
My first mistake had been getting personal with Mark. I never should’ve told him about my plans for the future. I never should’ve let it matter that he didn’t find them absurd. This couldn’t happen again. Staying in character made it easy for me to treat men like a job, and forgetting my place had put me into one hell of a mess.
Winnie climbed into my lap, hissing as she headbutted my hand, demanding attention. I picked up my phone and debated keeping Emma out of the loop, but she’d see through me eventually, and I needed someone to talk to.
“I messed up,” I said as soon as she answered.
“I knew it.” She clicked off The Good Place, which had been playing in the background. Emma Yoo was the kind of Netflix binger who only watched one show at a time, until she’d seen every episode; then she’d move on to the next. “Tell me everything.”
