Helen

It’s been less than forty-eight hours since I stupidly stormed out of my own house and I still haven’t slept, which means things are really really bad. Every time I close my eyes I see Luke’s palm connecting to my face.

I step out of the shithole motel I’m staying at and head to work. The sonofabitch cleared out our bank account and is holding my house hostage.

The texts from Luke vacillate between “Where the fuck are you?” and “I’m so sorry, sweets. Please come home. I miss you.”

I don’t reply to any of them.

Life changes so fast and after everything, I should have learned that lesson by now.

I met Luke while I was working at Starbucks one early afternoon. He ordered a tall cappuccino with two shots of espresso and made a funny quip about his caffeine intake, and somehow that had led to him charming his way into my life. Always, he made me feel like I was the only person in the world that mattered. He had no idea who I was or what the name Blackwood meant. He didn’t judge me, and I fell madly in love, quickly.

A year later, he started drinking and going out with his “boys” more and more often. And then he found out—thanks to Google—who my father is. Years two and three found me working two jobs while Luke disappeared for weeks at a time. Year four, I woke up one morning, looked in the mirror, and barely recognized the weak, complacent pushover I’d become. I’d had enough, but by the time I was ready to kick him out and make a real life-change, he was gone.

The only thing he’d left was a note that said: Use your daddy’s money to handle things.

I never understood what he meant, but I didn’t care. He was gone, and that was all that mattered.

Until now.

After ten months without a single word and all his belongings gone, I just assumed he wasn’t coming back. And I was happy. Confrontations gave me hives, and breakups were messy, especially since we lived together. So, I was relieved that he’d left on his own. Or maybe it was more like wishful thinking on my part. And between work and work and more work, I never made time to deal with the repercussions of his eventual return.

And now, here I am. Sprinting to my 2010 Toyota Camry while trying to ignore the catcalls and whistles from my seedy neighbors and the loiterers who wander around the building. Once I’m safely locked inside, I slam my fists against the steering wheel.

I’m so damn mad at myself.

After spending so many years homeless, I never ever thought I’d be on the brink of having to relive those tough times again. But here I am. Homeless. Well, I have a home, but no access to it. I know any one of my friends would let me crash at their apartment, but I’m too embarrassed to ask.

For the past two days, when I haven’t been at work, I’ve been trying to figure out what the hell I’m going to do. I went to the cops, but by the time they showed up, he was gone. Then, when I drove back home the next day, his car was there, so I couldn’t go inside for fear of another altercation. I went to an attorney, but she demanded money up front in order to help and since Luke cleaned me out the first moment he had an opportunity, I couldn’t retain her.

I hate to spend money on rent when I have a house, but until things are resolved with Luke I need a decent place to live. This motel is absolutely not decent, but at least it’s a roof over my head.

Bottom line—I’m exhausted, broke, homeless, and every time I see the bruise on my cheek or change the dressing on my foot, I’m reminded about how angry I am.

I should have opened a new bank account the moment Luke left me.

I should have left Luke years before he left me.

I should have sought legal help and had the house changed to my name months ago.

I should have . . .

Fuck, there are so many should’ves that I don’t even know where to start  . . .

It’s twelve years ago all over again.

Alex

When will this night end?

“Scotch. Double. Your best,” I say to the bartender, who looks at me like I’m fresh meat and she’s about to take a deliciously wicked bite. She flips her hair and smiles brightly, but I’m not here to meet a woman and even if I were, a bartender at a nightclub isn’t my thing. Hell, a nightclub isn’t my thing. When my expression remains stoic, her smile fades and she hustles to get my drink.

“Loosen up, Alex. We haven’t even gone upstairs yet,” Glen, the owner of PharmEc, says to me from across the booth in the loud, crowded nightclub. I sit back watching him smile and flirt with every woman that crosses his path. He’s a nondiscriminatory creep—flirting with tall, short, overweight, underweight, black, white, old, and young women alike. He’s cast a wide net, but there hasn’t been a single fish who’s looked twice. I have to give it to him, though—he’s persistent.

Dinner is part of the wine-and-dine shit show I tend to leave to Bradley. I can deal with it if I have to, but when Glen said he wanted to go to a nightclub I almost told him to fuck off. Being in any way associated with someone who acts like Glen—like a randy teenager who flaunts his money around in an effort to draw attention—leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Not to mention, I just don’t like the guy. And everyone who knows me knows I detest loud noise and crowded rooms where people are constantly bumping into me.

But, there’s a lot of money at stake, so I have to keep playing the “game” even if I’m wary of Glen.

Years ago, my family was royally fucked over by Edward Blackwood, my godfather and my father’s best friend. An awkward man, my father didn’t have many friends, but Edward embraced him for all his quirkiness and by the time they entered college together, they were more than friends—they were like brothers. Which is why I grew up in the Blackwood home, playing in their stables and swimming in their pool.

Because of the Blackwoods, I question everyone’s intentions and trust no one. My lack of trust comes from firsthand experience. Painful, stabbed-in-the-back, lose-everything kind of experience. Which is why a dozen years ago, I happily watched the news coverage of Edward being cuffed and escorted to prison. Unfortunately, Edward’s demise was the beginning of my family’s downfall.

Most people are motivated by money and power. Not me.

Anger and revenge, those are my motivators.

They have been ever since I found my father on the floor of our mansion, his brains splattered all over the carpet, the gun still warm in his lifeless hand.

Unfortunately, the anger hasn’t subsided, even knowing that Blackwood will never see sunlight again.

So, here I am in the club, Duality. Playing the game. Buying drinks and being friendly. That is, until I get what I want, and what I want is PharmEc. Tonight, I’m the amiable host who’ll be a great fit for Glen’s family business. Tonight, I’m the man who’ll show Glen that a life of leisure and excess is much better than having to wake up every morning to go to work and run an empire. But, I need to seal this deal soon. My PI team already told me that my competitors have been circling PharmEc and the interest in the company is growing, which means the price will soon go up. The law of demand.

I try to stifle a yawn as Glen buys a round of drinks for a table of bachelorettes. It’s becoming difficult to keep pretending I want to spend one more second with the dirty old man and his huge gut and crooked tie. Considering his current wealth and what he’s about to amass when the sale goes through, he could at least wear a real tie instead of a clip-on.

This is a huge deal for Archer Technologies and it’s infinitely easier to purchase the company outright than to take it over, or so my attorneys say. But, if I’m forced to play nice and drive this douchebag to one more place, I’m calling those same attorneys and going the hostile-takeover route.

As the bartender slides the drink over to me, the loud music becomes even louder, irritating my mood even further. And I won’t even get started on the strobe lights. I take a gulp and let the warm liquid work its magic on my mood. “And what’s upstairs?” I ask, feigning a smile.

“Jesus, Alex. Everyone who’s anyone knows what Duality is. Downstairs is vanilla, and upstairs is a titty bar.”

I put down my drink and adjust my cuff links, trying to hide my annoyance.

“Have you ever been married, Alex?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so,” he says, tipping back the rest of his drink. I’m not sure why he is bringing up his wife now. He certainly didn’t have her on his mind a moment ago. “There are three kinds of married sex, son.”

I hate it when anyone calls me “son” and he’s been doing it all night. I only had one father and he’s gone. But I swallow more of my drink and listen to him.

“There’s kitchen sex. That’s when you’re newly married and have sex everywhere, including the kitchen table. Can’t-keep-your-hands-off-of-each-other kind of sex. The second is bedroom sex. This is after that newlywed time has passed, and now you have kids and the only place you can have sex is in the bedroom. Probably scheduled.”

“Can’t wait,” I say sardonically.

“Then the third kind is hallway sex. That’s when you pass each other in the hallway and say ‘screw you’ to the other person.”

My parents had a cordial relationship. It was not a relationship based on passion, but they were respectful, and there were a handful of times I even saw affection. I can’t imagine my father ever saying, or even thinking, that about my mother.

“The women upstairs are better than your hallway sex, I presume?”

“What I’m saying is that I’m way past hallway sex, son. I’m well into a different category of sex. Courtroom sex. That’s where she’s about to take me to court and fuck me six ways to Sunday!” He throws his head back and laughs heartily, and sloppily, half of his drink spilling down the front of his shirt, and he pats me roughly on my shoulder blade. It takes every ounce of my self-control not to pummel him right here in the middle of a nightclub.

“Anyway, I always did prefer young, perky tits.” He grins, wolfishly, as he takes out a wad of dollar bills. I shake my head and glance at the signs that are all over the club.

“This isn’t a strip club.” I signal to a sign that states that you can’t touch the dancers.

“Didn’t your daddy ever teach you that money’ll buy you whatever the hell you want?” He puts his drink down and fans the cash. The fact that he mentions my dad in the same vein of conversation as strippers makes me want to push my fist through his face. “When you’re ready to get laid, meet me upstairs and I’ll pick out a nice piece of ass for you. Or maybe you prefer small and petite? Buyer’s choice,” he jokes, and heads the opposite way.

I exhale loudly and move to a booth in a darkened corner, where I can avoid everyone and wait for Glen to finish up . . . or get arrested.

At this point, jail is my preferred option.

If the sonofabitch has no loyalty to his own family, how can I ever trust him professionally?

Helen

When will this night end?

“That’ll be sixty-four fifty, hon.” I smile widely at the guy in front of me and in return get a big, fat tip. But the skin where Luke hit me still aches and feels tight, which makes my smile wonky.

“What will it be?” I ask another guy as I close out the last tab. The club’s packed, and it’s been nonstop since I started working four hours ago. Thank God, because if I stop for a minute, my mind will wander to all my problems. Specifically my two-hundred-and-ten-pound problem.

Fritz, the bouncer, signals for me. “Boss wants you at VIP as soon as you can. Jane had an emergency and had to bail early, and he’s slammed.”

“Got it.” I finish what I’m doing and let the other three bartenders working with me know that they’re on their own for the rest of the night.

Working VIP is weird. You’d think we’d all be fighting for the spot. But we’ve quickly learned that there are two kinds of VIPs. The assholes who spend thousands upon thousands for bottle service, who flaunt their wealth but when it comes time to pay, don’t leave a tip. And then there’s the generous group who’ll drop a thousand-dollar tip after only an hour. I’m hoping for the latter. Hell, I’m praying for it. God knows I need the money. If I can’t make money quick, I’m going to have to sell some of the things I was hoping never to have to touch.

I wave at the bouncer, who opens the red velvet rope to allow me access to the VIP area. Matt, one of the owners of Duality, is working the register, and when he sees me he sighs in relief.

“I got this, Bossman,” I say to Matt. He’s my favorite of the owners, always smiling and laid-back, although I’ve gotten to know Iggy a little more lately, and he’s pretty cool too. Nick, Matt’s brother, is the hottest of all the owners, but he’s too broody for my taste. I prefer my men nice and verbal. Nick tends to grunt and bark most of the time, except when his fiancée, Katherine, is around. Then he’s all swoony. Nevertheless, Nick is sex on a stick.

I’m done with the broody, sexy type. In my youthful naïveté, I used to dream about marrying a man who wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off of me because I was his entire world and he was mine. He’d sweep me off my feet and treat me like royalty. But reality has hit me square in the face (literally), and right now I’ll settle for “well.” I just need a reliable guy who’ll treat me well. Because I’m no princess, and quite frankly, I don’t want a prince anymore.

Which makes me think of Luke and how I used to think his mysterious demeanor and bad-boy charm was the sexiest thing ever. I almost trip over my own two feet as I walk behind the bar thinking about how stupid I’ve been. When I left Seattle for Miami, I was a pampered, sheltered, naïve girl who didn’t know a thing about the real world. With everything that I’ve survived, I should know better by now. How many times does life have to kick me in the ass for me to stop being so trusting and naïve?

“You okay?” Matt’s face is full of concern, and for a brief moment I feel like hurling myself against him and unburdening all of my problems while he hugs me. I feel like crying and feeling sorry for myself. I feel like I just want someone for once in my entire life to tell me what to do. I’ve been working with Matt now for a few years, and I consider him more than a boss. He’s become a friend, just like many of my coworkers.

But I can’t tell him, or anyone, about my problems. I’m humiliated, and I don’t want them involved. Luke can be unpredictable and dangerous. So, I do what I do best . . . I smile widely and fake it.

“Yeah, yeah . . . my mind drifted for a second. So, what’s going on?”

“Guy in the booth,” he points to the corner, “Blue Label, neat.” Matt scrutinizes me again. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine. You know me . . . daydreaming.” I turn away from Matt and pour the drink, then go around to the isolated table. The back of the booth is high, and I can’t see who is on the other side. Most people don’t like sitting here because you can’t see the rest of the club, which is usually the point of being at a . . . well, a club.

“Here you go. Whiskey, neat.” I set it on the table without looking at the customer. I’m already halfway turned to go back to the bar when I hear, “Thank you.” The voice is deep and baritone and strangely familiar, but I can’t exactly pinpoint how I know it. Nonetheless, my skin erupts in goosebumps and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on edge.

His arm shoots out and he grabs my wrist to stop me from walking away. “I know you,” he says as I turn around.

When one of the strobe lights shines our way, I see his face. It’s a face I daydreamed about throughout my teenage years, most of my twenties, and even now at thirty, every time a man with jet-black hair looks my way I still think about that face. “Alex? Alex Archer?” I say, surprised.

Talk about a blast from the past.

And speaking of broody men . . .

Those green eyes framed by unfairly long lashes stare at me intensely. His hair doesn’t fall down over his eyes anymore. It’s parted neatly to the side, not one strand out of place. He’s still holding my wrist, and I wonder if he can feel how my pulse quickens underneath his touch. My girlish crush, which should have long ago been extinguished, if not by age then by the circumstances of our estrangement, hasn’t left. But he’s looking at me as if he can’t put a name to my face, which is quite a blow to my ego.

“Helen Blackwood.”

Okay, so he does remember me.

How could he not? We grew up together. Until that night twelve years ago when my house was raided and my father was arrested, he was part of my life. He was also my first kiss. My first love (although he didn’t know this). And, he’s still the kiss I compare all other kisses to. It was magical, and the only thing from that evening that I remember fondly.

The night of my eighteenth birthday.

The night of first kisses and broken dreams.

The night I was completely alone as my life was turned upside down. Literally. Feds came in, flipped mattresses and cushions, searched nooks and crannies, and questioned me for four days. I had nothing to say. Because I knew nothing. And before I had a chance to process what was happening, everything was gone: my house, cars, jewelry, bank accounts. Everything.

I shake the thoughts out of my head and focus on the gorgeous man sitting in front of me.

“Oh my God! How are you?” I lean down and give him a big, familiar hug, but it’s awkward because he’s sitting stiffly and not reciprocating the gesture.

But when has Alex Archer not been awkward? All of my friends used to tell me he was strange. Strange like his father. But I never saw it. I only ever saw the rare smile with the one deep dimple that I could always coax from him, and the crooked nose from when he fell off my horse on his thirteenth birthday, and those overly thick thighs from hours of tennis and racquetball.

I stand up and back away, feeling a bit stupid at my one-sided display of affection.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

I smile and push my hip out, a hand at my waist. What a dumb question. “I work here.”

“Here? At a club? You’re a bartender?” he blurts out, with a look of utter disbelief.

“You always were bright,” I say with a chuckle, but he doesn’t smile back.

“How can you be working here?” He looks around, completely stunned at the idea. It’s not like I’m working at a skeevy dive bar, for God’s sake. This is a very high-end Miami Beach establishment. I make decent money.

“I’m not sure I understand the question.” Now I’m getting riled up and feeling defensive.

“You’re a Blackwood.” That takes me aback. No one has said that—Blackwood—with that meaning for a very, very long time. Here, in this city, particularly on the beach, where everyone is either a tourist or a socialite with too much new money to blow, no one gives a shit whether I’m a Blackwood or a Rockefeller.

“And you’re an Archer,” I say, matter-of-factly, but he still seems completely perplexed.

This is the guy I’ve compared every man in my entire life to. I’ve put him on this pedestal of perfection, with his amazing mind and handsome face.. But as he sits there and judges me, I see the pedestal begin to crumble. Or maybe I’ve just grown wiser. Whatever the case may be, Mr. Perfect is looking more and more like Mr. Judgmental Asshole right now. And the more I think about it . . .

I’ve been trying to just survive for so long, I’ve never given myself a chance to think about what I went through. I’ve thought long and hard about my father and all he’s had to endure, but never stopped to think about myself. The worst thing about those first lonely months twelve years ago was how everyone turned their backs on me. My friends’ parents blamed me for their sudden loss of money and I was shunned. All I heard at the time were whispers about Ponzi schemes and fraud, and embezzlement and things I knew nothing about. I was barely out of high school, focused on designer handbags, cute boys (well, one in particular), and college entrance essays. I felt terrible about their bad fortune, but it wasn’t my father’s fault. My dad explained how they had made bad investments and were trying to pin their bad luck on him.

The only thing I understood was that the allegations were about bad crimes that my father didn’t commit. Unfortunately, he had to plead guilty because he couldn’t pay the legal fees to defend himself if the case went to trial, but had the Archers or any of our close family friends helped him, lent us just enough to pay the attorneys, he wouldn’t be sitting in prison right now and I wouldn’t be busting my ass serving drinks to judgmental dickheads like Alexander Archer.

Three months after the final piece of furniture was auctioned off and my house sold, I left for Florida, just as my dad asked. But it wasn’t because he asked; it was because I had nothing left in Seattle. Not one friend, not one dollar.

I was all alone and everywhere I went, I was looked at like a leper.

So why am I acting like a sixteen-year-old with a crush? The Archers were the closest friends we had, and they completely abandoned us. No. Not us. They abandoned me. Not once did I get a phone call, a little help . . . anything. For all they knew, I was dead somewhere.

With this parting thought, my attitude changes instantly.

I remember having to turn down Stanford University because I couldn’t afford it any longer. Well, the truth is, they didn’t want me either. Not after the shitstorm that surrounded my father and our family name. I think about the first time I met Gina—she worked with me at a fast-food chain, and she took me to a place where I could crash for free until I had enough for a real place to live. It turned out to be a free campsite somewhere in the middle of the Everglades. I was scared and penniless, but I also realized that there were people worse off than I was. People like Gina who were real survivors. Gina had been on her own since she was fourteen and had never had even a taste of comfort. Yet she always wore a smile on her face and showed me how to become a survivor too. Eventually, I was able to scrounge up enough for an old beat-up car, which became my home for a while. All because I was ostracized and this man sitting in front of me didn’t lift one finger to help. He couldn’t spare a little of his millions to help me.

So yeah . . . fuck him.

“God, will I ever learn?” I mutter to myself.

I pull my hand away, turn and go back to the bar, trying to figure out what the hell just happened while tamping down the emotions I’ve had bottled up inside for over a decade.