Chapter One
Roxanna
Heartbreak and anger, the kinds that gnaw at your insides until it’s all you can think about, swell inside me. Smoke and steamy vocals about loss, love, and the escape of a stranger’s lips, tickle my senses.
I shut my eyes, blocking out the people around me — the trendy guys with beards, the trendy guys without beards, everyone, even my best friend — and try to listen to the singer’s words, internalize them, imagine a time when I’ll be ready to spend a night with someone new. Someone that won’t cheat on me.
Fuck you, Erick Burtram.
“What you need is some sweaty, mattress-breaking sex. The kind that has you walking bow-legged like a cowboy the next day,” Maria says.
I open my eyes. I look over at her. She seems perfectly serious.
“You realize that, until just a few hours ago, I was engaged?”
“Exactly. You were engaged. To a cheater. An asshole. Now you’re not,” she says, casually stirring her straw in her Jack and Coke. “It seems like you’re having a hard time getting it into your head that you’re single. Are you sure Erick actually said he was cheating on you?”
“I’m sure. I mean, he stuttered like he usually does, but I had him repeat it a few times.”
It was more than a few times. Partly because I couldn’t — and still can’t, really — believe he was even capable of it.
Fuck you, Erick Burtram. Fuck you with a white-hot poker.
“So, it’s time to forget about that loser. You’re better off.”
I shrug and sip my vodka and soda. “Maybe.”
I want to forget — I want to more than I’ll admit — but everything is so raw right now, that I’m not sure if these wounds will ever heal in time.
“No. Definitely. Why the hell do you think I brought you to a bar? And don’t forget: I’m paying.”
“Yeah, but why the hell did you bring us here? Two Timin’ Jacks? What kind of a name is that? There’s so much flannel I feel like we’re in a rodeo or something.”
“Does it matter? They have alcohol. And men. Both things you need right now.”
Normally, I wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this — an upscale, faux-dive bar with a bunch of kitschy blues and biker shit on the walls. Some of the clientele is a little rough, sure, but most are the rich and hipster types that like to pretend they’re getting down and dirty before they go home to their kombucha smoothies and their cold brew coffee.
Still, the music’s good. I shut my eyes and listen to the bluesy, soul-worn voice of a woman putting her wounded heart out for all to see.
“You’re set on this, aren’t you?” I say.
“For the thousandth time, yes. You need to get that stupid prick out of your system. And there’s only one way to do that: to get drunk and make some stupid decisions. It’s a time-tested solution.”
I sigh, but I’m not going to press it further. I know when I’m beat, and when Maria Houlihan has her mind set on something, nothing can stop her — her father’s favorite story about her is how Maria was born two weeks premature just because she got tired of waiting around in her mother’s womb.
So, even though I’d rather be at home, in my tiny apartment in an ok-neighborhood in Chicago, drinking wine and watching Netflix, I’m here.
“You know, when I confronted him, he broke down and said he’d been seeing her for almost two years,” I say. “He must’ve started cheating like just a month or two after we got engaged.”
“Maybe we should go teach him a lesson. You up to go find him later? Rough him up?”
Most successful lawyers are sharks, but Maria’s bloodthirstiness would put a serial killer to shame. She’s going to make partner in her firm in no time.
Several people turn to openly stare at us.
I stare back at them until they turn away. I might have tears in my eyes, but my father and my uncle both taught me how to handle myself, including how to give the all-important ‘don’t fuck with me’ look. That’s what happens when you’re the daughter of a judge and the niece of a sheriff.
“The less we have to do with him, the better,” I say, taking a sip of my second drink. It burns in a good way. “At least I still have my job.”
“You better not be working tomorrow. Tonight, you’re getting bloody drunk and having every last memory of Erick fucked out of you by some stud.”
“Oh, trust me, I am taking time off. A week. Still, I’m probably going to do a bit of work at home. There’s this big project—”
“No. Like hell you are.”
I give her a look — half amused, half disapproving.
“If I finish this project, there’s a good chance I won’t be just an intern much longer. I need this. I need to get paid,” I say. Maria’s looking at me like I’m being anything but a rational adult. “It’s like that old saying: the best revenge is a life well lived. I’m going to do my job, be successful, and just move on.”
“I prefer the biblical kind. Old testament. Dead firstborns. Rivers of blood.”
“You really want to hurt him, don’t you?”
“Duh. He’s a piece of shit.”
“Let’s just finish our drinks, and get out of here.”
“Not a chance. You’re getting laid. Dirty, sweaty sex with a real man,” she says, and my disapproval must be all over my face because she continues, “at the very least, we’re not leaving here until you have the number of three hot guys.”
“Three? Really?”
I take a look around the room. There aren’t a lot of prospects.
But there are plenty of guys who look like they’re wearing beards as a fashion accessory to go along with their two-hundred-dollar J.Crew flannel shirts.
Maria nods. “Really. You can’t fight me on this. Don’t even try.”
“Ugh. Fine.”
“If you’re in that much of a hurry to get home, just flash your tits at some guy and I’m sure you’ll get his number. Repeat two more times, and we’re good to go.”
“You are awful. I love you.”
“I love you, too. Now go get laid.”
I finish half my cocktail in one gulp and then take a look around the room, trying to find a guy that looks like he won’t be too painful to talk to. This’ll be easy; I’ll get a few phone numbers and then get the hell out of here.
“Go on. Pick one,” she says.
“Him,” I say, pointing to a guy who’s kind of cute, even though he looks like he spends at least as much as Maria and me combined on his haircuts. His beard is perfectly trimmed and he’s got a hard-part side-swoop pompadour haircut thing going on. If I squint, he’s kind of attractive.
“Gross. But whatever: go get ‘em, tiger.”
Cocktail in hand, I cross the bar to the man’s table. Mr. Beard is fiddling on his phone, completely disinterested in the world outside of his shimmering screen and whatever his swiping finger is doing on it.
“Hi,” I start. “Do you mind if I sit here?”
He doesn’t look up. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Roxanna. Hi.”
I give him a little wave.
It’s been almost four years since I’ve been single and I have no clue at all how to flirt. Even though no one is looking at me — not even Mr. Beard — it still feels like everyone is staring right at me and judging just how bad I’m crashing and burning.
When he doesn’t say anything, I clear my throat and set my drink down on the table. “Do you mind if I sit down?”
His finger stops moving across his phone’s screen. “Yes. I mind. I have a lot of work to do, and if I don’t get this post up, I’ll have literally thousands of upset followers to deal with.”
“Oh.”
He shoots me a look that makes me feel small.
I pick up my drink and head back to Maria, my shoulders slouching even though I’m trying to convince myself that Mr. Beard back there isn’t worth my time.
“I’m not going to ask how that went,” Maria says as I sit down.
“Good.”
“You want to know how I knew it was going to fail?”
“No, but do I have a choice?”
“You don’t. Besides, you’re drinking for free tonight, so you have to listen to me.”
“Ok, so tell me, wise teacher.”
“Shove it,” she says, gesturing at me with her half-empty glass. “That guy over there is fake. Even if he wasn’t totally absorbed in his phone, you wouldn’t want to spend time with him unless you wanted to talk about the latest trends or the hottest videos on YouTube. That’s not the kind of dick you need right now.”
“So what kind of dick do I need?”
“You need a man’s dick,” she says. “Someone to make you feel like an actual woman, even if it is for just one night. You’re not just a distraction, you shouldn’t have to fight for their attention, and you’re not an inconvenience just because you’re honest about what you want.”
I sigh. “Ok then, what does the wise Yoda of sex and romance suggest I do?”
She looks around the room and her eyes settle on a man all the way on the other side of the bar. Then she puts on a Yoda-voice, which sounds exceptionally frog-like combined with her Irish accent. “That one. A man, he is.”
I look where she’s pointing.
Close-cut dark hair, several days of scruff accentuating a rugged jaw, muscles visible against the confines of his shirt. His sleeves are partly rolled up exposing tattoos entwining his forearms. Well-worn jeans that cling to his muscular legs and, even though he’s sitting down, I can see that he’s got a nice, firm ass.
And, just as much as Maria and I are looking at him, he’s looking at us.
He smirks right at me. Confident. Dominating. The kind of smirk that says he knows exactly what dirty thoughts are racing through my head as quick as my heartbeat, and he approves of every single one of them.
It’s intimidating as hell.
“Him?” I say.
My voice quivers. Just a bit.
I’m not usually shook up by guys — usually it’s the other way around. My dad’s a high-ranking judge in Tacoma and my uncle’s a former officer in the California State Patrol. That alone tends to chase away a lot of guys.
But this guy’s different. He looks like he’d enjoy the challenge.
“Yes. He’s been checking you out all night. Which means you have maybe a couple minutes before he comes over here. Go save him a walk.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Listen, you make terrible choices in men. So it’s time I picked for you. Now, go get some.”
I walk, slow. His eyes are on me the entire time and I might as well be naked with the way he’s looking at me.
At least I know my chances are pretty good.
I don’t even open my mouth before he stands up and pulls back a chair for me.
It makes me pause for a second.
“Sit down, darlin’,” he says. “But don’t get too comfortable, I’m sure you’ll be asked to leave soon.”
“Is that so?”
“You’re making every other woman here look bad.”
I blink.
“That was terrible.”
“Let me make it up to you by getting you a drink.”
I nod, but I stay standing, take a long drink, and look him straight in the eyes.
Good lord, they’re glittering blue.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.
I take a breath and remind myself that I won’t be flustered. I stick out my hand like I’m introducing myself to someone at work.
“Roxanna.”
“Nash,” he says, taking my hand, chuckling.
His hands are rough, calloused, big enough that they envelope mine, but his handshake is just right. Not too hard, but still strong enough that I know I’m holding the hand of a man who knows how to handle himself.
The sunken brawler’s knuckles give me the same impression, too.
“So, do you come here often, Nash?”
His laugh is like the rumble of a boulder. “No. This isn’t exactly my kind of place.”
“Me neither. But my friend over there thought I needed to drink after the week I’ve had. And that I should do that drinking somewhere other than my couch.”
“That bad of a week, huh?” he says.
“I’d prefer not to get into it. Let’s just say, sometimes, alcohol is really, really, really nice.”
“Amen,” he says, raising his glass of whiskey.
I tap my glass to his.
“If this isn’t your scene, why are you here, Nash?”
“Well, I woke up this morning and thought to myself that maybe tonight would be the night I’d go out and find the most beautiful woman in Chicago.”
I roll my eyes. I think about cutting him off, but decide against it. As much as I can see his compliment coming from a million miles away, it’s still flattering hearing it coming from a man like him. “And did you find her?”
“No,” he says, shaking his head and pausing to take a sip of his whiskey. “Luckily, she found me.”
I hide my grin in my glass. “Well, thank you.”
“Why?” he says. “For being honest?”
Oh god, I’m blushing. Get ahold of yourself, Roxy.
“Do you drop lines like this on all the ladies you meet?”
“Hell no,” he says. “I save it for the gorgeous ones. Especially if they’re looking like they’re taking things way too seriously.”
There’s hardly any space between us. This intoxicatingly dark and spicy scent that he’s wearing tickles my sense. He rests his arms on the table and leans forward, muscles in his arms bulge and flex against the flannel shirt he’s wearing.
“Well haven’t you just got a silver tongue on you,” I retort.
“Silver isn’t usually the words women use to describe it,” he says.
“Oh?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Some say talented. But most of ‘em can’t speak once they find out the things it can do.”
“Oh?”
“That’s the usual result, yeah.”
My cheeks are on fire.
“So, what do you do for a living, Nash?” I say, ready to change the subject to something that doesn’t make my cheeks — among other things — flush.
He rolls his thick shoulders. “I’m between things. But I used to be a mechanic.”
“A mechanic. And what do you think you’re going to be doing in the future?”
He gives me this look that just screams ‘you’.
“Honestly, I’ll probably find myself on my back, in a garage somewhere, fixin’ cars and making engines purr. It’s in my blood. My grandfather was a tank mechanic in WWII, my dad ran a shop when he got back from Vietnam. But I’m not here to talk about cars. What does a beautiful woman like yourself do when she’s not brightening up lame bars like this one?”
“I’m a forensic accountant. Well, I’m interning to be one,” I feel so nerdy just saying that and inside I’m worried that this big, burly, completely-not-my-usual-type-but-still-totally-hot guy is going to have his eyes glaze over.
But he doesn’t.
He leans in a little, sips his whiskey, and smiles.
He’s interested. In accounting.
What the hell?
“Forensic accounting? Does it mean you go in and make sure dead people get their taxes filed?” he says, mostly serious.
It’s not the first time someone’s asked me that question. And I’m so out of sorts at having someone interested in me, and what I do, that explanations just start to spill out of me.
“No. It means, once I finish my internship, I’ll investigate financial crimes. Like companies cheating on their taxes, money laundering, stuff like that.”
“And what made you pick that?”
“I don’t know. A lot of things. But it’s my dad’s influence, mainly.”
“Your dad? Is he a cop?”
I shake my head. “No, my uncle’s the cop. He’s retired. My dad’s a judge. They’re both way out west, so it’s not like they’re going to be poking around, or waiting for us on the front porch, sitting in a rocking chair with a shotgun on their lap or anything like that.”
I’m already regretting even bringing up the subject. Most guys tuck tail and run when they hear about my dad. But Nash just takes it in stride. “So you’re following in his footsteps, huh?”
“In my own way, kinda. He’s always been there for me — I wouldn’t have this internship if he didn’t pull a few strings.”
“I doubt that’s true. Brains and beauty is a pretty potent combination,” he says, and I sit up straighter as he says it. “But enough about work. And enough with this bar. You want to get out of here?”
I look back over my shoulder at Maria who — without me having to say anything and despite being all the way on the other side of the room — knows exactly what I’m going to ask.
She’s got an answer ready.
She makes a circular shape with her thumb and forefinger on one hand and sticks another finger through the circle. Again. And again. And again.
Subtle.
Even if she is reading my mind, I remind myself that I need to get classier friends.
“Let’s go.”