Chapter Two
Dominic
I get a little jolt of satisfaction when the trio settles at the counter rather than one of the booths. It gives me a chance to get to know the blonde. I give them what I hope is a friendly and easy smile, even though my mouth is so dry that I need a drink myself.
“Evening. How are you ladies doing?”
The brunette giggles. “Great. Thanks.”
The redhead returns a friendly smile, her eyes going from fully sharp to eighty percent sharp.
The blonde doesn’t smile. Chin in hand, she just studies me, her head tilted slightly.
Pulling my shoulders back, I stand straighter. I know I’m good-looking enough, and I work out four times a week. Women like what they see when they look at me, and quite a few give me their numbers to show it. But right at the moment, I don’t care what women think. I only care about what she thinks.
After giving me a once-over, her gaze is slightly unfocused and faraway when it returns to mine. Then suddenly it clears, her eyebrows pulling together. Disappointment and annoyance war within me. That’s not the face of an appreciative female.
The rejection cuts deep, surprisingly so—she’s virtually a stranger.
If the falling for someone in a fifth of a second business is a one-way deal, it sucks. I can’t remember what my professor said about reciprocation—if she said anything.
“It’s so hard to decide what to drink.” The brunette laughs, the sound reminding me a little of a documentary I watched about hyenas. But it isn’t just the laugh. It’s also her mannerisms.
When she thinks they aren’t looking, she stares at her companions with a hint of resentment…something canine and feral. I used to see that same expression on Aunt Dorothy’s face when she looked at my parents…and at me and my younger sister.
I’m not sure what the brunette’s jealous about, though. The redhead and blonde aren’t wearing anything particularly expensive, although they’re a thousand times better looking than her. But that’s what plastic surgery is for, and L.A. has its share of surgeons who’ll make anybody beautiful for a price.
On the other hand, the brunette isn’t going to lift a finger to help herself because she has the lazy, entitled attitude of a girl who’s had everything handed to her. It’s in the way she looks at the people around her, like they’re beneath her, and the way she talks to me—as though I should be honored she’s addressing me at all.
“How about three martinis?” the brunette says finally.
“Your IDs?” I don’t like it that my voice is curt. I didn’t mean to let my irritation show. I’m a pro. And definitely not petty.
The brunette gives me a “you gotta be kidding” look.
“Sorry. No ID, no alcohol.”
The redhead and blonde hand over their driver’s licenses. The brunette reluctantly follows suit.
I check them, making sure they aren’t fake. The brunette’s Marcella West, the redhead Vanessa Glazier.
The blonde is…
I look at her smiling face in the photo. Elizabeth Anne Reed, just turned twenty-one last month.
“Well?” Vanessa cocks an eyebrow. I realize I’m taking too long.
I give the IDs back, but not before checking Elizabeth’s address to see if she’s local. She lives in Orange County. Although I’m still stinging from the earlier rejection, I feel slightly more optimistic as I mix their martinis. For some ridiculous reason, it seems like I still have a chance with her if she’s local. So what if SoCal is huge? We could still run into each other, especially if she’s attending UCLA or something. Hell, I bump into my cousin Andy from time to time, and he lives with his parents in a nice upper-middle-class suburb ninety minutes from campus.
Apparently still peeved I wanted to see her ID, Marcella grabs the martini sullenly. Vanessa’s thanks buzz by like a fly.
Elizabeth doesn’t say anything, but takes a sip of her drink. A smile curves her lips like a bow. “Cold and crisp.”
Jesus, that voice. It’s sweetly feminine and slightly husky, like a woman who’s just gotten up—or who’s had a screaming-hot orgasm. It tugs at my swelling dick like a lover.
She pulls the first olive from the pick with small white teeth and chews. “This is great.”
Of course. I’m a damn good bartender. And her praise causes me to feel ten feet tall.
Another group of customers flags me, and I go over to get them their beers. Drying glassware and wiping down the counter, I eavesdrop on the trio. I want to know more about Elizabeth. What does she like? Does she have a boyfriend?
Between serving other customers and dealing with servers who come by with orders, I’m not able to listen very well, although I learn the trio speaks a language other than English because they switch back and forth a couple of times, and I catch a few names as they continue to order martinis.
Justin. Ryder. Nate. Hopefully geriatric uncles or something.
“Shirley’s been so…coldly disapproving ever since I told her I was going to law school,” Vanessa is saying, this time in English, when I’m within hearing range again.
“So don’t be a lawyer, duh,” Marcella says. “It’s not like you need to work. You have your daddy’s money.”
“That right there is the problem. Daddy’s money.”
Marcella waves a hand dismissively. “Marry somebody rich, then.”
Elizabeth scrunches her nose, then finishes her fifth martini. “Why bother with marriage when you can make your own money?”
Marcella huffs. “Easy for you to say. Your father—”
“Oh, come on,” Vanessa interrupts, her tone sharp, like a DA addressing a particularly annoying perp. “We didn’t come here to talk about our dads.” She pulls out her phone, which has been ringing for a while. After a glance, she drops it back into her purse and asks for another martini, then downs the whole thing in one long swallow.
“Who is it? Your grandma Shirley?” Marcella asks.
“No.”
Elizabeth’s phone starts ringing. She takes it out and looks at the screen.
“Is that Ryder?” Marcella asks, her voice bright with hope.
“No. Justin.”
Sudden excitement sparks in the brunette’s green eyes. “Oooh, oooh, does he want to hang out?”
“He wants to know where Vanessa is because she’s ignoring his calls.”
Marcella looks like she’s about to burst. “So he’s in town?”
Vanessa sighs, rolling her eyes. “I told him I was busy studying for the LSAT.”
“You don’t need to study to get into law school.”
“I do if I want to get into Stanford.”
“There are other law schools.”
“Shirley vetoed the East Coast, and Mom agreed.” Vanessa sneers.
“I’m surprised your dad didn’t override them,” Elizabeth says.
“Two to one. Besides, he doesn’t care. It isn’t his life.”
“You aren’t really serious about having a legal career, are you?” Marcella sounds dubious. “It just seems so…beneath you.”
Vanessa pins her with a cold glance. “Not everyone aspires to marry money, Marcella.”
The brunette turns red. She starts to open her mouth, but Elizabeth cuts her off. “So. Justin?”
“Tell him I’m at the library,” Vanessa mutters.
“Oh come on.” Irritation apparently forgotten, Marcella wraps her hands around Vanessa’s arm and starts swinging it side to side like a child. “Just an hour, please? You know it’s good to know men like Justin.”
“I thought you liked Ryder.”
“A girl’s gotta have a backup plan.”
Marcella doesn’t seem to notice, but Vanessa looks like she wants to bloody her lips.
“Come on,” Marcella whines. “Let’s go.”
No, don’t go. Stay.
Women always come and go in groups. If Marcella and Vanessa leave, so will Elizabeth.
“Not me,” Elizabeth says. “I’m getting another martini.” She signals me, then points at the empty glass.
Great. The more she drinks, the longer she stays.
“Come on, Elizabeth. Don’t you want to see Justin?”
Say no.
“Why? He’s not my type, and we aren’t that close.”
Yes! The next martini’s on me.
“Fine. But what if Nate’s there?” Marcella says.
Who the hell is Nate? Elizabeth’s crush? The notion that she might be into another guy burns my insides like a dribble of acid.
Damn it. Am I…jealous?
Yes. Yes, I am. I want her to look only at me, reserve her smile only for me.
It’s stupidly primitive—probably totally inappropriate, too—but I don’t give a damn. I feel what I feel.
Elizabeth snorts, then picks up the fresh martini I placed on the counter in front of her. “I’m going to finish my drink, enjoy a lazy evening, and go home. You girls have a wild night with the Sterling boys.”
“No!” Marcella grabs Elizabeth’s arm, almost causing her to spill her drink. “Come with us! You have to!”