Please don’t let this guy be a freak please don’t let this guy be a freak please don’t let this guy be a freak…” I mutter into my fourth tequila shot. I toss my head back and scrunch up my nose when the alcohol slides down my throat into the pool of fire in my quivering belly.

It’s not like I’m scared, per se. I may not know martial arts but my surgical castration skills are dope and I ain’t ever been scared to use ‘em. But it’d be a shame if I have to resort to that tonight. I’m just looking for a little fun, a toe-curling distraction.

My attention catches on an old dude sitting at the other end of the bar. Oh god—he's giving me Super Creeper eyes. And because he thinks no one else is watching, he forms a circle with his fingers and wiggles his tongue around in the ‘O’ in skeevy, languid motion.

I think I just threw up in my mouth. Somebody pass the eyebleach! I tug on the hem of my dress and quickly divert my poor, traumatized eyes.

The Opal Lounge is supposed to be a classy place. At least that’s what the online reviews say. No alarm bells went off when I stepped into the door. Everything looked just as it did in the pictures on their website. Elegant suede couches, purple strobe lights, intimate booths. Plus, it’s located in Reyfield, a small town 20 minutes outside of Copper Heights. My reputation has taken enough of a beating in recent times so I’d prefer it if my potential booty call stays out of my hometown’s rumor mill. According to the reviews, this place doesn’t get too busy on a Monday night. That’s why I chose to meet up with my blind date here. That way I can scope him out before taking him back to the room I rented at the hotel down the street.

No pressure re: hotel room, by the way. It’s simply a ‘just in case’. If Mr. Random and me hit it off and suddenly become overwhelmed by the urge to do the dirty, I’d rather be ready—y’know what I mean? I’m a girl who likes to be prepared.

I glance at the door for the hundredth time. I’m starting to feel a bit antsy. My gut tells me that I should leave. But I take another peek at my would-be date’s profile and my girl parts are howling at me to I stay. It’s your typical fuck-boy bathroom selfie, starring the impressive eight-pack on his long, lean, golden torso. His dark briefs hanging low on his deeply-carved V and the very obvious bulge beneath the fabric steals the show. And honorable mention goes to the large tattoo prominent on his bronzed, muscular arm. Cut me some slack—there’s a husky inked into his skin. The guy’s a freaking animal lover.

Maybe I’m shallow but that body looks like an amusement park I’d like to ride all night long.

Anyway, I picked him out in a hurry and now that I take a minute to really examine his profile, a part of me is starting to hope that Mr. SmallTownHotBoyXXX doesn’t ever show up. His face is cut out of the picture and that’s always a bad sign. Plus, the ‘Philosophical Ideals’ section of his profile contains profound gems such as “If you can’t take the lickin’, get out the kitchen”.

This is probably not the best decision I’ve ever made. Okay, yeh—I should get out of here.

When the bartender comes over to refill my shot glass, I ask for my bill instead. I quickly pay up and just as I’m grabbing my purse to leave, my eyes travel over to the door again. My breath gets caught in my throat.

Of all the people residing in the state of Illinois at this particular point in time, it’s Ben stepping inside. In a black leather jacket and dark wash jeans, shoulders back, hands in pockets, he looks like a million spontaneous orgasms waiting to happen.

How shitty is my luck right now? I had this all planned out. And Benjamin Riggs was definitely not part of the plan!

He stalls by the door as his gaze fans over the place. I immediately twist around on the barstool, angling my body away from the door and cupping my hand over the side of my face to hide behind my fingers. 

My mildly-inebriated mind spins into a full-blown frenzy. I’m alone at a bar in a tight, backless halter dress so short I suspect that it may, in fact, be a shirt. For a twelve-year-old.

Oh my god—Ben’s going to realize that I’m here trolling for sex!

Okay, Angie. Calm down. Deep breath. You are a grown woman. An empowered woman of the 21^st century. How you choose to spend your time and who you choose to spend it with are none of your ex-boyfriend’s business. Hold your head high and own it!

Or find the back exit and make a run for it. 

Hiding out in the ladies’ room until the bar closes is not such a bad option, either. It smells like freaking lemon-cinnamon potpourri in there. I could even take a nap on the velvet chaise lounge adjacent to the hand dryers. That would give me the chance to sober up. And frankly, it can’t be any less comfortable than sleeping on the couch at Sophia’s.

Enough stalling—It’s time to put Mission: Get the Hell Out of Here into motion.

Trying not to draw any attention to myself, I slide off the barstool and land on shaky feet. Moving around in high heels isn’t my specialty even on a good day. But right now, I’m halfway to drunk and I might as well be walking a greasy tight rope on stilts. I miss a step and fling both arms out at my sides in an attempt to regain my balance. This chain of clumsy movements causes my purse to slip from my grasp and hit the floor. The entire contents of my purse—my keys, my credit cards, my travel-sized toothpaste, my lacy spare thong and everything else—scatters around me under the flashing purple neon lights. Charming!

And so much for being stealth. 

With the grace of a quarterback lunging for the end zone, I drop down on the dance floor and start stuffing my knickknacks back into my bag. Indeed, my ass is hanging out the back of my dress but a girl can only deal with so many crises at once.

My efforts are in vain, though. I know that it’s too late when I sense a dark, ominous shadow stretching over me. A well-worn leather boot appears on my periphery.

I heave a loaded breath and let my shoulders fall in defeat. I’ve been spotted. I press my eyes shut for a few seconds to summon the remaining scraps of my dignity. Then slowly, I tilt my head up from my squatted position.

My gaze travels unhurriedly up his tall, muscular body. I’m quietly dreading the moment when our eyes will lock. And when I make contact with those powerful, twinkling cobalt irises, the impact has me grasping at the leg of my stool for support.

"Are these yours?" Ben flicks his wrist back and forth, drawing attention to the string of condoms pinched between his fingers.

The air of amusement on his face gets my blood boiling. "Oh, gimme that," I grumble as I snatch it out of his hand. My inelegant attempt to stand up is punctuated by the unmistakable sound of synthetic fibers shredding at the seams.

I jolt. My eyes bulge and my lips curl into a mortified ‘O’. My hand flies across my ass to survey the damage to my dress. That’s when I lose my balance for real this time. I’m on my way down…

Dear Universe, how many more rungs am I gonna have to fall before I actually hit rock bottom?

But just as my bare bottom is about to hit the sticky floor, Ben swoops in and catches me by the armpits. Those strong arms haul me up to standing position.

Now, we’re chest-to-chest, bodies flush against each other. I should be yelling at him. I should be demanding that he get his hands off of me. But the lump in my throat is like a bathtub stopper, keeping my protests from spewing out. Instead, I’m instinctively arching my spine and pushing my chest up into his as his hands drop, slowly outlining the slope of my torso.

Uh-oh…this isn’t good…

His fingers slip an inch under the hem of my dress and pinch the fabric. He gives it a gentle tug so that it’s covering more of my legs. God—I like that. My skin buzzes with delight.

He keens closer…lowering his face to mine…almost like he's going to kiss me…

My body goes rigid. My lips part and a pathetic whimpering sound comes out on an exhale. His nose plunges close to my mouth.

Did he just sniff my breath?

His eyes glitter with mirth. “So tequila, huh?"

At the sound of his voice, I snap back to my senses. I totter out of his grip, moving in reverse. “What?" Running my palms down the raised flesh of my arms, I try to drive the goosebumps away.

The colored strobe lights play on his perfect skin. He leans in closer, his lips by my ear. I can’t see his expression but his sardonic tone tells me everything I need to know. "You turned down my invitation for hot chocolate. Looks like you have a preference for tequila."

 He’s being judgy and right about now, I don’t appreciate it one bit.

I shove the condoms into my purse and zip it shut. "What are you doing here?"

He gives me a hard look, all playfulness quickly slipping from his expression. "The question is what are you doing here?" His gaze travels down my tight, revealing clothing and my exposed legs. There’s a hotly possessive flare in his eyes and a subtle throb in his jaw.

He's jealous!

My not-too-sober shoulder-devil is kind of in love with it. All this coulda been yours, bae.

I bat my eyes innocently and lean casually against the counter. “I’m a girl in a short dress at a bar. You put the puzzle pieces together.” I bite down on the corner of my lip, further provoking him. I definitely have the upper hand at this point.

His body is nearly vibrating as he steps closer. Too close. His pupils darken. His arms bracket me, each hand clenching on the lip of the counter. I’m locked against the bar. My skin feels warm, tingly. The space between my thighs is in reactive mode, growing fluttery and liquid at an alarming speed. Fuck—my power is slipping fast.

The low menacing sound of his voice pushes me too close to the edge of my control. "It’s the dead of winter and here you are, at a bar, half-naked—"

My hand flies up to his chest and I push firmly against the wall of muscles flexing beneath my palm. "You don’t get to look at me like that," I challenge, hissing through my teeth. “And you definitely don’t get to have an opinion about how I chose to spend my Monday night.”

He stares at me, without blinking, without moving. His Adam’s apple rises and falls as he swallows roughly. “You’re right…”

His jaw is still clenched tight and his gaze is still hot with anger and wanting but his hands drop way from the counter. My traitorous body mourns as he takes a step back.

Something deep inside of me aches at just how easily he’s giving up on me. What is wrong with me? Quickly digging into my memory bank, I stitch together a quilt of memories of all the hurt this man has caused me. I smother the blossoming feeling of abandonment under the slapdash patchwork of resentment.

I don’t need him. I don’t want him.

Careful to arrange my skirt just right so that I’m not flashing my bare ass to half of the bar, I try to slide gracefully onto my stool. Like a woman who's got her act together. Ben shrugs out of his jacket and slips into the seat next to mine.

I give him a harsh glare. “If you’ll excuse me. I'm actually meeting someone and I'm not about to let you cockblock."

With a smirk that has those dimples collapsing into his cheeks like potholes, he faces straight ahead and coolly shrugs a shoulder. “I’m not trying to cockblock at all. I’m meeting someone, too."

My eyes dart to his in the mirror. His grin deepens. He swivels his stool toward me and extends a hand. “By the way, I’m SmallTownHotBoyXXX. Nice to meet you, LadyElectraHuskyLover.”

My body goes cold and my stool does a quick spin. Apparently, it has a mind of its own. “How did you know it was me?”

His expression goes all playful again. “Sorry, I don't disclose sources and methods. That’s the number one rule of covert operations." 

“You’re stalking me?” Outraged, I hiss through my teeth. “Seven years ago, you dumped me without a second thought. And now, you’re stalking me?”

“Don’t jump to conclusions, Gigi—”

“Okay, I’m not playing this game.” I grab my purse and stand on my feet. I’m just the right amount of pissed off to not be drunk anymore. “I’m leaving. Have yourself an excellent night, Ben." I stride for the door.

I don’t get too far before he grabs me by the elbow, his movements nearly desperate. "Okay, okay. Just wait, Angie.” I spin around to face him. He’d better choose his words carefully because I’m ready to claw his face off. “Your username gave you away,” he says with a soft smile.

When he utters those words, my heart thumps insanely hard against my ribs.

LadyElectraHuskyLover

I didn’t put too much thought into choosing my CheekyChat user name. I picked the first thing that came to mind because I was so eager to just be at this bar, sitting in the company of an interesting man, having an interesting conversation. A man who’d give me all of his attention, just for tonight.

Yet, here’s the boy who broke my heart, sitting across from me, telling me that he knows the hidden meaning of my silly user name. He remembered?

The curve to his lips is slight, nearly rueful. “Of course I remembered,” he says softly, almost as if he’s reading my thoughts word for word.

Electra was my dog. Our dog. The gorgeous abandoned husky I rescued from the local pound when I was 17. With her silver eyes and her shock of snow-white fur, she was absolutely regal. Lady Electra was the only name that really fit her.

My mind flashes back to Ben’s profile picture. That tattoo on his arm—my god, he’s not lying. My breathing falters. "You remembered…" I say on a wispy exhale. My weight sags and I lean into the counter to prop myself up.

His expression is somber and thoughtful. "How could I forget? That dog caused so much drama.” He laughs a little. “Remember, your parents wouldn’t let you keep her. And you threw the most epic fit. So I convinced my dad to let me take her in. Mom was not happy but you had the woman wrapped around your damn finger so she let the dog stay. I remember it clearly.” The humor melts slowly from his face. “And you fell apart when she died. Dilated cardioma…”

“Dilated cardiomyopathy…”

“Yeah.” He nods reverently. “I remember all of it, Angie.”

We hold each other's gaze and a flurry of memories spill into my mind. I loved that damn dog. I haven’t allowed myself to think about her for a long time because memories of her go hand in hand with memories of Ben and me together. But now that I’ve opened the floodgates, an avalanche of emotion engulfs me. My fingers flex, clawing at the sticky surface of bartop. My eyes grow heavier with each picture that flits across my thoughts. My heart feels incredibly sore.

The tips of Ben’s digits touch the tips of mine. His fingers slide smoothly between mine, fitting perfectly like the long-lost pieces of a puzzle. I drop my head to hide the tears. The thumb of his free hand brushes my chin, gently lifting my face. "Can I buy you a drink?" he asks softly. “I just wanna talk.”

I shouldn’t be this weak. I scold myself internally and make an attempt to hold onto my resentment. “You lured me here under false pretenses.”

“Only because you wouldn’t give me the time of day. Gigi, please…” That damn nickname…“Have a drink with me.”

Swallowing hard, I glance toward the door and then at Ben again. 

The stunning blue eyes. The dark blond hair. The strong, chiseled jaw. The soft, plush lips.

I have a choice to make. 

A sliver of a memory flashes before my mind. I’m 17 all over again. I’m standing on the driveway outside of his house. I’m telling him that I love him. I’m begging him to change his mind…but he turns on his heel and goes into the house, slamming the door behind him.

The memory is like a dash of cold water to the face. Every trace of compassion that was beginning to form in my blood instantly dissipates. Nah—no second chances.

My resentment toward him comes back in full force. I jerk my hand out of his grasp. “You don’t deserve a minute of my time. Not after what you did.”

I don’t wait for his retort. I don’t spare another look at his handsome face. I just grab my purse and yank my jacket off the back of my stool, sliding my arms into my sleeves as I go.

He calls after me. “Gigi—let me drive you home.”

“No thank you.”

“You’ve been drinking. You can’t drive in this condition.” He’s right behind me. He doesn’t have to touch me for me to feel him. My resolve almost falters. Almost.

“Don’t you think I know that?” I snap out. I’m trying my darnedest to be tough, but the sting of rejection in his eyes causes me to soften. God—I’m so damn weak. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve got my back. I’ve had it for a very long time.”

His eyes plead. “Angie…” He reaches out but his hand stops just short of my cheek.

“Look—I’m not trying to be a bitch to you just for the fuck of it. I’m only trying to protect myself. Please respect that.”

He waits a beat and then his head bobs up and down in acceptance. He takes a step back.

I march out the front door of the club and he lets me. As I stagger down the street to the Sapphire Inn to claim my rented hotel room, I try to reason with myself. I made the right decision walking away. I did. I repeat the mantra to myself until I fall asleep, all alone in the cold queen-sized bed.