Jack

Growing up in the brothel where my mother worked had a couple of drawbacks. Here is the main one: I know way more about women than any man should.

For instance, sometimes when they say they’re fine? They’re actually fine and you should stop asking and shut the fuck up. I learned my lesson the hard way, as one does when sharing a bathroom with a rotating door of females, not to mention a best friend with the almighty X chromosome. Those lessons have served me well, though, haven’t they? Knowing when to retreat carefully, push forwards, or backpedal like a motherfucker during a conversation with a girl means I never go home alone.

Alone is a funny word, though, isn’t it?

Sometimes I’m the most alone when surrounded by women. And that situation happens a lot more often for ol’ Jack than it does for most guys. Is that a brag? Damn right. When women see me coming, their hormones whisper my name. I’m a demon in the sack. And most important, I treat girls with respect. Why shouldn’t they want to go home with me at the end of the night? A couple of hours in my bed means laughs, some patented sweet talk, a few orgasms and cab fare. They could definitely do worse.

It’s not their fault that I’m barely there when it’s happening. That I’m watching myself touch them from above like a creepy, naked angel and wondering how long the mild queasiness will last. But like I said, that’s not the girl’s fault, is it? Women get blamed for enough without me adding to their plate. I’m there to give them a safe, shameless, satisfying ride and send them off with a smile.

Jack Garrett. Superhero. Protecting New York City’s women from two-pump chumps one night at a time.

Look. I’ve witnessed the way men can disregard women as garbage once they’ve had their fun, so this calling of mine is not such a joke. Am I arrogant to think my dick is making a difference in the world of women? Yes. Am I apologizing? Hell no. Did I mention the orgasms and cab fare?

I’ve just come from a visit with my mother, who now works as a pet groomer’s receptionist—thank Christ—and as always, I marvel over how my old neighborhood of Hell’s Kitchen has changed. They’re calling it Clinton now but I don’t have time for that nonsense. It’s the Kitchen to me and it always will be. Doesn’t matter how many gastropubs and yoga studios pop up, I can still see the grit beneath the glitter. I pass the doorway where I finally got a hand up Melissa Sizemore’s shirt when I was thirteen, only to find out she’d been wearing a Wonderbra the whole time we’d been dating—and that’s when I spot the redhead.

There is a lot of new blood in the Kitchen. Midtwenties Millennials, like myself, trying to make it in the city, while crammed into an apartment with three roommates. Right now I’m calling the East Side neighborhood of Kips Bay my home while I train to be a cop under the annoyingly watchful eyes of my NYPD instructors, but someday I’ll come back to the Kitchen.

And if this sexy redhead is an indication of what awaits me, it’ll be sooner rather than later.

What the hell is she up to, though? She’s on her tiptoes, peering through the window of a dive bar I know too well. In her hand is a shiny pink camera. She’s snapping away with a look of total awe on her face. A face I can see only in profile, but that’s enough to peg her as . . . cute. Cute as a button, even. Huge eyes, full cheeks, the kind of red, puffy lips that stop traffic. At least when I’m at the wheel.

When it comes to women, I don’t have a type. Tall, short, curvy, freckled, pierced, black, white, etcetera. All applications are accepted and approved. This redhead, though . . . I can’t quite put a name on what pulls me towards her on the sidewalk. Is it her smile? The wobbly tiptoe dance she’s doing to make up for her lack of height? I’ve established she’s adorable, but she’s probably not looking for a hookup. Yet. Although, I never pursue women outside of bars, where I spend a lot of my time. If you ask my best friend, Danika, way too much time. But the alcohol makes it a shit ton easier to say yes. Yes to the girl, yes to what my body wants right now, but will regret later.

I push the troubling thought aside and focus on the redhead.

Coming to a stop beside her at the window, I get a nice whiff of mint and wonder if it’s courtesy of lotion or direct from the herb. “Need a boost?”

She drops back onto flat feet and flicks me a glance. “I’m grand, thanks.”

Irish girl. Her accent loops around in the air, but doesn’t distract me from her huge blue eyes. Nothing could. They’re the color of pale denim, outlined by a crowd of black lashes.

Hot. Damn.

Those twin beacons scan my face in slow motion, like a couple of bar code readers . . . and go right back to spying in the window. Huh. Disinterest from a girl is definitely new, but then again, this is why meeting women on a night out works so well. There’s no mystery. For all I know, this girl is waiting for her husband to exit the dive where I had my first beer. No ring on her finger, but maybe they’re traveling from Ireland and she left it home to be safe.

My mouth screws up in disgust when I realize I’m performing detective work involuntarily. Freaking academy is actually working.

“What are we looking at?” I ask, trying again.

“You’re looking at me. I’m looking at this historical landmark.”

“O’Keefe’s?” I wave at the familiar bartender through the window. “Are you sure you didn’t confuse this for the Empire State Building? Easy mistake. Happens to everyone.”

One end of her incredible lips gives an upwards tug. “I know what I’m at. Could you get lost now?”

“You’re asking me to leave when I just made you smile?”

“I imagine it’s not difficult for you to make a girl smile. What else you got?”

My chest vibrates with a laugh. “What else do you want?”

Thoughts skitter across her face like a blown dandelion. “I won’t know until I see it.”

I prop my shoulder against the building and wink at her. “Look no further.”

She peers up at me and I swear to God, she’s not even seeing what I’ve got on the surface. She’s digging deeper, deeper . . . looking for more. When is the last time that happened? Never. Not that I can remember. She’s not playing a game with me. She seems to be truthing me. Being totally honest.

Who does that?

“I’ll decide when I’m done looking.” With a jolt, she goes back to looking through the window. “But I think that’s enough for now.”

I’m not even offended. I’m more fascinated than anything else. It’s not that I’ve never been turned down before—it has probably happened at least once—and I should really walk away now. No means no. Zero excuses. I’m just finding it pretty difficult to walk away and never hear the tilting notes in her voice again. To forfeit a chance to look into those unmatchable eyes at least one more time. And damn, she was searching for something below my surface and I’m kind of bothered that she hasn’t found it yet. Hell, I’m not even sure what’s there. But the fact that she tried at all makes me want to stick around. “I’ll make you a deal. Just tell me why you’re out here like a Peeping Tom and I’ll go. Just satisfy my curiosity, would ya, honey?”

The twin patches of pink on the girl’s cheeks tell me she’s not totally unaware that I’m attractive. The cajoling did it. Women like it when I beg, whether or not it’s only for show. This time doesn’t feel like it’s for show.

When she drops back onto her heels, humor is dancing in her expression. “Once I tell you, getting rid of you will be easy enough, I suppose.”

Now that I finally have her undivided attention, I just want to hold on to it. Even though she wants to get rid of me. Maybe the lighting on the street is bad and my face is hidden by shadows. Or the sun is blinding her. That has to be it. “Let me be the judge of that.”

Lips pursed, she tugs a book out of her back pocket. It’s titled The Ultimate Guide to Famous New York City Mob Hits. She gestures towards the window with the book spine. “In there is where Whitey Kavanaugh was whacked during the mob wars of eighty-seven.” Her eyebrows give a mischievous waggle. “You’re kind of interrupting my murder tour here, good-looking.”

Katie

In Dublin, we have a word for this kind of man: a ride.

I’m fighting the temptation to peek over his shoulder and see if he walked off a movie set. Honest to God, he’s a dream. A taller version of James Dean, charisma gliding off him in lazy, rolling plumes of smoke. His smile is its own story altogether, the way it crinkles the corners of his eyes and creates dents in his cheeks. I wouldn’t call them dimples, because they’re more like twin, side-by-side dips on both ends. Like his mouth is in quotation marks.

All manner of things are happening here. The dead center cleft in his chin. His stubbled cheeks and jaw. Dark, sweeping eyebrows over green eyes. His hair is in a crew cut, but I can see it’s black and if it were long, would probably flip just perfectly over his forehead, framing his gorgeous face. Tall. He had to be tall and fit, as well? Really? It seems an awful gluttony of five-star qualities on a single person. God should have spread them around His other creations a bit.

I could have used a few inches of height myself. My neck is already beginning to protest being craned so long to look into the face of such flawlessness.

Good thing he’ll be moving on soon. No one sticks around for a girl who has a long-standing fascination with organized crime. At least, I don’t think so. I’ve never voiced this interest of mine out loud to a man. I barely speak to men at all, although I have plans to change that while I’m visiting New York. As soon as this completely unrealistic, possibly CGI creature stops trying to knock me into a coma with his physical charms, I’ll be off to the races.

“Good-looking, huh?” Of course, he focuses on the name I called him. “And yet you’re so impatient for me to leave.”

“Oh, em . . .” When his smile sags a touch, I realize I’ve been outright rude. But I’m too embarrassed to explain why. That I thought he was just having a laugh at my expense on his way into the pub . . . and couldn’t possibly be interested in me. I mean, I’m only after getting off the plane at JFK, no shower or hairstyle to speak of. My jeans and tank top are rumpled from traveling and will probably have to be burned. What could possibly have drawn this man in my direction? “I apologize. I just assumed you had somewhere else to be and I was . . . giving you leave. To go there.”

He tilts his head, interested. “Where do you think I’m headed?”

“Hmm.” I lean back and size him up. When I reach his eyes, one thing is obvious. He already thinks he knows my answer. “Piano fingers.”

Shock transforms his expression and the digits in question twitch at his side. “What about them?”

“Maybe you’re a piano teacher? On the way to a lesson?” Why is he so quiet all of a sudden? “Am I that far off?”

“No, but . . .” He shifts. “You look at me and think I could be a piano teacher?”

“What do you want me to see?” His lack of response jumbles my nerves. “Wherever you’re headed, I was just trying to be polite and give you an easy send-off. I didn’t mean to sound eager or anything.”

He gives a quick shake of his head. “You don’t need a reason for wanting me gone.” He seems intent on impressing this important point upon me. “It’s your decision and I should have listened the first time.”

I’m suspicious by nature. “Are you being this agreeable now because I’m murder sightseeing and you’re trying to get away from me?”

“No, actually I think murder sightseeing is pretty fucking cool.”

“Is that why you’re still here?”

“Yeah. And the fact that you’re beautiful.” He arches an eyebrow when all I can do is sputter. “If you’ve changed your mind about ditching me, I’ll bring you inside to get a decent picture. Do you know which chair Whitey was sitting in when—”

“Third from the end.”

“Had a feeling you would know.” With a half-smile, he offers me his arm, which is wrapped in the soft cotton of a black hoodie. “Come on. I’ll kick whoever is in it out.”

“I don’t go into bars. That’s why I’m out here probably looking like a bloody lunatic.” The reasoning behind my no bar rule is personal—too personal to tell a stranger—so my gaze automatically evades him. Otherwise he might see the hurt and I don’t share that with anyone. It’s mine. But I feel him watching closely as I tuck my camera back into its case and replace it in the pocket of my backpack. “Thank you for the offer . . .”

“Jack.” His throat sounds crowded when he answers me, along with his eyes. “And you’re . . .”

“Katie.” I sling my backpack on over my shoulders, trying to remember if I thanked him for calling me beautiful. Or if I should even call attention to the fact he did, because he might repeat the word and I’m not sure I can handle hearing it twice in one day. Not without giggling and making a complete arse out of myself.

The last four years of my life have been spent training for the Olympics nonstop. Grueling hours of practice that meant zero time for the opposite sex. Now, at the first sign of freedom, I’m thrown right into the arena with James Dean’s great-grandson. When I decided to sandwich in a torrid love affair during my business trip to New York, I had someone more approachable in mind. Like a nerdy desk clerk. Or a portly crossing guard. “Listen, I’m not judging or anything. About the bar. Really. You can go on in—”

“There you go, trying to ditch me again.” His thousand-watt smile turns back on and steals the breath straight out of my lungs. “Are there any other famous mob hit locations in the neighborhood or is this your last stop?”

“There’s one more,” I hear myself say. Shite. How am I supposed to relax when he’s smiling at me like that? If he concentrated the full power of that smile on a stick of butter, it would be a gooey puddle in seconds. Needing a distraction from his face, I consult my mob hit guide. “McCaffrey Park. Is that close?”

“Right down the street.” He ticks his head in that direction. “Ready?”

No, I’m not ready. For one thing, he’s a stranger in an unfamiliar city and might be planning to harvest my organs. Two, he’s fresh and stunning, while I’m in ratty runners and wearing a purple backpack like an oversized toddler. And three . . . I just have a feeling mysterious Jack is going to be bad news for me. Call it a sixth sense or common sense or what have you, but this ride with the bad boy smile has trouble oozing out of his pores.

This should be a no brainer. When a stranger shows an unlikely interest in me, it’s probably for the best to avoid walking with him to a dark park where mob hits have taken place. Just as a rule. I’ve been expected to act beyond reproach my entire life, though. I barely survived a strict Catholic upbringing before being thrust under the Olympic microscope. Every day of my life has been scheduled and executed without fail.

This man is not on my agenda.

Then again, I did promise myself adventure during this two-week trip. Swore to myself I would fulfill a vow to someone I love, by living without constraint. After being under my father’s thumb so long, I’m so light. So without responsibilities, I didn’t even take the time to clean up after my flight, throwing on my runners and bursting out of the hotel. Could Jack be part of my adventure?

No, it’s impossible. Surely he’s filming a romantic comedy down the street and he’s method acting right now. Then again, those piano fingers . . . the way he acted so surprised that I would point them out has me reluctantly intrigued.

His green eyes cloud with disappointment the longer I take to answer him, though. His smile winds down in degrees until his mouth is nothing more than a grim line. I’m about to turn him down for the walk to the park, when he says, “No hard feelings, Katie. Huh?” He winks, but it’s a sad one. “Even if it is going to take me a damn long while to forget those eyes.”

My heart is in my mouth when he goes. His hands shovel into his pockets and he walks backwards a few paces, keeping me in his sights, before turning and strolling down the block. It’s insane, the anxious bubbles that begin to pop in my belly. My hands tighten into fists at my sides and the backpack starts to feel heavy. “Wait,” I shout. Then I cringe. Because everyone on the sidewalk, including Jack, turns to look at me. “Ah . . . sure go on. Just the walk, then?”

Even from a distance, Jack’s mouth spreading into a slow smile is breathtaking.

As I walk towards him, my feet on the warm concrete seem to be chanting one word.

Trouble, trouble, trouble.