Текст книги "Perfectly Damaged"

Автор книги: E. L. Montes

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

chapter 2

Jenna

Today is a good day.

I woke up feeling better. Days like this I feel brave. Brave enough to conquer the world—even from inside my room, which is where I spend most of my time. I’m not sure if it’s the nightmare-free sleep or the fact that I’m able to paint again that has me feeling slightly optimistic today. Paint. I’m tempted to glide a brush along canvas, but I can’t fully find the inspiration to go for it. Before, I used painting as way to cope with my feelings; now, I’m just afraid.

Fear is one of my most battled emotions. Fear of the unknown, of never knowing where each step I take will lead, terrifies me. For others it’s a rush, a thrill—the beauty of taking risks. For me, a risk can ruin me. It’s the reason why I grapple with every decision I make, constantly fearful that any and every choice will affect my life for the worse. To avoid triggers and potentially damning consequences, I keep hidden, locked behind my door.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll find some more courage. But for now, I’ll continue to sit by the window with my legs comfortably crossed, watching the pool boy snatch debris with an extended net. My eyes scan over his sweat-dripping body as he reaches his arms out and slowly sways the mesh from side-to-side, just along the top of the clear water. His biceps flex as he taps the edge of the net along the concrete, dumping the debris aside.

Swish. Tap.

Swish. Tap.

Swish. Tap.

I’m not sure why I find this to be so very entertaining, but it’s the highlight of my morning—which proves just how lame my life actually is.

The pool boy is making my life a bit more interesting by adding chemicals to the water when my phone rings.

“Hello?” I answer, not bothering to check who’s calling.

“Hey, slut. What are the plans for today?”

It’s Charlie. She’s the person most people would call my best friend. She was originally my sister’s BFF and more like a second big sister to me, but after Brooke’s death, Charlie and I bonded. She loved Brooke like a sister; no secrets were left unsaid between the two of them. At first, after Brooke was gone, I tried to keep my distance from Charlie. I didn’t want to be bothered by anyone, especially not someone who reminded me so much of Brooke. But Charlie was persistent. She constantly called me and showed up to my home uninvited. It was quite annoying at first, but eventually I gave up and allowed her in.

Charlie has some interesting traits: she’s blunt, has a great sense of humor, and uses profanity more than any other person I know. To top it off, Charlie has a very bad habit of taking any and all conversation and making it about sex. And I’m not just talking about sex in the general sense; she goes as far as making sure her hoo-ha is brought into the conversation somehow. Yep, that’s Charlie. But you learn to love her—or hate her as I do eighty percent of the time. We have a love-hate relationship.

“Hey, Charlie.” I lean my forehead against the window, and my skin cools at the contact. “I’m thinking of a lounge day. Read by the pool and relax.”

“Sounds good to me. I’ll be over in a few hours,” she invites herself, as always. Charlie huffs through the speaker, adding, “I have to take Nick to the mall. You know, big sister duties and all.”

Charlie is the eldest of four. She’s always towing around her little brothers and sister. “Okay. See you later,” I respond.

“’Kay, bye!”

* * *

In my black bikini, cover-up, and flip-flops, I tread down the grand spiral staircase. The front door swings open just as I reach the bottom step. My father walks in with his cell glued to his ear. It’s pretty common to see him like this: cell in hand—usually crammed between his head and his shoulder—making deals, constantly on the go. At the edge of the staircase, I lean against the railing and study him as long as I can before he realizes I’m watching.

Dad shuts the door with his foot as his rich, deep voice echoes through the foyer, “Stanley, I don’t care what it takes to seal the deal. We’ve been working on this account for over a year. If Mr. Whitman wants a penthouse, give him a fucking penthouse.” His face is etched with irritation as he places his suitcase on the marble floor by his office door.

I continue to admire him silently. Gregory McDaniel is a man who exudes power. His title as CEO of The McDaniel Corporation speaks for itself. The moment my father enters a room, everyone and everything in it instantly gets smaller, dwarfed by his mere presence. He may frighten others, but never have I seen my father as anything but that—my dad. With my mother or me, the tough businessman and CEO instantly turns into a big pile of mush. Just as he does right now, when his eyes scan the foyer and meet mine. His mouth twitches into a huge smile. “Stanley, just take care of it,” he says sternly as he winks and walks my way.

“Hi, Daddy.”

He leans in and presses his lips to my forehead. “Hello, beautiful. Going for a swim, I see.” His arm finds its way around my shoulder and he pulls me in close, guiding me as we walk together.

“Yes. Would you like to join me?”

“Sorry, sweetheart, I have a conference call in five minutes and then a hot date tonight.” He winks.

I smile, knowing his hot date is indeed my mother. Regardless of what others interpret my parents’ relationship to be, I’ve only ever seen one thing between them: love. That’s one of the things I love most about my father—the love he has for her. The way he looks at her and the small, intimate gestures he manages with ease, all proves how much he loves her. And as much as my mother and I can’t see eye-to-eye ninety percent of the time, I appreciate the love she has for him too. Love like theirs is rare; it happens once in a lifetime. It’s the kind of love others envy.

“Jenna, what is this?” my father asks. My gaze follows his pointed finger to the round mahogany table in the center of our foyer. Beside the large pear-shaped vase, filled with fresh long-stemmed yellow roses, is a medium-sized black toolbox with a silver inscription: Reed Construction.

“Oh, that belongs to the contractor who’s going to be working on the guesthouse. They must’ve left it behind after Mom and I met with them yesterday.”

“Very well.” He kisses me on the cheek and turns to enter his office. “Have a good swim, sweetheart.”

* * *

Two hours. That’s how long it takes for my fingertips to wrinkle like tiny prunes. I’m drained from repeatedly swimming laps. It’s time to call it quits. Although the sun has set, the air is still muggy, and I pull myself out regretfully, wishing I could stay in the cool water a little while longer. My phone blinks on top of the towel, but I ignore it after seeing that it’s a missed call from my mother, probably checking in to see if I burned the house down. I’m sure of it.

I toss my phone aside, grab the towel, and begin drying myself off. I brush the towel over my shoulder and biceps and down toward my wrist. My wrist. My naked wrist. The bracelet is gone.

Every muscle and nerve in my body grows raw as I panic. I drop the towel and search the lounge chair anxiously. Nothing. My eyes scan over the cobblestone patio around me. Nothing. I trace my steps back to the edge of the pool. Nothing. Where can it be? I need that bracelet.

I need it.

I need it.

I need it!

I’m going to cry; my vision turns hazy as my lungs tighten in anticipation.

An item glistening at the bottom of the pool catches my attention and I blink my vision clear. I can’t make out what it is, but there’s something there. Without another thought, I dive in. My hips and legs sway as I speed down to the bottom. After a few seconds, I reach it, but it’s just a damn penny. A penny. I continue to search around, but there’s nothing else down here. I want to scream.

My lungs burn, and I can’t be certain if it’s my rage or a lack of oxygen causing the pain. How could I be so damn careless? As my mind races, my legs grow increasingly numb. Terror is setting in. I’m rapidly losing the ability to swim back up to the surface. If I could breathe, I’d be hyperventilating right now. I’m having a meltdown underwater. I can feel it; I’m about to break. I pull my legs into my chest and wrap my arms around them tightly. I wish I could say this is the first time I’ve been in this situation, but it’s not. I know all too well what I need to do to calm myself down and get the hell out of here. With my eyes firmly shut, I try to focus on something blissful as I hold my breath. The silence beneath the water is soothing, peaceful even. Down here, there are no voices haunting my thoughts.

A calm, pleasant feeling finally settles over me.

And it’s taken away from me in an instant. One second I’m enjoying the silence, and the next I feel a vice-like grip around my arm tugging me upward. I break the surface, shocked and gasping for air, and swallow a mouthful of chlorine water. It burns my nostrils and lungs.

“What the hell?” I cough out. My hands and knees slam against the concrete that borders the pool.

“Are you okay?” a gruff voice huffs out.

Who?

What?

Where?

In a daze, I look up to see a man, completely drenched, leaning over with his hands on his knees. His head is hung low and his whole body rises and falls slightly as he tries to regulate his breathing. I scatter to my feet, jump back, and glare at him. “Who the hell are you?”

His head lifts and… Blue. He has the most beautiful blue eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re a pale, misty blue with thin streaks of grey and flecks of shimmering gold surrounding the pupil. Thunder, lightning, one hell of a storm—that’s what I see when I look in his eyes. Yeah, he’s a walking storm, all right, and his hypnotizing eyes grow darker as he narrows them in annoyance.

He huffs out as he straightens, revealing broad shoulders and an over six-foot frame. “I’m Logan?” The way he says it makes it seem like I should know who he is. I raise my brows and urge him to continue. “I work with my uncle.” I shake my head again. “Reed Construction,” he finally says.

“Oh.” I wet my lips and the taste of chlorine assaults my tongue. “What are you doing here?”

His face has morphed into full annoyance at this point. “My uncle called your mom. He left his toolbox here and needs it for a project tomorrow. Your mother said she’d let you know I was on my way.”

“Oh.” That would explain the missed call. I wipe away the few soaked strands of hair plastered against my forehead. The naked wrist crossing in front of my face sidetracks me. Dammit, I need that bracelet. I turn around and walk to the edge of the pool, leaning over to scan the clear surface. There’s nothing there to see.

Discouraged, I turn back to the wet man. “What the hell was all that about?” I snap, nudging my head toward the pool.

“I saved your life,” he says irritably.

Saved my life? Is he kidding? I snort, crossing my arms over my chest. “You nearly killed me. Because of you, I swallowed a gallon of water. I could’ve drowned.”

Lance or Logan—whoever the hell he is—reaches into the pool and pulls out a floating red baseball cap with a blue letter P stitched in the center of it. Clearly a Phillies fan. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” The worn cap twists in his hands as he drains the water from the fabric. “You were under there for almost three minutes. I jump in, save your life, and this is the thanks I get?”

He shakes his head and tosses the baseball cap over it. It isn’t until he reaches for the edge of his white T-shirt that I notice his arms—arms that are fully sketched in dark artistry. I try to make out some of the images, but they bend and twist with others, making it impossible to decipher what’s what without staring. My eyes shift away from his tattoos and take in his physique. As he wrings his drenched shirt out in front of him, I catch a glimpse of a toned stomach. His wet clothes mold to every muscle of his impressive shape. Even so, it doesn’t matter if he’s good-looking or not. I’m still annoyed. “I didn’t need saving,” I mumble.

His head kicks back as he snorts. “Yeah, I’ll remember that next time. Can I just grab the toolbox and be on my way?”

Right. The toolbox. Which is in the house. After one last scan of the pool and surrounding grounds, I glare at him and walk to the lounge chair. I toss on my cover-up, grab the towel and my phone, and lead him to the foyer. The only sound accompanying us is the squishing of my flip-flops along the marble floors. I throw my hand out, indicating the completely out-of-place toolbox sitting on the table. “Here it is.”

His fingers grip the handle and he lifts it to his side easily. “Can I exit through here?” He points at the double doors. “My truck’s parked out front.”

“Yep.” I walk over and open it for him. As he’s walking through the door, I hear a car pull up the driveway. At first I think it’s my parents, but once I see the familiar black sedan my heart starts to race.

Shit.

“Wait. Lance, come here.” I grip his bicep. My fingers curl around the hard, toned muscle. The car door slams. My anxiety level’s spiking, and I pull him closer to me.

Blue eyes wildly scan my face and look down at my death grip. He gives me a look, a this-woman-is-crazy look. “What are you doing?” He jerks his arm in an effort to pull away.

“Hold me—no—kiss me,” I urge, yanking his arm to force him down. Unfortunately, he’s not budging. What. The. Hell. My foot stomps once to the ground as if I’m having a five-year-old tantrum.

“What? You’re a psycho,” he says.

“No, please. Just please, Lance.” I quickly glance over and see Matthew exiting his car.

Lance shrugs off my grip. “First of all, my name is Logan. L-O-G-A-N. Logan. Second, I’m not holding you, and I’m most definitely not kissing you.”

Dammit, he’s one of those. The good-looking ones always are. “Okay. I get that you’re gay and all—”

A sharp raised brow cuts me off. “I’m far from gay.”

Oh my God, Matthew is now making his way up the pathway. My attention back on Logan, I slam my hands to my hips, surely giving the impression that I’m younger than my twenty-one years of age. “Okay, well prove it,” I challenge.

“You’re kidding?” he asks, but I’m pretty sure my expression tells him I’m anything but. His lips curl into a lopsided grin as he considers this test I’ve given him. Blue eyes slowly and seductively roam my face. He takes me in as if he’s trying to figure me out. News flash, buddy, no one has ever figured me out. Logan’s stare drops to my mouth, lingering, and then a sense of dominance clouds over his features. I’m surprised. His stare is enticing, flirtatious, and goddamn sexy as all hell.

He sucks his bottom lip in, slightly scraping his flesh against his teeth with a seductive grin. That’s hot. Yes, I’ve officially lost my mind. He places the toolbox down. Then, in the blink of an eye, he reaches his arm around my waist, hauls me in, and slams his lips to mine. Urgent, hard, and quick drives of his tongue steal all thoughts from my mind. I quickly inhale and my hand finds its way up and around his neck. He’s a good kisser. He tastes like an apple-flavored Jolly Rancher, which is usually the one flavor I ditch in the pack; after this it may become a favorite. I think a moan just vibrated through me. Get your act together, Jenna. You’ve been kissed before. Our tongues begin to settle into a slow rhythm with long, soft strokes.

Lost momentarily in the sensation of our kiss, I feel his hand cup my ass, securing me in his sturdy hold. His soft lips, molding perfectly with mine, and the strong, confident movements of his talented tongue more than prove to me that Logan, Larry, Lance—whatever his name is—most certainly is not gay. Far. From. It. His fingers tighten on my ass when he pulls me in closer, and a groan vibrating up from his chest causes a throbbing pull deep down within me.

Someone clearing their throat for a second time registers through my daze. For a split second I feel a bit reluctant to pull away from the kiss. And if I didn’t know any better, I’d say Logan feels the same way. That is, until I see his expression. Our eyes lock briefly before mine break away. He looks angry. His forehead is wrinkled and his lips, so adept at kissing me just moments ago, now form a thin line. Then he turns to face Matthew.

I swallow, slightly shake my fuzzy head to compose myself, and turn as well. “Matthew.” I force a smile. “How are you?”

Matthew awkwardly reaches up and scratches the back of his head. “I’m good. I’ve been trying to reach you.” He glances over at Logan. “Hey, man. I’m Matt.” He reaches out and offers his hand.

Logan takes it. “Logan,” he answers smoothly, but it seems like there’s a hint of irritation in his voice.

There are a few seconds of uncomfortable silence as I try to clear the kiss—a kiss I can’t believe I forced—from my still foggy mind. I attempt but fail to utter a freaking word. Finally, I blurt out, “I’m sorry, I’ve just been really busy. And I meant to call you, but I lost track and…”

Matthew lifts his hand, palm facing me. “No need to explain. I understand.” Disappointment clearly written all over his face, he continues charmingly, “Well, I see that you’re busy, so I’ll leave you to your day. Take care.” He nods, turns around, and walks back down the pathway.

Relief. As guilty as I feel, a rush of relief seeps through me. Matthew, son of the Cunninghams, and I were set up by my mother before Brooke’s death. Though I think Matthew is a really sweet guy, I refuse to date anyone my mother tries to set me up with. No, thanks.

A chuckle from beside me forces my attention back to Logan, the talented kisser. He shakes his head in a disapproving way. “Poor guy. I feel kinda bad for him, and I don’t even know who the hell he is, other than that his name is Matthew. So what’d you? Break his heart?”

Screw him. He doesn’t know me from a can of paint. How dare he judge me? “You don’t know me. You can go now.”

“Gladly.” Logan reaches down and grabs the toolbox. He straightens, takes a step forward, and then quickly turns back around. “Oh, and Jenny—”

“Jenna. J-E-N-N-A,” I correct him, placing a hand on my hip.

“That’s right, Jenna. Hmm.” He lets my name sink in for a few seconds. I’m sure he’s stirring up judgments by placing me on some type of stereotypical list of his. “Anyhow, you’re welcome.”

I cross my arms underneath my breasts; he glances down at them, and back at me. “For?” I ask.

“For saving your ass.” He lifts two fingers. “Twice I might add.” He winks, turns his back to me, and before I can respond, he’s walking down the path. I watch him closely. He strides in a powerful and self-assured manner, only slowing when he reaches his truck to place the toolbox in the back. Then he hops in the driver side, looks over at me, and flashes a genuine smile with a slight nod of his head. I fight with all the strength I have not to smile back at him. He chuckles, shaking his head at me, then nods one last time. His truck roars to life, and then he speeds off.

A Truck. Tats. And a cocky attitude.

Typical.

Where the hell is Charlie?

chapter 3

Logan

I lean back against the booth and enjoy the rest of my beer. Our redheaded waitress serves us our food. She must be new. There’s no way I’d have missed those large swollen tits and that ass, rounded so perfectly in those skin-tight jeans. Santino wastes no time removing the top bun to his sandwich. He grabs a handful of fries from the basket and piles them on top of his burger. He points at another basket. “Can I have two of your onion rings?” he asks Bryson, who hasn’t had a chance to even touch his own food yet.

“Go ahead,” Bryson mutters, and he drops his head against his hand. I squint my eyes at my cousin, speculating on what could possibly be wrong with him. He seems out of sorts, lost in his own thoughts. Without hesitation, Santino reaches across and grabs three rings, instead of the two he asked for, and piles them on top of the fries. Then he drowns the entire loaded sandwich with ketchup.

“Anything else, guys?” the redhead asks us, but her eyes are glued on me. She leans over the table, her tits centimeters from my face, and reaches for the empty beer bottles. There’s plenty of space for her to maneuver around, yet she chooses to lean toward the very left side of the booth, right where I’m seated. She smells nice. Like clean linen and not the flowery-fruity shit most women overuse.

“I’ll take another beer. Thanks,” Bryson responds dejectedly.

“Me too,” I add. My eyes focus in on the two melons stuffed behind her black fitted, deep-cut shirt. The name of the bar, Wasted, stretches across her chest in big, bold white letters, and I let my stare linger for a few seconds. After all, she’s giving me a peep show. When I drag my eyes back to hers, she smiles shyly. She’s playing the innocent role now. There’s something to be said about a woman that plays bashful, especially when she throws her tits in your face. Lucky for her, I enjoy a good chase, so I play along by flashing a smile and giving her a wink.

She flings her hair off her shoulder, smiles coyly again, and then sways her hips as she leaves to grab our beers. “She so wants you bad, dude,” Santino blurts out with a mouthful of his loaded burger.

I ignore his remark by turning my attention to my cousin, who’s been sulking the entire twenty minutes since we arrived at the bar. “What the hell’s your problem?” I finally ask him. Bryson looks up. His lips twitch as if he’s going to speak, but he just shakes his head as a way to say, “Nothing.” But I know my cousin. Very well. “It’s that bitch again, isn’t it?”

He scoffs, “Seriously, Logan? Stop calling her a bitch.” He goes into full protective mode over the girl he’s been dating for the past year.

The waitress brings back our beers, but I pay her no attention. All of my focus is on Bryson now. Before I respond, I take a long pull of my beer, drinking down patience. “In my book she is.”

His nostrils flare. “Look. I know she can sometimes be a bit tough to handle, but don’t disrespect her. It’s bad enough she realizes that no one likes her.”

“What I don’t fuckin’ understand is why you choose to protect her.” I lean in over the table, squaring my shoulders, trying to keep the anger from distorting my features. “She’s a bitch, Bry. She treats you like shit all the time. She talks down to you and cheats on you. Then after, she cries for forgiveness and you take her back like a little bitch. And then she does it all over again. That, my cousin, is what I consider a mega-bitch.”

“She must have a golden pussy,” Santino interjects. His face twists in shock, like he can’t believe he actually said that out loud. Bryson glares at him.

If she does, it’s a wide, golden, disease-infected pussy, I’m sure of it. I wouldn’t touch her even if someone threatened to torch my dick until it incinerated and there were nothing left of it but ashes. I know it’d hurt like fucking hell, but I’d sacrifice my precious dick so it would never be near her. I wouldn’t care if we were the last two people on earth and the only way to save the fucking planet were to reproduce. My dick would not be touching her. Get the hint? I just don’t understand why, out of all the people I know, Bryson continues to put up with her bullshit. She’s no good, and my cousin deserves better.

“If we don’t change the subject, I’m leaving,” Bryson says in a pissy tone. He can be such a damn girl sometimes.

The last thing I want to do is piss him off. We’re family. Sure, we’ve fought lots of times growing up. Even roughed each other up here and there. But for some reason, Bryson has this strong infatuation with Mega Bitch. The last time we had it out over her, he didn’t speak to me for months. And we work together, so imagine how fucking awkward that was for everyone else. Especially Santino, who’s close friends with the both of us.

“Fine,” I say, but then I decide I can’t just leave it as is. “Let me say one more thing.” Bryson rolls his eyes but nods for me to go on and get it over with. “Mark my words. I will never be that strung out over a girl. Ever.”

Bryson shakes his head. “Whatever, man. It’ll happen to you sooner or later. And when it does, I’m going to have front-row seats as you pour out your little Logan heart for all to see.”

I snort. “That’s never happening.”

I’ve dated before, plenty of women. And every time a chick and I made our relationship more than just sex, I was never unfaithful. Why hunt for the meal when it’s already cooked and waiting for you at home? That’s my motto. But my exes know me. They know I’m not a clinger, nor am I the jealous type, and I couldn’t give two fucks what the hell they wear. I’m also not one of those freaky, possessive alpha-male types that demands to know where their woman is at all times. I consider myself laid-back. My exes consider me indifferent.

But that’s neither here nor there. All I’m saying is that—okay, maybe I didn’t give a shit half the time, but I was always faithful. Did I ever have a true interest in furthering a relationship? No. It just always turned out that way, more from convenience than anything else. It wasn’t that I didn’t like or respect my girlfriends, I did. I just didn’t really want anything more from them. So with that said, shouldn’t I at least get some type of honorary certificate or something? It can read, “This honorary certificate goes to Logan Reed, who’s not so much of a douchebag after all,” and I can pin that shit to my wall.

Santino mumbles something with his mouth full. I don’t understand shit he just said. “Come again?” I ask.

He guzzles back his beer to wash down his last bite. “What’s this new job we’re starting on Monday?”

Bryson cuts in; he knows more than I do. “The McDaniels’ property. We’re working on a two thousand-square-foot guesthouse beside a pool.”

Santino whistles. “I swear these rich people have so much damn money, they can’t think of anything else to do with it. Give me some of it; I can put it to good use.” He leans back in the booth, smiling at himself.

“Yeah, you’d use it all on girls, food, and booze,” I say.

Santino nods. “This is true. Maybe I should start playing the lottery.”

“Anyway,” Bryson adds, “they want their daughter, Jenna—I think that’s her name—involved one hundred percent. Supposedly, it’s a surprise for her twenty-second birthday in October. She doesn’t realize Mommy and Daddy are basically building her a house.”

Santino squints. “In their backyard?” He laughs. “That’s not really letting her spread her wings. Is she at least hot?”

Yeah, she’s hot. I’m instantly reminded of last night when Jenna and I tongue fucked on her front porch—after I saved her life and she basically bitched me out for it. In a weird way, it was kind of hot. Having a sexy woman in a bikini tell me off and then beg for a kiss? Hot. First impressions are very important, in my opinion. And she put down the fucking wild card on that one. I didn’t know what to make of her, but after she implied that I was gay, I had to show her how straight I truly am—nothing against gay guys and all. Everyone has their preferences, and mine are simple: women.

And Jesus Christ, can Jenna kiss. I can still taste and feel her lips. I did it to prove a point, but after our lips made contact I was done for; I couldn’t control myself at all. She was hesitant at first—even though it was her idea. She got the push she needed, though, when I shoved my tongue into her mouth. She let out a slight moan, which only fed my fire. My hand found its way to her perfect little ass, and the rest—well, let’s just say if that douche, Matthew, never interrupted us, I probably could’ve gotten her past a few bases right there on her front porch.

“Yeah. She’s hot,” I answer Santino.

Bryson looks at me. “How would you know? You weren’t at the meeting with Pop and me.”

“Your father asked me to pick up the toolbox you left behind. Let’s just say I was properly introduced to her.”

“Ooh,” Santino lets out excitedly. I nod at him, letting him know that whatever thoughts he’s thinking right now may or may not be true, depending how far his thoughts are going.

“Logan, you know the rules.” Bryson kills the slight buzz I have from my third beer. He always has to turn his ethical-professional-bullshit cap on.

“Yeah, yeah.” I wave him off. This night is going nowhere. I look around the place and spot the redhead, who’s leaning against the bar, staring directly at me. She waves with a smile. I grin back and stand. “I’ll be back,” I tell Bryson and Santino and head her way.

“I can’t help but notice we have a problem.” I slide onto a stool right next to her and get an eyeful of those big—

“Oh? And what is that?” She says in a sexy tone, looking straight ahead.

“We can’t keep our eyes off each other.”

Redhead’s back is flush against the bar. A smile creeps up the corner of her lips. Turning her head, she looks at me. “That is a problem. What are you going to do about it?”

I lean in closer. “I think I have a few things in mind. What time does your shift end?”

She doesn’t blink. Leaning in fully to me, her lips almost touch mine. “In a half hour,” she breathes out.

“A half hour it is then.”

“Your orders are ready, Tammy,” Tony says from behind the bar. Redhead, who now has a name, turns around and grabs the filled tray. She winks and then carries on.

I check her out as she walks away before straightening in my seat to face Tony. Tony is Uncle George’s good friend and owner of this small bar. Tony shakes his head at my victory grin. “You’re in the wrong business, son.” He tosses a towel, aiming for my face, but I catch it in time.

“Yeah, and what kind of business should I be in?”

His stubby hands lay flat on top of the bar. “Male escort.”

We both chuckle at this. It’s ridiculous. “You have to be a pretty boy for that shit. I’m far from it.”

“You’d be surprised. More and more girls are into this.” He waves a hand between us, shrugging in the process. “Scruffy, bad boy, tattoos. It’s a cliché role.”

I snort. “Is that what I am? A walking cliché?” I shake it off. “I have sex for pleasure, not for money.”

“Touché. How are you guys getting home?” he asks while removing the cap of a summer lager. He passes it to me and I tilt the bottle in salute to show my gratitude before taking a sip.