Chapter 7 – ryan
RYAN
The cold air burns my lungs as I stride quickly across the sidewalk. Fuck, I’m already regretting leaving my coat back at Dad’s house. At the time, I figured I wouldn’t need one, since Greta’s Pub is only a ten-minute walk away.
I should have known better than to underestimate the cold. It’s so frigid out, even my hair feels like it’s shivering. I shove my hands in my pockets and try to think warm thoughts.
Instead, all I can think about is Pippa.
I didn’t mean to actually untie her dress. I thought the ribbon thingies were decorative, not functional to the structure of the goddamn dress. And how was I supposed to know she wouldn’t wear a bra under it? I’m not a fucking mind-reader.
All I meant to do when I followed her into the kitchen was apologize. She’s the one who turned it into a fight, pissing me off and making me get up in her space. It’s her fault we ended up so close, her fault for wearing those ridiculous stiletto heels that she always manages to break.
I can’t stop picturing the way her big hazel eyes went round when I caught her.
Her cheeks turned pink, and it was all too easy to imagine how she’d look underneath me, sweaty and flushed while I pounded my cock inside her.
Her red lips parted, the bottom one brushing against mine before she got her balance back and pulled away. I run my thumb across my lip now, checking to make sure I don’t have her lipstick on me.
My thumb comes away clean, but I catch a whiff of cherries and velvet. It’s like my clothes absorbed Pippa’s scent, and now it’s all I can fucking smell.
Damn. I haven’t thought about it—about her—in a long time. I can’t go back there. I need to get her out of my head. Now.
I try to think of anything else as I walk in the cold, watching my step so I don’t slip on the icy sidewalk.
But it’s not like the other stuff in my head is pleasant, either.
Dad’s parties always suck. Every time I meet one of his female friends or coworkers, I have to wonder whether he’s fucking her.
He’s enough of an asshole that he would invite his sidepiece to a party where he can make eyes at her behind Emily’s back.
Nobody would deserve that, but especially not Emily.
When she married my dad, I’ll admit I was a little shit to her.
I was always giving her attitude, ignoring her requests, and generally acted like that rebel asshole from The Breakfast Club.
Emily never fell for the act. She saw me for what I was—an angsty kid with real feelings even if my Dad refused to believe I had any.
She was patient with me, probably even more than she was with her own daughter.
When I poured Dad’s Grey Goose into a water bottle and brought it to school, she talked him down from sending me to military school to grounding me for a week.
She saw me for what I could be, instead of what I was.
When she found out I was playing online poker, she made me sign up for a stats class.
I always thought I sucked at math, but it turns out, I just wasn’t interested.
When I related it to something I actually liked—poker—suddenly, I was addicted to studying.
The point is, Emily’s amazing, and she deserves better than Dad.
And I can’t stop thinking about what it would have felt like if I grabbed her daughter’s hand and pressed it to my cock between us in the kitchen so she could have felt how hard it was getting at the idea of her flushed and braless beneath that black dress.
I run a hand through my hair.
I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me.
But I know what to do. Find a girl at the pub, one who looks nothing like my stepsister, then fuck her until I can’t even remember my own name, let alone Pippa’s.
Soon enough, the sprawling mansions give way to a tree-lined street.
On the other side, there are a few blocks of restaurants, galleries, and stores—a walkable town center, and a big selling point for my parents’ rich-ass neighbors.
They love being able to take a pilates class, then grab a coffee and stroll through a farmer’s market on weekends.
The whole thing feels fake to me, like a playground that lets the one percent pretend they’re just like everyone else.
As if every small town needs a medspa that gives vampire facials and a grocery store with ten dollar tomatoes.
My feet automatically carry me to Greta’s Pub, the only place in the little downtown that normal people go to.
It’s been here for decades, long before developers bought out the farmland to build mansions.
None of my parents’ neighbors would be caught dead there, but you can bet their housecleaners and gardeners come by for a pint after a day of dealing with demanding housewives.
I push open the door, and the familiar bar smells immediately settle my nerves.
The malty smell of beer and the stringent spike of spilled vodka mixes with women’s floral perfumes.
The warm yellow lights shine cozily off the polished wood walls and floor, with more daily lit booths in the back.
Classic rock music plays in the background.
The bartender, a bearded guy in his 40s, looks down at my suit and wrinkles his nose.
Fuck, I’m way too dressed up for the casual crowd.
I yank off my tie and shove it in my pocket, undoing a few buttons on my black shirt.
I shrug off my blazer and toss it over a barstool.
Fuck, that feels better already. Suits are so not my thing.
“Hey man, can I get a Twisted Devil on the rocks?” I shoot Beardy The Bartender a grin, trying to psychically explain to him that I’m not some douchebag.
Beardy grunts and pours me a whiskey. Clearly, he’s rejecting my psychic apology.
Fair enough—I just came from a whole party full of suits, and most of those guys can kiss my ass.
All business friends of Dad’s, with their pretty trophy wives who still look thirty-five, thanks to all the pricey skin treatments.
Not that it matters how good the women look. These assholes live for the business trips when they can put their wedding rings in the hotel safe and ply girls with drinks till they agree to come upstairs. Once they’re back home, everyone forgets it ever happened.
Because cheating doesn’t matter as long as nobody finds out, right?
I throw back half my drink, letting that sweet whiskey burn chase away my depressing thoughts. I’m not here to sulk—I’m here to get laid.
My eyes scan the pub patrons. Almost immediately, I spot a group of girls in tight jeans and low-cut tops, giggling around the pool table.
They take turns bending over the table, awkwardly holding the cue while they stick out their asses as far as they can, looking around to see who might be watching them.
Well, I for one am happy to look.
A short, curvy woman in a bright blue sweater takes the pool cue next, her long blonde hair hanging in braided pigtails down her back. Her scuffed Chuck Taylors add a tomboyish edge to her style. Her make-up is natural-looking, nothing like Pippa’s bright red lips and black eyeliner.
She’s exactly who I need.
She lines up her pool cue, but it slips out of her grasp, barely grazing the cue ball. Her friends laugh.
“You’re terrible at this, Sydney,” one of her friends screeches.
“Yeah, I warned you when you handed me the pool cue.” She laughs. “You can take over for me, Jenn. I’m getting another drink.”
She grabs an empty beer glass and walks in my direction. Her eyes widen when she sees me looking at her, and she immediately stares at the floor. She’s shy—it’s cute.
I slide down the bar to stand next to her. “Lemme get the next one. I promise not to be judgmental if you order one of those hipster hoppy IPAs.”
Her cheeks turn pink, and her eyes raise so they’re in line with my chest. “What’s so bad about IPAs?”
“Apart from the fact that they taste like fresh-cut grass?”
“I guess I like grass, then.” She shrugs.
I lean over, letting my shoulder lightly graze hers. “Oh, sorry. I thought you were a cute girl. I didn’t realize you were a bunny rabbit.”
She finally gets over her shyness enough to meet my eyes. “My hair hides the floppy ears.”
I chuckle. Cute and funny. Then, to my surprise, she leans in a little closer so her breasts brush against my arm.
“I’m not really that thirsty,” she murmurs.
My eyebrows shoot up. She seemed too shy to be ready to go this quick, but I guess there’s a little Jessica Rabbit in this bunny.
“I’m Ryan.” I figure she should at least know my name before we get to the fun part.
“Sydney,” she says, sliding her hand into mine.
Leaving my blazer, I pull her over to the back of the pub.
There’s a little stage they use for live music on Friday, just big enough to hold a few guitarists on stools.
Behind there, I know there’s a little storage space for amps and mic stands.
There’s no door to close so the other pub patrons won’t hear us, but it’s dark and shielded enough.
The longer I wait for another woman’s lips to replace the memory of Pippa’s, the harder it’s going to be to forget it.
Sydney giggles as I pull her back and press her against the wall.
I don’t waste any time, bending down to press my lips against hers.
She tastes like beer and bubblegum, a weird combination that doesn’t quite work.
Her lips are soft and pillowy, but there’s not that instant chemistry there.
Our teeth keep banging into each other, and the way she darts her tongue quickly into my mouth reminds me of a lizard.
The whole kiss just feels wrong, somehow.
Ignoring that instinct, I grab her round ass and pull her tight against me. Sydney moans her approval into my mouth, rocking her hips against my thighs.
My neck starts aching fast, having to bend down so far to kiss her. That wouldn’t be a problem if she was wearing Pippa’s shoes.
Shit. The whole point of this is so I won’t think about Pippa.