First Comes Amor

Chapter 1

ONE

“I’m pretty sure there’s a shortage of decent penis in this city.”

It’s a sentiment I’ve often thought to myself, trying to maneuver through the dating landscape in this midwestern metropolitan.

Always something to do, never someone to do.

But again, I typically keep these thoughts in my inner vault. Not while enjoying a night on the town, in the company of men who all turn to look at my best friend, who uttered the words without preamble.

Santana doesn’t make eye contact with any of them as she leans against the bar, her impressive cleavage catching the busy bartender’s gaze.

Because everyone has time for titties. Especially when they belong to someone as beautiful as Santana, with her sleek brown bob, full pink lips, and impeccable blend of designer fashion and streetwear.

I jut out my own B-cups, pressing my freshly glossed lips together. But the drink dealer’s eyes never leave Santana, and I don’t blame him.

I just want another fucking drink, man.

“Two shots of tequila, and another…” Santana glances at my empty glass, her dark eyes glistening under the dim lighting, “margarita.”

Leave no woman dehydrated.

The men around us, seemingly going on with their Friday night, don’t appear promising.

And while it isn’t typical for women to be the ones hunting, Santana and I decided tonight was about getting laid.

I spent the better half of my day shaving, scrubbing, and plucking myself smooth in preparation for a worthy man’s ravishing.

The sheer amount of time it takes to present yourself as a well-manicured sex goddess is insane.

And for all that work to be for nothing?

My anger stirs with each minute that passes.

I sigh in resignation as the shots and my drink are deposited in front of us.

It looks like the only thing I have to look forward to is another night with the sleek pink vibrator tucked in my top drawer.

Am I in danger of developing carpal tunnel with the amount of action that thing has seen lately?

Maybe. The point is, it doesn’t give a shit if I’m shaved and polished.

All it needs from me is fresh batteries.

“To our vibrators,” I announce, lifting my shot to angle it toward her. She grins, tapping her glass against mine. “The unsung heroes.”

I might be a little tipsy.

We down the shots, and I take a sip of my fresh drink as I scan the room, still hopeful, even as we near one in the morning. I’m typically leaving the bar by now, too sleepy to keep up with the younger crowd.

Thirty-one is young enough, but I don’t have the stamina I used to. I prefer to use that reserve of energy for a more horizontal activity.

I’m about to speak to Santana when I notice she’s leaned over the bar again, this time accepting another shot from the bartender with a healthy dose of smoldering eye contact. I grin, happy at least one of us will get lucky tonight.

Rather than stick around, I set my drink down, prepared to use the restroom and text my best friend to let her know I’m heading out. I get a few steps toward the bathrooms when something stops me short.

“Don’t tell me you’re leaving,” I hear someone say to my left, a deep voice a lot closer to my ear than I’m comfortable with. I jerk away as I take in the stranger, whose glassy gaze appraises me with an easy grin. Brown eyes roam my face, my lips, back to my eyes.

He’s handsome, with close-cropped dark hair, a small scar interrupting the smooth arch of his left brow, and a clean-shaven face.

He looks a little more corporate than I like, but I offer a smile of my own as I take in his suit, his crisp white shirt with the first few buttons undone. It draws my attention to the way his Adam’s apple bobs as his grin widens in reciprocation.

“I’d planned on it…” I start, letting the rest of my sentence trail off into obscurity.

Unless you wanted to do something about it.

I can’t find it in me to utter the bold words, wanting to reach deep inside me for the version of myself who could.

But she’s still a few shots away from coming out to play.

“I gotta be honest,” he tells me, not deterred by the space I put between us, “I’ve been trying to find the courage to approach you for the last ten minutes. You’re beautiful.”

I try not to let his confession sway me, try not to get swept up in the atmosphere and the ease with which he prowls.

Romance doesn’t live here. And romance isn’t what I’m looking for.

“Ten minutes wasted,” I respond, jutting out my chin, pretending to be the sexy, carefree woman I’ve always wanted to be. Fuck it. It’s late, and I’m looking for lust. “We could’ve already been on the way to my place.”

His eyes widen, lips parted, and I take the moment to give him another smile of my own, leaning in to the confidence boost of his surprise. I’m too tired to play games, and I don’t have all night to flirt.

I’ve done this song and dance far too many times to want to put more effort into it than this. My chronic singledom has led me here, where the line between realist and bitter blurs.

“Well, I’d hate to waste even more time,” he says, eyes glittering with promise, and I cast a quick glance in Santana’s direction.

She’s watching us, giving me a nod of approval before turning back to watch the bartender she’s no doubt spending tonight with.

Before I can second-guess myself, I let the man lead me out into the July evening, his warm palm pressing into the small of my back like a promise.

“When are you looking to move in?”

My potential landlord is up ahead, keys jingling in his hold as I lag behind him on the landing. I was up far too late last night, going over payroll and seeing what I could do about hiring more people.

The man in front of me looks like he may’ve laid the foundation for this building, his hands calloused and chalky, and his pants splattered with the basic white paint that no doubt covers the walls in each unit. The color would match his mustache if the latter wasn’t so tobacco-stained.

Still, he seems like a friendly guy—friendly enough to not give me a hard time about showing up late to our appointment to view the apartment.

It’s impressive how well the place is maintained. While there aren’t elevators, the carpeted stairs show minimal wear and tear. But based on the crown molding, one could assume these units are easily older than all of us.

While this building isn’t one I’d typically be interested in, it’s close to everywhere I need to be, and I’m not ready to buy a house right now. Not when all that empty space will only serve to remind me just how alone I am.

I can’t give up living in the city. It may be the only thing keeping me from feeling lonely. Someone is always coming or going.

The door before me opens, and a disheveled looking man ducks out before closing it quietly behind him. He glances up, and I catch sight of his face, the scar on his left brow, as he lifts a hand in greeting before walking past me toward the stairs we’d just climbed.

I stare at the door he walked out of for a moment before the landlord pulls me back to reality.

“Well?” he asks, and I look over at him as I make my way toward the door he stands in front of. The one right next to where the scarred stranger walked out of.

“Doesn’t matter to me. It’ll take me some time to get moved in, but I can pay the first month and deposit now to get that out of the way,” I tell him as he unlocks the door.

I don’t have much furniture, having been staying in the office at the restaurant, and I refuse to live here until it’s fully furnished. That’ll take weeks, I’m sure.

The apartment isn’t too large, but it fits what I need: a place to lay my head for a few hours before I inevitably find myself back to the grind.

I peer over at the kitchen, wincing at its size.

Is this really where you want to be?

The little voice in my head has me questioning myself, questioning everything .

But it isn’t like signing a year-long lease is anything like signing my life away.

“You’ll have quiet neighbors,” the man offers, as if he can feel my hesitation. “It’s one of my easiest buildings.”

Pondering his words, I glance in the direction of one of said neighbors, wondering if that man resides there or was hightailing it out on his walk of shame.

I make my way through the apartment, checking the bedroom, even though nothing about it would be a dealbreaker for me. Not even the inescapable white walls.

“I’ll take it,” I tell him as I walk back out into the main space, eyeing where I’d mount the massive TV I plan on purchasing.

I’ll take it.

Those words feel heavier than I intend.

My mouth tastes fucking gross.

I groan as I open an eye, slapping my hand over my face to shield it from the brightness of my bedroom.

I take a moment before trying again, sitting up with a grunt.

I’ve never hated having white sheets until this very moment, with the way they seem to brighten the room, giving me an instant headache.

Apparently, I forgot to close my curtains last night.

Hazy memories of the night before come rushing back to me, and I glance over to find last night’s participant departed sometime while I was asleep. My stomach sinks, and I volley between crestfallen and relieved I don’t have to deal with the awkwardness of the morning after.

It’s always chapped smiles and trying to seem pleasant while remembering how vulnerable you were with the stranger now sitting in your space.

What the fuck was his name?

Between the margaritas I’d already finished before we left the bar and the shots we took once we got to my place, I’m fuzzy on a lot of the details.

Aside from the knowledge I didn’t spend the night alone, I’m not sure what transpired.

The slight ache between my legs tells me we had sex. Was it any good? I couldn’t say.

I blink a few times before scrambling to look for evidence of protection. Because I’m not that fucking stupid.

A sigh of relief rushes through me when I see the telltale empty foil wrapper on the floor in front of my nightstand, where I keep my stash.

My tongue feels thick, coated with the taste of stale tequila, and I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand as I get up, feeling the roll of nausea once I’m upright. I’m not in my twenties anymore. Why the fuck did I drink so much?

The nerves , I remind myself. The nervousness of entering my apartment with someone new, bringing him into my space, and my confidence ebbing with each step toward my bedroom. Now, I’m alone, unsure of how I feel about it.

“Fuck,” I groan as I head to the bathroom to wash off last night’s sins.

I didn’t expect him to stay. I never expect them to.

But it still stings when they don’t.