Chapter One
“You look sad, Punk Princess! What’s eatin’ you? Or who isn’t, might be the better question.”
Rolling my eyes, I turn to glare at my annoyingly gorgeous boss Rosie. She just got back from running errands and of course had to walk in as I’m staring up at the TV, frowning.
She flashes me a smile, her shoulder bumping mine as she comes around the counter of her bar, Andromeda.
“I’m good,” I tell her, using my thumb to spin the anxiety ring on my index finger. I force a smile onto my face that mirrors hers.
Andromeda is my home away from home. With black-painted walls and a ceiling to match, subtle lights are strung everywhere to twinkle like the inky sky as the bar comes alive every night.
Like clockwork, I’m here by six to set things up, and I don’t leave most nights until last call. I have my regulars, my favorites, and, of course, know which clientele to avoid.
“You’re the worst damn liar.” Rosie laughs mechanically, knowing me well enough to see right through me. I’ve worked here for a little over two years now, and we’ve become close friends—more like family. We’ve been through a lot, me, this bar, and Rosie. Good times. Bad.
My heart aches thinking about the bad times. I still have night terrors.
Giving me her back, Rosie organizes the new bottles of top-shelf booze she just brought in. The glass clinks as she shifts and rotates them, striving for perfection.
My thoughts stray back to him, and I spin my ring again.
Gareth.
Rosie’s not wrong—I am a bad liar. And I can’t deny that I’m thinking about him again.
On the TV, cheers erupt, and the announcer booms, “And that’s third out for the Rebels.”
A jolt of excitement pulsates through me knowing who was on third.
Glancing over my shoulder, I catch the screen just as the camera pans to Gareth’s stupidly handsome face, beaming as he throws the ball back to the pitcher.
I sigh, but I make sure it’s silent.
“You break it, you buy it,” Rosie singsongs in my ear, causing me to startle. I look down at the lowball in my hand that I'm aggressively wiping dry. “You hate baseball or something?”
“Or something,” I grumble, watching her swipe the remote off the counter and change the channel.
Leaning her elbows against the shiny lacquered cherrywood, she arches a brow. “Alright. Tell me everything.”
The last thing I want to do is open that can of worms, but Rosie’s a hard person not to bare your soul to when she asks. But still, everything that’s happened with Gareth—and lack thereof—feels like it should stay between us.
That’s how things have always been between us. A secret.
Behind closed doors.
Maybe talking will help this time.
The tail end of another memory flashes through my mind, and with the slightest shake of my head, I shoo it away.
I start to dry another glass. “I mean, how in-depth do you want me to go? Every last detail or just the woman scorned bit?”
“Let’s start with the end of the story. The beginning’s not as important—I just want to know what made you so ticked at the hot baseball player.”
A relenting sigh pushes past my lips. “He’s my brother’s best friend, and I practically begged him to take my virginity about eight years ago, but he refused.”
Rosie’s brows raise, practically touching her hairline. “Eight years ago is a long time, Punk Princess. You sure that’s the end of the story?”
“Close enough.”
“Alright, I’ll respect that. So, you offered your virginity on a silver platter and he said no?”
“He didn’t know I was a virgin.”
What more can I say than that without going into the nitty-gritty? Which I absolutely do not want to do. “I don’t know that it would have made a difference regardless, but I never told him. It’s fine.” Shrugging, I turn away, busying myself again.
“You’re holding onto a lot of resentment. Maybe you should try talking to him.”
Hilarious suggestion considering Rosie spent months making her husband work for her forgiveness after screwing things up with her. “Pot, meet kettle.”
Tossing her head back, she laughs boisterously. “Touché. I’ll quit the lecture. It’s not really my style, anyway. If it’s been eight years and he still has you this wound up, there has to be a reason, right? Go get your man.”
Oh, there’s a reason alright.
But instead of telling her that, I silently get back to work.
Within the first hour of being open, the thrill of the evening seeps its way into my bones as I settle into my element, mixing drinks and charming patrons.
While Andromeda is known for being the local biker bar because Ridgewood’s motorcycle gang, The Sinners, has made this their home away from home, we get plenty of locals and college students filling our tables. Tonight, we’re at capacity—ladies’ night always brings in a large crowd.
“Hey, help me out?” I yell to Monique, the newest hire. She’s still getting the hang of things, but she’s a quick learner.
“On my way!” She wastes no time racing to the other end of the bar to take drink orders.
Turning my attention to the two bikers in front of me, I tip my chin at them. King and Damon are all brute and brawn, with hard, bulky muscles straining the fabric of their T-shirts and leather vests. “What’ll it be?”
“Shouldn’t you know our drink order by now, Indy?” King tsks.
“You might surprise me one of these days and order a Shirley Temple or something,” I tease.
King grunts, his nose wrinkling. It makes me laugh, and he narrows his eyes, attempting to be menacing, but I’ve spent enough time around him to know he’s a big softy. “Isn’t that cherry juice?”
“Ginger ale and grenadine.”
Big, bad King shudders. “Gross.”
“They’re actually not bad, man,” Damon mutters, which only makes me laugh harder.
Pulling out two glasses, I pour them both two fingers of whiskey, toss an ice cube into each, then push them across the bar.
“Thanks,” they simultaneously mutter. Waving my hand dismissively, I go help the next customer.
Several hours later, the bar’s finally closed down. Tipping everyone out, I have to recount the money twice before I’m confident in my math skills at two-thirty in the morning. I’m beyond exhausted—ready to shower, then crawl into my bed.
“Let me walk you to your car, Indy,” Cain, Rosie’s husband, says as I grab my purse from the office.
Cain is here every night, with or without Rosie. He stays until the last person leaves, making sure we all get to our cars safely. As the motorcycle club prez and Rosie’s husband, he feels like it’s his duty to protect her bar and everyone in it.
Honestly? I don’t hate it. Ridgewood’s gotten a little sketchier over the last couple years.
“Thanks, Cain. You ready, Mo?” I grab Monique’s purse off the couch, bringing it to her as she meets me in the doorway.
“YES!” She groans, kicking off her platform boots in favor of the flip-flops she left by the filing cabinet. “Oh my God, my feet are killing me.”
“You’ve been here nearly a month, when are you going to learn heels are a no-go?” I laugh, watching as she leans against the wall.
Cain flips the light, casting us all in darkness. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”
When Monique and I are tucked into each of our cars safely, I hear Cain’s motorcycle roar to life over the rumble of my engine. Yawning, I pull my phone out of my purse, my heart sputtering when I see a single message from the one person who still manages to make me nervous as hell.
Golden Boy
Missed you at the team BBQ last weekend.
All these years, and I never changed his name in my phone. I stare at the two words, nine letters, that comprise the name I’ve foolishly built up to mean much more in my mind.
Golden Boy started off as a cutesy nickname everyone called him because that’s what he was—perfect in every way. Now, it’s still his contact because he’s my Golden Boy.
Even after all this time, I can’t shake him from my system. He’s the opposite of me. Brighter than the sun, the light to my darkness of my self-proclaimed moonlight.
The center of my universe even though he’s never officially been more than just a friend.
The one person on the planet who’s made himself completely off-limits.
I blame my brother.
Looked like the BBQ had enough excitement without me there.
My reply borders on snarky, but it’s the truth. I’m certain there’s not a single person on the West Coast who hasn’t seen the viral video of the Bears’ new coach running across the stadium with a beautiful, injured redhead in his arms as he rushed her to the team doctor. The press ate it up.
Dropping my cell into the cupholder, I put my car in reverse, backing out of my parking spot. It’s almost three in the morning—there’s no way I’ll get a response from Gareth tonight so there’s no point in lingering.
Another yawn hits me at full force as I pull onto the main road and head in the direction of my modest townhouse. It’s just a rental, but it’s cozy, and I’ve been there since I moved back to Ridgewood.
I’m surprised when my phone illuminates a few minutes later, the words Golden Boy displayed across the screen.
Why the hell is he up so late?
Steam rolls off my bathwater, and my skin immediately turns cherry when I step in. Every muscle aches down to my bones. It’s four in the morning, but I don’t care. I need this desperately.
Sinking beneath the scorching heat, I lean back, exhaling a breath as I hold my phone at eye level, rereading the message from Gareth.
Come to the game tomorrow.
It’s not an invitation so much as it is a plea. I can practically hear the softness in his voice, the hope in his tone as I read the message for what has to be the fortieth time.
Every home game, every Bears function, Gareth invites me.
I always say no.
Gareth Fox is the one that got away. I’ve forgiven him for that night, although it still hurts like hell; the sting rises through every cell in my body at the mere thought of him, but it’s not for lack of forgiveness.
Gareth was once my best friend, and he’s always been Dylan’s.
I’d hoped we’d get back to that, but it seems we drew a line in the sand that night and stopped dancing around the attraction we had for each other.
We put my brother first, and as much as I’d love to resent him for that, Dylan’s just too important to us both. I love him more than I love myself, obviously, since I’ve all but given up on the love of my life for him.
Swallowing thickly, my fingers skip over the screen of my phone as I decline yet another invitation to a Bears game.
I can’t.
His response comes through immediately.
You can, you just don’t want to. Why?
You know why.
Why is he even awake? It’s the middle of the night. Normal people are tucked into their warm beds.
It’s just a game, Indy. You’ve never watched me play.
Because being around you hurts too bad.
I don’t say it, not in a message or out loud. But I think it, repeating it like a mantra. It doesn’t matter if I’m physically there because I watch every game, cheering him on silently from wherever I’m at.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I envision his face, and I can’t help the smile that touches my lips.
Vibration in my hand has my focus snapping back to the phone.
Dylan will be there.
He dangles the same carrot that almost works every time. If I go when Dylan’s there, he’ll not only act as a buffer, but as a safety net. Dylan and Indy going to Gareth’s game? Normal. A fun day out. Indy going alone…
God, this is so stupid. We’re both grown adults, but I still feel like a damn lovesick teenager caught between right and wrong.