The Stipulation

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

JO

-die young-

O’Malley’s bar is loud and steamy in that way that signifies it’s a Friday night: nobody here intends to wake up without regret.

Neon pink lights bleed down the brick walls, making everyone look flushed and guilty.

The bass thuds through my head like it’s trying to kill off my last two brain cells, and the air reeks of cheap cologne and alcohol fumes, but if I tilt my head just right, I can almost pretend tonight is a brilliant life choice rather than the beginning of a hangover I’ll be negotiating tomorrow morning.

I’m wedged into a curved leather booth with my three besties. All of us pressed knee to knee, and shouting to be heard over the blaring music. Our table is already cluttered with nearly a dozen empty cocktail glasses.

Fearlessly bubbly Jenny Arnold is to my left.

Her blonde hair cascades down her back in artfully casual waves, but I know it required a minimum of forty-five minutes with a curling wand to achieve.

She’s wearing a red dress that hugs her curves like it’s in love with her, and I’m ready to bet every man within a ten-foot radius has already clocked her as the babe they’d love to take home.

And she is pathologically incapable of not flirting right back. It’s one of her many talents.

Across from me is Serena Mason. Her dark hair is cut close on one side and falls freely in glossy sheets on the other.

She’s dressed in black as always, and her combat boots are planted firmly on the sticky floor.

A silver necklace rests against her collarbone where a green dragon tattoo peeks out from the inside of her t-shirt and curls around her neck, making her look dangerously sexy.

Next to her is Olivia Green. She’s quiet, which people often mistake for shyness until she opens her mouth and annihilates them. She’s wearing a white slip dress and a brown leather jacket that she has tossed over the back of the booth. Her fiery auburn hair is cut blunt at her shoulders.

And then there’s me, Jo-Anne Louise Button, but everybody calls me Jo.

I guess I have nice eyes, but I am the classic wallflower.

Pale and nondescript, I can effortlessly and perfectly blend into any background, which I kind of like.

It’s fun to be underestimated and then jump out and shock people with my brilliance.

I lift my shot glass and grin around at my friends. “To bad decisions.”

“That turn out to be excellent decisions at the stroke of midnight,” Jenny corrects, clinking her shot glass lightly against mine.

Serena groans. “Why do we have to beat around the bush like this? To all the men with big dicks who know how to use them!”

Olivia raises hers last, her expression solemn. “Oh, fuck it. To orgasms, any fucking way they come.”

Laughing, we throw the shots back. The tequila burns down my throat, the heat sharp and immediate, and I have to suck in a breath and cough.

Jenny slaps my arm. “Oh, come on, lightweight,” she teases. “Your job is restoring seventeenth-century oil paintings with toxic chemicals, and you breathe that just fine, but this is where you draw the line?”

“In my defense I don’t drink the chemicals,” I say hoarsely. “I feel like my esophagus must object on principle alone.”

Serena slides another round of shots into the center of the table, having somehow summoned them without me noticing. “Esophagi are not meant to be seen or heard. Now drink up!”

“How are you not the dictator of a whole country?” I mutter, reaching for my cocktail.

Olivia leans forward, her eyes bright. “You know that guy I told you about? The one from that architecture firm?”

“The one with the eerily symmetrical face?” Jenny asks.

“Yes,” Olivia agrees serenely. “Him.”

Serena smirks. “The one you said looked like he’d cry if you raised your voice?”

“That’s the one,” Olivia confirms. “Anyway, I kind of went on a date with him… and ended up in his place.”

Jenny’s eyes light up. “Ooooh,” she breathes. “Tell us more.”

“To be honest, I wasn’t planning on staying over,” Olivia explains. “I genuinely wasn’t. I just wanted to see if his bookshelves were as pretentious as I suspected they would be.”

“Yeah, right,” Serena scoffs and we laugh, even Olivia.

“And were they?” I ask.

“They were color coded by their emotional impact.”

I choke on my drink. “Noooo.”

Olivia nods sagely. “Yes. Talk about a major red flag. But then, he poured me a glass of wine that cost more than my weekly food budget and did this unusual thing with his eyebrows. One thing led to another, and somehow, I found myself in his bed.”

Serena tilts her head. “All is well that ends well.”

“Well, not exactly,” Olivia says with a grimace. “We were kissing, which was fine. Nice, even. Until his bedside lamp fell over.”

Jenny laughs. “What? How?”

“The thing just shattered. It was almost like a poltergeist scene from a horror movie. There was glass everywhere. He panicked. Like, a full-on spiral. He kept on apologizing and trying to clean it up, while naked… and bleeding slightly.”

“You didn’t try to help?” I ask, shaking my head in wonder.

“No, I absolutely did not,” Olivia denies indignantly. “I sat on the bed and watched him hop around like a wounded gazelle.”

“That’s cold. I like it,” Serena approves.

“It gets better,” Olivia continues. “He insisted on putting a plaster on his toe. Very tenderly. With lots of eye contact. I thought he was going to ask me to kiss it better at one point. And then …”

“And then what?” Jenny prompts impatiently.

“The fool tried to have sex with me… with the plaster still on.”

The table explodes into laughter loud enough for a few heads to turn in our direction.

“This is why I’m done with men,” Jenny declares, wheezing with laughter.

“Same,” Serena says. “Honestly, same.”

Jenny drops her eyebrows disbelievingly. “You say that all of the time.”

“Ok,” Serena amends. “Temporarily same.”

Olivia shrugs. “Anyway, it was … fine. The sex was fine. Not life-changing by any means, but not terrible.”

“Wait, you went through with it after all that?” Jenny exclaims.

Olivia nods sheepishly. “But that’s why I’m off men for now. That, and the fact that every time I see a first aid kit, I feel weird.”

I wipe my eyes, still laughing. “Thank you for that gift. Truly.”

Jenny turns to me, her grin sharpening like a wolf’s. “Speaking of men. Or, rather, the lack of. What’s up with that, Miss Jo-Anne Louise Button?”

Here it comes. I stop laughing real quick. “Oh, let’s not go there, please.”

“Oh yes, we are absolutely going there,” she yells. “How long has it been now? Three months? Four?”

“Five,” Serena supplies helpfully.

I glare at her. “Thanks for that.”

Serena shrugs. “I respect the truth.”

Jenny leans closer. “Five months without sex is not a choice, Jo. It’s a freaking cry for help.”

“It is totally a choice,” I protest. “I am off men. Completely. Entirely. Permanently. For the foreseeable future.”

Olivia studies me. “You say that like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

“I am at peace,” I insist. “I am thriving. I am celibate and powerful. I want to focus on my work right now.”

Jenny snorts. “Liar. You’re horny, but stubborn.”

“I’m telling you, I’m focusing on work right now,” I maintain primly.

“Right now, I’m restoring a Titian masterpiece that was over-cleaned in the eighties.

The original glaze has been stripped off in some places, and I’m trying to coax warmth back into the flesh tones using pigments and brushwork that Titian would have approved of.

So, I do not have time for mediocre sex with emotionally unavailable men. ”

Serena lifts her glass. “Honestly?”

I nod calmly.

And Jenny sighs dramatically. “It’s such a shame. You could have anyone.”

I roll my eyes, but before I can open my mouth and retort, my cell phone vibrates on the table. Glancing down, I see that it is an unknown number with an international code.

“Ugh,” Jenny says. “Just ignore it. If it’s important, they’ll text you.”

I hesitate. She’s probably right, but the phone keeps buzzing insistently, and something tells me I should take the call.

“I’ll just quickly check,” I say, sliding out of the booth. “It could be a potential client.”

“Or a scam,” Jenny shouts.

“Tell them we’re not interested in timeshares,” Serena calls after me. “Or Nigerian Princes. Or getting rid of the fake virus from your computer.”

I cross the bar, shaking my head and laughing to myself.

I open the heavy door and slip outside. The noise drops off sharply as I step into the cold night air, and I can feel it sobering me up instantly.

I suddenly wish my top had sleeves. The bar’s door thumps shut behind me, muffling the music to a faint thud.

I try to ignore the cold as I hit the accept button on my phone.