All I Ever Desired

Prologue

One hour. That’s how long I told Carson I would stay at Bob’s Bar and Grill when he invited me earlier this week.

He has asked me multiple times since he inserted himself into my life earlier this year, but I’ve always found excuses why I couldn’t come out with him.

But today he’s celebrating his twenty-fifth birthday, and my excuses don’t matter. He wouldn’t take no for an answer.

That’s how I’ve found myself sitting alone at a table in the middle of this hot room, nursing a drink, surrounded by twentysomethings who are thriving in the chaos.

Loud music pulses through the speakers, but the sound of laughing and singing is even louder.

The neon signs hanging on the walls cast harsh colours over the cluttered, sticky tables.

There are people everywhere. I can’t believe this used to be my life.

Carson drops a bottle of beer that I didn’t ask for on the table in front of me. His grin is wide and his eyes are a little glassy.

“Nice hat.” I lift my chin to the pointy paper hat perched haphazardly on top of his head.

“I can get you one,” he leans over and shouts directly in my ear.

My chest rises as I huff out a breath and shake my head. “Not a chance.”

“Loosen up, old man. It’s a party.” He places a firm hand on my shoulder and squeezes.

“I’m loose,” I assure him, picking up the beer and raising it to my mouth. Well, as loose as I can be in this circus.

“Tell that to your face,” he chuckles. “I’m going to make the rounds. Be back soon.” Slapping me on my back, he turns and wanders into the crowd. Every few feet, someone pulls him into a hug or gives him a fist bump, wishing him a happy birthday.

The chair next to me scrapes back as Hannah sits down beside me and leans close. “Are you having any fun?” she asks, nudging me with her elbow. Her face is flushed, and she has piled her hair on top of her head in a messy bun.

Rolling my teeth over my lower lip, I nod slowly. “Sure.”

“I don’t believe you,” she says, smiling. “But I’m glad you came. It means a lot to him.”

Hannah and I met a few years ago when her family went through a tremendous loss and I was the crisis counsellor. I have admired her strength and resilience ever since. Now I consider her a friend.

She sways slowly in her seat to the music, watching the swell of people gyrate on the dance floor.

Glancing towards a hoard of girls jumping around with their hands in the air as the music changes to some pop song I don’t recognize, I say, “Go. You don’t have to babysit me.”

Standing, she leans down and asks, “Do you want to come with me? I could introduce you to some of my friends.”

“Nah, I’m good.” I shake my head. “Your friends don’t want to hang out with an old guy like me. Go have fun.”

“You’re thirty-five, Ryan, not eighty,” she says dismissively, rolling her eyes. “You know where to find me if you change your mind.”

As Hannah drifts towards the dance floor, I let my eyes wander over the crowd, trying to spot Carson with no luck. Checking my watch, I wonder if I’ve been here long enough. He probably wouldn’t even notice if I left; there are so many people here.

And that’s when I see her. Beck. One of the top three reasons I rarely come out with Carson.

Standing at a table close to the bar, she’s in an animated conversation with someone I don’t recognize. Her hands move as fast as she talks. Throwing her head back, laughing, she grabs the arm of the man across from her. As much as I try, I can’t look away.

Her long black hair almost reaches her ass.

Bright blue eyes twinkle with humour and mischief.

What appears to be the beginning of a full sleeve of vibrant tattoos winds around her right arm.

Every movement and expression on her face pulls me in.

Reminding me of my past. Of Lily. Or who Lily was when we were young.

Someone new approaches and hands her a shot.

Without hesitation, she throws it back, letting the empty glass drop on the table.

She raises her arms in the air, swiveling her hips as she turns in a slow, sensual circle.

Her black crop top drifts up even farther, revealing her trim waist and the low rise of her jean shorts. Fuck my life.

She is too young, too reckless, too…too everything I promised myself I would stay away from.

My chest tightens, and I know this is my cue to leave.

Shifting in my seat, I survey the room and plan my escape. I need to leave before I do or say something stupid. Before I can be pulled further into my memories.

As I push off my chair, she turns and our eyes meet.

For a moment she freezes, then a slow grin creeps up her face.

She raises her eyebrows and smirks in a silent challenge.

Leaning in, she says something to the man she’s standing beside before walking directly towards me.

Fuck my life. It’s like she knows my internal conflict.

But how can she? I go out of my way to ignore her any time I see her.

“Are you leaving without asking me to dance?” she asks, voice teasing.

“I don’t dance,” I mutter, already stepping back. “I’m sure you can find someone else.”

Her smile widens as she rests her hand on my bicep. “But what if I only want to dance with you?”

“Then you are going to be disappointed,” I say, pulling away.

She tilts her head. “Come on, Ryan. Just one song.”

I shake my head. “No.” Squaring my shoulders, I move farther out of her reach. “Go back to your friends. I’m sure one of them will take you up on your offer.”

She studies me for a moment, as if she’s deciding how far she can push me tonight.

“Fine. Your loss.” Without another word, she spins and heads back to rejoin her friends. Easy and unbothered, as if she hadn’t completely rattled me.

Blowing out a long breath, I pick up my beer bottle and take a couple of quick swallows to soothe my dry throat. I need to leave. Now.

Weaving through the throng of people, I rush towards the door. Unfortunately, there is no way to completely avoid her table without using the emergency exit and causing a scene. As I approach, she kicks off her shoes and stands on a chair, wobbling a little.

“I love this song,” she shouts at the top of her lungs, swirling her hips, hands in the air.

And then—because of course it’s just my luck—she wobbles too far to the left, and the chair slips out from beneath her.

Instinctively, I lunge forward, catching her as she topples backwards. Laughing loudly, completely unfazed, she wraps her arms around my neck. Her body is warm against mine, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.

“Are you okay?” I ask, carefully lowering her to the floor. “You could have killed yourself up there.”

“I knew you wanted to dance with me, Pretty Boy,” she sings, still grinning widely.

Without a word or a backward glance, I turn and walk out the door into the cool night air.

That woman is the definition of trouble.