Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Rhett and I slid onto stools, the bartop wood worn smooth by decades of elbows and spilled beer.
Hank shuffled over, toothpick stuck in the corner of his mouth. He poured Rhett a clean two fingers of whiskey, neat. Mine came second, dropped hard enough to splash over my hand.
"First one's on the house," he muttered. "Jilted groom discount."
Rhett shifted like he wanted to say somethin', but I just mumbled, "Thanks, Hank," and wiped my hand on my joggers.
Jilted groom. Not technically true. I was the one who walked away. But hell if it didn't feel like I'd been the one left behind.
Hank didn't move on. Just leaned on the bar, his cloudy eye fixed on me. "Whole damn town's still talkin' 'bout it. Mary Lou at the diner says she had the potato salad ready for two hundred people. Froze it. You know how nasty frozen potato salad is, Lancaster?"
I tipped the whiskey back in one swallow, let it scorch my throat. "Can't say I've tried it."
"Don't," Hank said flatly. "Same as leavin' a girl standin' at the altar—don't make no damn sense."
I drummed my fingers against the bar, jaw tight.
Also not true.
I broke it off days before. But close enough, I guess, for a town where gossip was gospel.
Hank snorted. "Your daddy'd have tanned your hide for pullin' some shit like that."
That one landed like a punch to the gut. I shoved my glass forward for another pour, because if Hank was intent on twistin' the knife, I needed more whiskey to dull the blade.
Hank wiped at the bar where my glass had been like he couldn't scrub me off fast enough. "Shame, too. Girl lit this place up every time she walked in. Now all we got is your sorry mug."
I clenched my jaw, starin' down into the fresh pour. The amber blurred as I turned the glass in slow circles. Before I could drown myself in another swallow, Rhett's phone buzzed against the bartop. The sound was small but sharp, cuttin' right through the tension between us.
"That her?" My voice came out flat, more accusation than question.
Rhett didn't look at me when he thumbed the screen. "Yeah, it's her."
Made sense. He'd always been her first call when shit hit the fan—never me. You're my good-time guy, baby, she'd told me once. But when I need my bullies beat up, I'm callin' Rhett.
I nodded once. "All right, guess you better get gone."
Rhett finally set the phone back down, his eyes draggin' over me. "Fuck, Brody. This is weird."
I huffed out a laugh that didn't sound like me. "I know. I just… hope it'll get easier."
His stare sharpened. "Is that what you were thinkin' when you left her? That it would be easy?"
The words hit like a body blow. "No, but—"
"Are you ever going to tell me what the fuck happened?" His voice was low but fierce, like he'd been holdin' it in too long.
I shook my head, throat tight. "I don't want to do this with you right now."
"Then when?"
I let out a harsh breath, chest burnin' as much from the whiskey as the weight of his stare. "I don't know, man. Maybe when I don't feel like such a complete and utter asshole and I'm not drownin' in self-pity."
Rhett leaned back, arms folded across his chest. His eyes didn't waver. "Self-pity? You left her."
I stared at the ring of condensation on the wood, wishing I could seep right into it and vanish.
And that's when the air shifted.
The front door creaked open, lettin' in a draft of cooler night air and the scrape of boots on old floorboards. My head turned before I could stop it and my fuckin' brain stuttered.
Raven-black hair, tattoos climbin' her arms, septum ring catchin' the light. Confident in a way that made the whole room bend around her.
I froze, the noise of the bar droppin' to static. My pulse hammered like I'd just been caught doing somethin' I shouldn't.
Rhett clapped me on the shoulder, mistakin' my silence for surrender. "See you, man," he said, slidin' off the stool.
I didn't answer. Couldn't. My gaze was locked on the stranger at the end of the bar, every part of me unravelin' under the weight of a desire I had no business feelin'.
But maybe that was the point. Maybe I needed to want someone who wasn't Sassy; someone who wouldn't look at me with her eyes or remind me of what I'd thrown away.
Fuck.
Why couldn't I stop lookin' at her? She was so fucking pretty.
And a little scary, TBH.
She was giving some serious fuck off energy, which was probably why half the assholes in this shitty little bar looked the other way. The other half—me included—stared, but seemed like we were all too chicken shit to do anythin' about it.
Reality slammed into me.
This was my life now.
Oglin' pretty girls from across the bar and knowin' fuck all about how to actually talk to them. Because there'd only ever been one girl. One girl whose hand I'd held. One girl whose lips I'd kissed. One girl whose pussy I'd fucked.
And I'd ended it.
Sure my reasons were noble, but what did I actually fucking know about any of it? About love or women? Maybe I didn't deserve the happily ever after my parents had, after all, if I'd been so quick to throw away my one and only girl.
I needed another drink.
"Hank!" I tapped two fingers on the bartop. His cloudy eye cut to me, makin' me squirm. Thing freaked me out.
"Haven't you had enough, homewrecker? Don't need your sorry ass pukin' on my bar."
The sexy stranger looked up from her phone and our eyes met. Then she granted me a seductive little smirk.
I nearly choked on my own tongue.
She raised a dark, questioning brow and mouthed homewrecker?
Was this it? My opening? My chance to talk to the raven-haired beauty at the end of the bar?
Did I deserve to? Part of me—the part of me that truly fuckin' hated seeing Sassy cry when I'd called things off—thought I should go into some sort of self-imposed celibacy.
Become a monk or some shit. That's probably what I deserved for screwin' it all up.
The other part of me was so hard up, I had a raging fucking boner just from looking at this woman. After livin' with your girlfriend-turned-fiancée for ten years, you got kinda used to regular sex.
Because, for Sassy and me, sex had never been a problem. It was good. Frequent.
And now, I was fucking my fist daily.
Not even a little bit the same experience.
What would it be like to sleep with someone else? Would it be awkward? Awful?
I shouldn't even have been entertainin' the idea. I wasn't ready for sex with someone else.
But, fuck, did I want to sink inside somethin' hot and wet that didn't resemble anything close to my soaped-up hand in the shower.
Hank set my fifth glass of whiskey down in front of me at the same moment the mystery girl at the end of the bar winked at me.
That was it. I was doin' it.
I tossed back my drink before risin' from my wobbly stool and nearly trippin' over my own damn feet.
Was for sure feelin' the effects of the booze.
Multiple pairs of eyes tracked my movement toward the end of the bar, including my mystery girl's.
She was even more stunning up close. Dark, wavy hair cropped short and fallin' just past her chin.
It looked tousled, messy—like she'd just rolled out of bed.
Her lips were stained a dark red and the eyes that had locked onto me the moment I stood up weren't green and they weren't blue, but somethin' in between.
"Hi," I blurted.
She grinned. "Hi."
"Ya know, they say when someone picks at their beer label like that"—I nodded toward where her slender fingers with black-painted nails tore at the damp paper—"it means they're sexually frustrated."
She snorted and her smile grew. But it wasn't a friendly smile. It was a smile that said she could eat me fuckin' alive. "Sounds about right."
Oh, fuck I was doin' it. Flirtin' with a stranger. And I'd only slurred my words a tiny little bit.
"I could help you work out some of that frustration, beautiful."
She reared back, ready to strike like a viper.
For a second, I thought she might flay me alive with whatever words were perched on the edge of her forked tongue.
My stomach dropped, bracin' for impact. But then, somethin' in my face must've betrayed the truth, the raw panic I couldn't hide.
Because, instead of venom, her shoulders loosened, her jaw unclenched, and she let out a sigh that felt more like mercy than defeat.
"Not sure you could handle me, boy scout."
The way she said it—lazy and confident, like she was testin' me—sent heat straight to my cock.
Boy scout.
Christ, was I that obvious? That wholesome?
Maybe I was.
Maybe that's exactly what I'd been my whole life.
The good guy. The safe choice. The one who always did the right thing.
Until the day I didn't.
"Might surprise you."
I leaned against the bar, close enough to catch the faint scent of her perfume—somethin' dark and smoky that matched her voice. The alcohol buzzed through my veins, loosenin' my tongue and dullin' the sharp edges of my recent case of self-doubt.
"Think so, homewrecker?" Her voice dripped with amusement and somethin' sharper. Curiosity, maybe. Or judgment. Couldn't tell.
"Ah, fuck. Don't listen to Hank. His hearing's as fucked as his eye and he don't know what the hell he's talkin' about."
I rubbed the back of my neck, suddenly feelin' exposed under this stranger's sharp stare.
"Alright." She downed the rest of her drink and stood, invadin' my space. "Surprise me."