Patrice's Passion

by Tasha Hart

  Patrice’s Passion

  Sistaz

  Tasha Hart

  Contents

  Blurb

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  About the Author

  Blurb

  She wrecked his car. Then he got her number.

  Sure, it’s not the most conventional way to meet your knight in shining armor, but Patrice was never a conventional sort of girl. She was just bar tending at Sistaz till she got her creative writing degree and then she’d be out.

  And then Chase walked in.

  From the start, she knew there was something about him. He just HAD it. Whatever it was. It definitely worked for her.

  She was putty in his hands. But so was every other girl. The guy worked in freakin’ PR. That’s what those PR executives are supposed to do—seduce. He might say he loved her...

  But was the love real?

  Or would it just disappear when he left New York City for work? Was she just a squeeze for the moment? Or was there something real that she could start to build her life on?

  Discover what happens in this thrilling BWWM romance!

  One

  Patrice

  I collect the tab from the two lonely guys at the end of the bar. They clearly thought one—or maybe both of them—would be my knight in shining khakis, whisking me away for a “night I’ll never forget.” Hard pass.

  I count out the bills and yawn at the prospect of another night here. The hours always seem to drag into an eternity, night after night, with each of those eternities somehow getting longer every time. Those assholes only left me a five-dollar tip for their two-and-a-half-hour stay. I’m not sure if I can roll my eyes hard enough at the stupidity. If they wanted to even pretend they had a chance with me, they should have been a lot more generous.

  I sigh at the small tip and let myself forget about it. I don’t care enough about this job to let every little thing get to me. Besides, most customers have better tipping etiquette. For the most part, the pay at Sistaz is good. Definitely better than if I worked in retail or fast food. If I have to sling cocktails and pretend to be interested in everything a customer tells me, so be it. At least I can live a bit more luxuriously than the other students in my creative writing program.

  I step into the back to adjust my hair and make sure my foundation hasn’t caked up. Reaching into my purse, I grab a small mint-green compact and travel-sized makeup sponge. Gently, I blot under my eyes and on my nose to remove any excess moisture, my light brown eyes staring back at me. Some of the other girls wear contacts to stand out, as if the horny guys here are really going to notice a woman’s eye-color in the dim light. I don’t bother, though. That would be an investment in a job that wouldn’t really be justified by returns. I’d rather pocket the money and put it to better use.

  I drop the sponge back into my purse and mess with my hair, pushing it around to make sure it frames. Movement in the mirror draws my attention and I spy Taylor coming in.

  “Hey, Patrice, doing OK back here?” I turn to face my coworker as she gives me a mildly concerned look. “You looked a little pissed off when you walked back here.”

  “Oh, yeah Tay, I’m fine. Just touching up,” I motion to my makeup and hair with my free hand. We exchange smiles and Taylor returns to the front. She’s another good part of this job—most of my coworkers are, in fact. Everyone is pleasant enough, and they all share my aversion to work-place drama. We all know how to keep things professional and appropriate. We’re all here to get in and get out. No one has any illusions of long-term goals when it comes to waitressing at a nightclub. Without the aspect of competition, we really can act as a team. I’m grateful that I don’t have to compete with some Karen in marketing that wants to use me as a steppingstone on her career path.

  I close the compact and drop it back into my purse. When I step back out to the bar, the loud, thumping music and the reek of sweat in the air hit me like a brick wall. A huntress on the prowl, I survey the room and notice a newcomer. He’s here alone, maybe looking to score. But there’s something sweet, almost innocent, about him, like he’s not sure he should be in a place like Sistaz. I’m always fascinated by the variety of people who walk through our front doors. I watch as another waitress, Crystal, greets him with her best customer-service smile. They exchange what I can only assume are awkward pleasantries on his part and I let my attention wander the club. It looks like I didn’t pounce quick enough for that one.

  I turn and notice another customer, this one near the middle of the bar. I turn up the schmooze and make my way over to him, eager to earn what I should have from those last two guys.

  “Hi, there!” I plaster a grin on my face, “How are you doing tonight? Do you want to hear about the specials?” This guy is nice enough, no inappropriate touching or degrading comments, and the tip he gives me more than makes up for the lost wages from those jerks earlier. I sigh in relief and think about the words I would use to describe the people I’ve seen tonight.

  The pay and coworkers are great here, they’re probably what keeps me coming back. But there is another valuable thing I get out of waitressing at the club. It’s the people, their value measured not by money but by words. Each time I see someone interesting, I file them away as future material for the novels I’m going to write. I can people-watch here without the risk of looking like a creep—I’m just doing my job. The customers at Sistaz are simultaneously guarded and vulnerable, and I file them all away for personal use. I might work as a waitress, but what I am is a writer. Everything I witness on the job is future novel material. It just so happens that my pay and inspiration come from the same place.

  Once I’m done with my creative writing degree, though, I’ll be out of here before they notice I’m gone. Publishers will be frothing at the mouth to get their hands on my work. I know what I’m worth, and it’s definitely more than what they offer me here. In the meantime, I’ll do my job and do it well, because that’s what I do. But I won’t spend the rest of my life this way. I just can’t.

  Two

  Patrice

  The song starts out soft but grows louder. I turn and blearily swat at my phone on my bedside table to press snooze. I roll over, but before I know it, the song starts again. How many times has that been? With a jolt, I sit up in bed.

  “Damn!” I spit out the curse as my eyes focus on my phone. 8:40 am. That means I have only twenty minutes to make it to my 9 am poetry class! It’s my least favorite class and I’m already on thin ice with the professor for missing a class this month. I can’t miss another.

  I surge out of the bed with a burst of adrenaline, throwing my clothes off as I run to the shower. If I can shower in five minutes, and get out the door in ten, I can make the drive to school in five. As long as I don’t hit any red lights, and everything goes perfectly. Like it always does, a voice in my head drawls sarcastically.

  I dry off, pull on some jeans and a t-shirt, and drag a comb through my curly hair. Luckily, even though I was exhausted after a long night working at the club, I packed my school bag and left it by the door. I get a bottle of water and an apple from the kitchen and grab my bag on the way out. Burning the candle at both ends like this is hard, but it’s the only way I can make it through school on my own and graduate withou
t a huge student loan. The hours at Sistaz are rough, but the pay is good.

  I unlock my car and throw my stuff on the passenger seat. I have driven from the apartment to school so many times I do it on autopilot. Turn right on Pearl Street. Down the way on Broome Street, stop and look both ways and turn right onto Broadway and SMASH! There’s a thunderous sound of metal colliding and I’m jolted to the right, and then snap back. I clutch the wheel and try to regain control. What just happened?

  Someone hit me, I need to pull over. I pull up at the curb and pop the car in park, shaking. What do I need to do now? Get my insurance out. I open the glove compartment, but my hands shake. I take a few deep breaths and reality comes rushing back. I can’t afford my insurance premiums going up! Now I’m definitely going to be late to poetry. Is it even worth going at this point?

  “Damn, damn, damn!” I say to myself as I get out of the car. So much for the perfect drive to school. I look at the car parked behind me on the side of the road. It’s a nice car, a lot nicer than my 2001 Toyota Camry—a great car but showing its age and has already survived a few fender benders.

  My heart sinks as I realize the car that hit me is a Mercedes. It’s shiny black and looks like it just rolled off the lot, clean and brand new. Even though there’s only a few long white scratches on the bumper and some red paint off my car, it will probably cost three-thousand-dollars to get it fixed at the damn Mercedes dealership. He could buff it out at home and touch it up with paint from the auto parts store, but the kind of guy who owns a luxury car doesn’t usually also know how to do anything other than drive the vehicle.

  The door opens and a guy gets out of the car and I swear it’s like everything goes into slow motion for a few seconds. He looks like an ancient Greek statue. An Adonis. A really angry Adonis that’s coming right at me, waving his insurance papers. I give my head a shake. Pull it together, Patrice.

  “What were you thinking? You rolled right through that stop! You could have been killed if I’d been going any faster.” The Adonis is wearing an expensive suit that hangs perfectly on his body. He’s tall and well-built. He’s even got perfect blond hair that frames his face, striking blue eyes, and he looks like he walked right off a cable TV show about lawyers. Suddenly, I realize he’s waiting for me to respond.

  “Sorry,” I reply simply. He looks surprised by my apology and he opens his mouth to say something else, but I cut him off. “Just take my insurance,” I blurt, handing it to him. “I’ve gotta get to class.” I wrap my arms around myself defensively. He starts searching through his pockets and I roll my eyes as I realize he’s looking for a pen. I point at the smart phone he’s holding. “Just take a pic with your phone!”

  He takes a picture of my insurance, and I grab his phone right out of his hand, entering my phone number and name. Patrice Car Accident. It has a certain ring to it. I give him the phone back, take my insurance and turn to get back in my car. The guy looks stunned.

  “Wait! Are you okay?” I hear call out right before I slam the door, start the car and pull out onto the road. When I look in my rearview mirror, he’s still standing in the street next to his car. I can’t help but smirk at the shocked expression on his perfect face. I quickly pull my eyes back to the road in front of me. Don’t want any more crashes today, “Patrice Car Accident.” I’ve got poetry to write and a professor to charm.

  Three

  Chase

  I hate the mornings when I must drive in to work. It’s not that the parking costs anything, everyone at the firm has a reserved spot in the garage. But, fighting my way through Manhattan morning traffic? Ugh. There’s always some maniac out there who decides they need to cut all the way across traffic to make their left, and the rest of us pay for it.

  Whenever a professional jackass pulls a stunt like that, I grip the wheel to keep from steering straight into them and showing them exactly how everyone else on the road feels. Really lean into the curve and make the bastard pay for it.

  Just as I’m thinking that, my ugly little prayer is answered. A Camry glides through a stop sign as if the world should stop around it. No such luck on my end. I lean on my breaks, yeah, but that ugly crunch tells me I’m about to have a long day.

  Dammit! Why hadn’t I just called the car service and had them run me in? Or a cab? Hell, even a yellow cab would have been worth it to avoid this mess—wait, are they driving off?

  The Camry shudders out in front of me and keeps rolling down the block. Am I going to have to chase this son of a bitch? That’s just what I need—a fucking car chase with the bumper about to fall off the front of my Mercedes!

  Just as my palms leak sweat from gripping the wheel, the junker shudders to a stop. Thank God. We can handle this like rational people. Well, semi-rational. My heart is pounding, and I can feel myself heating by the second.

  Keep cool, Chase. Just get your insurance info and get this over with. At least I can give Jason a good reason for rolling in late.

  “Hey,” I shout getting out into the street. “Are you nuts? What were you thinking?” Keep it cool, man. No need to get in a fight over this. “You just rolled through that stop.” My mouth keeps moving, but I have no idea what I say next.

  The door to the heap swings open, and the longest set of legs I’ve ever seen reach out. It’s enough to stop me in my tracks. Perched on top of those legs is one of the single most beautiful women I’ve laid eyes on in a long time.

  “Sorry.”

  That’s it. She even shrugs, like we bumped into each other in line at the bank. That’s it? That’s what she’s got for me?

  I open my mouth to really get into it with her but find it completely empty of anything to say. Instead, I wind up closing it again like some gaping fish. Apparently, this makes me look like a complete idiot, because she just stuffs her insurance papers into my hand and says something about a class.

  A pen. I need to find a pen. She must think I’m some kind of prize idiot, because she insists I snap a picture with my phone. Like, I knew how to do that, right? Then, before I can protest, she snatches the phone right out of my hand and sets to typing.

  What the hell is going on with this woman? She may be a knockout, but can I really let her just run all over me like this? As she gets back into her car, I look at the phone in my hand.

  Patrice Car Accident.

  That woman put her number into my phone! It’s funny, but for a second, I don’t even think about the sagging, scraped up bumper on the front of my, rather expensive newer car. All I can think is that I’ve got her number.

  “Hey, asshole! Any time today would be great!”

  That glorious voice rides up to me on a symphony of car horns, and I’m snapped back to full awareness. Suddenly, it turns out I’m the guy holding up traffic on a New York morning, drawing the justifiable rage of the masses.

  “Sorry!” I give a wave to the harried looking guy in the suit leaning out his window and hop back into my driver’s seat. The car still moves. It’s going to get some real looks when I roll into the garage of our office building, but there might be a little thrill in giving the attendants something to talk about.

  I’m not going to lie, this woman has put me off center, and not because I hit her. Something keeps whirring around the edge of my mind, and as I make my way uptown, it settles on me more fully. Maybe I’ve just grown accustomed to women falling all over me. My buddies joke about it, but it can feel a bit like a curse sometimes.

  But this woman? She swatted me away like I was a mosquito pestering her. She was at fault, after all, and it’s like she couldn’t even be bothered to deal with me. For the first time I can remember, I just stood there while some gal ran the show.

  “Mr. Connor, what happened?” The level of shock on Maboud’s face is priceless.

  “It’s been a busy morning. I’m running late—would you park her for me?” I toss him the keys.

  “Yes, sir. I’m so sorry for this.”

  “It’s not your fault. Here,” I take a pictu
re of him standing next to it so he doesn’t think I can blame him for it later. He climbs in, and I watch my car rattle up the ramp before turning to head for the elevators.

  It’s like my phone is searing hot in my hand. I open it back up and scroll to the new contact radiating out at me.

  All right, Miss Patrice Car Accident. Let’s just see what you’re all about.

  Four

  Patrice

  Well, this whole day can kiss my ass. I just know my insurance is about to go crazy after that stupid shit I pulled this morning, and grade in Hawtrey’s poetry class is on the way down, for sure. With all the late night’s I’ve been pulling here at Sistaz, how was I supposed to remember we had the John Donne analysis due today? The whole “reading-dead-white-guys” thing has got me pretty much worn out anyway.

  “Hey, baby, can I get another cognac?”

  I’m not your goddamn baby, you rotten mother –

  “Coming right up,” I say instead, with that smile that makes me want to choke. Honestly, this is a great job, I’m just in a shit mood. Nothing I do seems to be the thing that lights me up, and I’m sorely in need of a little fire these days.

  “I don’t give a goddamn who you’ve got back there, I reserved the VIP section for tonight, and I’m going to get it!” The voice runs right up my spine, and I don’t even have to turn around and look to tell it’s my worthless ex-boyfriend, Jason. If I needed fire, his being here would cover it because, suddenly, all I want to do is burn the place down.