He narrows his eyes. “You think I am?”
“I like how you kiss.” It’s all I can offer right now, when he’s giving me nothing—not an inkling of what’s on his mind shows in that scowl. Well, probably annoyance, but nothing beyond that.
It hurts, I admit, how much that kiss gave me, how much I felt from those few, perfect seconds, when he clearly felt nothing.
“The kiss was…” He blinks a few times, breathes out, once, and shakes his head, as if searching for words. Finally, when his gaze lands on me, I know he’s not kidding. “Just not your guy. Okay?”
I smile, so hard my cheeks hurt. “Yes. Yes, of course. Okay.”
“Thanks for uh, the pizza. And beer.”
“You’re welcome.” If I stay like this, I’ll crack. But if I stop smiling, he’ll see how much this means to me and I can’t have that. “My pleasure.”
“All right.” He reaches back to rub his nape with one thick hand. It’s an uncomfortable-looking motion that I’ve never seen him do. A quick look around, landing on me for three seconds, before he walks back up the hall to the front door. “Night.”
“Night-night.” My grin’s still fixed, probably diabolical and creepy, like one of those plastic dolls with the smile painted on. I’ll bet my teeth are nothing but a slash of white.
That’s how I feel, as he carefully closes the door, like a bunch of moving parts that don’t belong. Like a too-big, too-weird, mash-up: half dowdy Barbie and half Little Orphan Annie, with her fat halo of frizzy hair and bright-colored dress.
Old Maid Barbie. Except it’s not the spinster part that bugs me—I don’t want to get married. I don’t want kids and diapers and skinned knees and advice. I like how things are. I’m free and alone, in my long, skinny row house in Richmond’s Fan district, with my scowling next-door neighbor. I’d had hopes, but…
Never mind. I’m fine with my life as it is.
I mean, I wouldn’t mind having sex at some point. The way people do. With orgasms and dirty talk and pure, unadulterated lust.
Now, I guess I’ll have to find someone else to do it with.
Back to the dating board.
5
Come out and play
Karl
“What the hell’s gotten up your butt?” Harper sidles up to the bar and sets down her empty tray, planting her hands on her hips like the bossy little woman she is. Or will be. Christ I don’t know anymore.
I give her a look. “Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing, Dad.”
“I’m always ornery.”
She snickers. “True words, father dearest. But this…” She sweeps me with eyes that are mine, on steroids—bigger, brighter, with thick lashes, and goopy mascara that I can’t get her to stop slopping on. Not that I insist. I’ve discovered that telling her what I think almost never works. She hasn’t gotten any ink yet, and, given how much I had by her age, I count that as a major win. “This is some new level brooding.”
“I’m fine.” I slap my hand lightly on the bar—back to business. “What you need?”
“Two Coronas and a G & T, please, Pops.”
Rolling my eyes at the nickname, I grab the beers from the cooler and come back to pour the drink, ignoring the way my daughter squints at me, giving me the full-on Harper McCoy X-ray vision treatment. If I’m not careful, she’ll figure out exactly what’s bothering me and then—
“I know.” Chewing on the end of her pen, she smiles, lifting one eyebrow in a look I passed down, but she’s perfected. “It’s cute lil neighbor girl, isn’t it?”
I drop the drink on her tray and walk away, ignoring her whooping.
Because dammit, she’s right.
Ever since I left Jerusha’s place last week, I’ve been a mess. Not a fall-down-drunk mess, the way I was when I was younger, but the kind of mess that waits up late to make sure his young neighbor doesn’t get mauled on her porch by another date. The kind of mess who spends more time at his front window than he ever has before. The kind who searches for Jerusha Graff on the internet and almost has a heart attack at the prices her artwork brings in. And, Jesus, yeah, a mess who jerks off in his bed at night, imagining it’s those busy little hands of hers and that pert mouth instead of his own callused fist.
The door opens. “Hey, sailor.” I turn as my business partner, Dave, walks into the restaurant. “How’s tricks?”
Rather than respond—’cause what kind of answer does he honestly expect to such a pointless question?—I nod.
“Shit, man. Not even a ‘Hey, Dave?’ Things that bad?”
“Good.”
“Dinner?”
“Booked up.”
“Damn. Wanted a table.” Should’ve reserved, you privileged prick. He sits on a stool and turns to survey the crowd. Which is good, especially given that it’s a Tuesday. In fact, business has been incredible. No thanks to Dave. “We’ll eat at the bar.”
I raise an eyebrow in his direction. “Using the royal We now?”
“Got a date.” He smirks. “Young, cute, nerdy. Gagging for it. I’m getting laid tonight.”
I can’t look at his fucking face for another second. I turn to the beer cooler and pause. “Your usual or are you trying to impress?”
“Nah. Not this girl.” His grin’s frankly disgusting. “This girl’s geeky. Hungry for cock. Won’t care what I drink.”
With a disgusted sound—lost on him, of course—I ignore his outstretched hand and put his Bud on the bar.
“Give me a tequila, too. Double.”
Christ, I can’t wait till I’ve bought him out completely. In six months, the place is all mine. I’ve built what was once Richmond’s sleaziest sports bar—known for back alley quickies and coke in the walk-in—into the city’s hippest, most sought-after restaurant. I make my own fucking cocktail shrubs, for God’s sake.
This asshole’s the reason I fought so hard to keep Harper from working here. Until I realized that at least here I could keep an eye on her in my bar. Since the talk, during which I let Dave know that if he so much as looked at my daughter, I’d rip his testicles off and shove them down his throat, things have been okay.
He’s a nasty, entitled, grown-up frat boy, whose daddy’s money is the only thing that’s kept him out of prison. I wouldn’t wish him on anyone—much less some unsuspecting young woman.
Harper calls from the end of the bar and I go fill a couple orders, happy to see that the rosemary-jalapeño margaritas are selling. Our reputation’s grown over the past year and I’m proud. This business is my retirement and my daughter’s legacy. And, yeah, I’d like to get out from behind the bar more and into the workshop, where I work with wood and metal instead of booze, but I like the place. One day, the dream is to let it run itself and devote all my time to the other stuff. I’m getting there, a step at a time.
Until then, I let myself enjoy the thrum of a well-run restaurant. The dinner rush takes over, its ebb and flow of people and orders making time speed by. I like mixing drinks. I like chatting with customers. I really like the feel of being back here, watching over everything, with a finger on the pulse of the place.
The door opens, letting in a whoosh of cold air. I glance over to see if the hostess is available to greet the person, and go still.
Even without seeing her face, I know it’s Jerusha—all wild hair and wild energy. I like that energy. It speaks to me, even from across the room. And I swear she can feel my stare. She looks up, catches my eye, and goes completely still. It’s out of character, given how much movement goes on in that in little body.
The smile that takes over her face isn’t just flattering, it’s life-giving. Like every on-edge second I’ve lived this past week melts away and I feel—
“Jerusha?” I blink at Dave’s over-loud voice, blasting through the crowd’s easy hum.
“Uh. Yes. Hello.” Her eyes cut back to me before landing on him.
“Well, hey there, cutie.” He actually fucking winks. My blood pressure skyrockets.<
br />
“Oh.” After flicking her eyes my way again, she walks up to the bar, all bouncing curls and floor-length skirt, and a huge, multicolored poncho, and puts out a mittened hand. “You’re Dave?” Her smile’s a little hesitant, but still so lovely, I can almost taste it. I have tasted it. Something low and feral rears its ugly head—a part of me that hasn’t seen the light of day in decades. I shove it down. Bad things happen when I let it out.
“That’s me.” He gets off the barstool and bypasses her handshake, going straight for an overly tight hug that she clearly isn’t prepared for. When our eyes meet over his shoulder, I can’t help but widen mine with a completely unnecessary—and unfair—what are you doing here? expression.
She extricates herself from Dave’s grasp and steps back, eyeing the other barstools before sliding into the one that Dave pats for her.
When Dave glances my way, I give him a look designed to remind him of past conversations. I swear, if he so much as touches her…
Harper chooses that moment to sashay over to the bar with a bunch of empties. “Ho-ly crappers,” she says with obvious glee. “Is that your cute neigh—”
“Yes,” I bite out as I bus her bottles and throw them into the recycling bucket way too hard. “What you need?”
She reaches for a bowl of peanuts I keep on the ledge behind the bar and pops a handful into her mouth. “Not a thing. This…” She waves a hand toward Dave, who’s leaning too close to Jerusha, then points at me. My eyes go narrow and hard. “This is all I need. Way better than the housewives.”
“You got an order?”
“Oh. Three house reds.”
I pour them and watch Harper sashay over there to chat with Jerusha, handling Dave with an aplomb that belies her eighteen years. She’s slippery, my daughter.
A minute later, she returns to grab her drinks with a sly smile. “Jerusha had no idea this place was yours.”
Of course not. I’d never told her.
Harper leans closer, losing her usual smirk. “She needs to get out of that situation. Right. Now.”
My fists tighten automatically. Harper’s right. She does.
Frustration makes me antsy, with a side of simmering rage. If I were ten years younger, I’d serve myself a double bourbon in a mug and stew. But I’m not that asshole anymore.
Instead, I drink soda water…and stew.
“The lady wants a white,” Dave calls a minute later.
Inhaling deeply, I amble over to the pair and force an amiable expression onto my face—not easy when I want to grab Dave by the scruff and haul him out of his own bar. “Jerusha.”
“Hi Karl.”
“You, uh, know Dave?”
“Oh!” Her eyelashes flutter, which Dave will probably take for flirtation. I’m guessing it’s nerves. And not the good kind. “Um. No. No, we just met.”
“You know my date?” Dave turns to me, while surreptitiously sliding a hand down her back, so far it’s gotta be hitting her ass.
She shifts forward, clearly uncomfortable.
“Dave,” I growl.
He turns and catches my eye, looking clueless. I’m guessing my expression must convey at least part of what I’m feeling because he pulls his arm away, fast. Good.
When she throws me a smile, I swear my central nervous system takes a hit.
Part of my vision goes black, which is exactly how I’d react if he laid a hand on my daughter. Or anyone I care about.
No. No way is Dave fucking Green going to be this woman’s first anything. He’s the absolute definition of a prick; the kind of guy who pushes and wheedles and gets away with as much as he can. I’ve heard the stories—mostly straight from his mouth—and he’s never met a woman he didn’t want to treat like shit.
When I don’t answer within an acceptable time limit, Jerusha clears her throat. “We’re neighbors.”
I give a quick nod and walk away to refill a wine.
Harper comes back with another order. While I make her cocktails, she meanders back over to the pair at my bar. A look passes between the women and I wonder if Harper’s somehow expressed how inadvisable Dave is.
Even so, she doesn’t leave. He’s moved his stool closer. Harper comes back to me, all business.
“You need to do something, Dad.”
“Do something?”
“Don’t play dumb, Pops. Even Mom says you’re one of the smartest people she knows—and she hates your guts.”
“She’s here of her own free will, Harper. What do you want me to—”
“She asked you out, didn’t she? Before this.”
I open my mouth to deny it and then think better of it. Harper’s super power is seeing through my lies.
“What? And you told her you’re too old or some Boomer crap like—”
“I’m not a Boomer, Harper.” Which she knows very well.
“So, you’re saying you’re okay with—”
My eyes focus down the bar, where something’s happening. Dave’s standing up, looking at a wet spot on his lap. Jerusha’s glass is empty.
Oh, shit.
He yells something, which I can’t hear through the rushing in my ears. And that’s a good thing, because whatever he has to say, it’s better if I don’t hear it.
And then the dam bursts.
So full of adrenaline that I can’t feel my fingers, I leave the bar and stalk over to where she’s sitting, eyes on fire, color high. Whatever the fucker did to her, he’ll regret it.
“You okay?”
“Yes.” Her lips are tight, the skin around them white. “But he tried to put his hand on my… My…” She waves a hand around her thigh.
“Little bitch threw her wine at—”
I lose it completely. Dave weighs nothing when I grab him by the collar and drag him behind be, ignoring his protests, barely registering his hands clawing at mine.
To the front door and outside, where I throw him to the sidewalk and watch him land like a side of meat.
It’s clear he sees—or feels—that I’m not the amiable guy he’s dealt with up until now, because when I squat and get right in his face, he shrinks back, uncharacteristically silent. Scared.
“You never set foot here again.”
“I’m still part owner, you can—”
“I’ll call my lawyer, make the a final payment soon as I can. Buy you out early.” I’ve got no idea where I’ll find the cash, but I will. I’ll sell a goddamn kidney if it means never seeing this bastard again. “Go.”
He scuttles back on all fours like a crab and lurches up, then takes off down the street at a quick clip. I hope it’s the last I ever see of the prick.
Without another word, I turn. She’s there, in the open door, wide-eyed.
I walk up to her, hating that she’s seen my inner monster, but maybe relieved that she no longer thinks I’m the right guy for the job.
“You still want me to…show you?” Fuck, I sound rough, out of control.
Her tongue flicks out to lick her lower lip. She nods.
“Fine.” I bend down, tangle my fingers in the hair at her nape, and press my forehead to hers, imprinting myself on her, though I’m the one who’ll come out of this burned. She snares my gaze and doesn’t let it go, proving how firmly I’m already hooked. “I’ll do it.”
6
Mysterious ways
Jerusha
Everyone stares when I get back inside, but I’m not bothered by that. I’m feverish from the contact with Karl. I’m angry and excited, full of emotion. Alive.
I meet Karl’s eyes.
Adrenaline—or is it fury?—looks good on this man, like he was born in another era, one where men swung sledgehammers to settle disputes, and came home painted in blood, smeared in dirt.
I’m not the violent sort, but something’s happening between my legs right now and I can’t deny the pull.
I grab my bag and take out my wallet to pay for the wine—not even a little regretful at where it ended up.
“Wha
t do I ow—”
“Nothing. As my Nana used to say, ‘Put that purse away’”
“What accent is that supposed to be?”
“Oirish.” My only response is to raise my brows. “That bad, hm?” He shakes his head and, though he’s not smiling, there’s an unmistakable light in his eyes. It’s possible I put it there. “Let me buy you dinner.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that.”
“I want to do that, Jerusha. It’s the least I can do after how that asshole took advantage.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t—”
“Let me.”
“Okay.” I offer a smile, suddenly worried that giving in to me wasn’t what he actually wanted. Had he offered as a way to keep me out of trouble? No way would I accept that.
“Listen.” I plant my hands on the bar and stand on the rungs of the stool to stretch closer to him. “Don’t feel obligated, okay? To show me the ropes? It was just an off-the-wall idea the other day, and—”
“Nope. Too late now.” He blinks the demons from his eyes. “Unless you change your mind, obviously.”
When I nod and sit back down, he follows, like there’s a two-foot cord stretched between us. “Did you?”
“What?”
“Change your mind?”
“Are you kidding me? I’ve wanted to kiss you since the moment I…” I shut my eyes and fight a losing battle against a hot blush. No point fighting it. No point denying it. I open my eyes and force them to meet his. “I’ve thought about this. A lot. With you.”
“Me, too.”
“Really?”
“You surprised?”
“I didn’t…I mean, I sort of thought… You’re doing me a favor here.”
“You’re…” He shuts his eyes, shaking his head for a few seconds before looking at me again. “The feeling’s mutual, Jerusha.”
“You like me,” I say, unable to keep the wonder from my voice.
“Yeah.” When he nods, I imagine there’s a touch of that same thing there—a sort of happy surprise. Like we’ve been unexpectedly blessed. Giving me a warm look, he pours a glass of wine and slides it in front of me. “Anything you don’t like?”
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