Own the Eights: Own the Eights: Book One

by Sandor, Krista

  The Marks Perfect Ten Mindset was never about putting people down. His goal was to empower them. But before he could get that out, Lorraine pressed on.

  “My dear friend Deidre Lockwood, from my Pilates class, has a connection to this blog battle. You must know the Lockwoods, right, Jordan?”

  Nope, he had no idea. But again, he nodded politely.

  “Well, she started taking those supplements the Dannies are promoting. What are they called? Oh yes, I remember. It’s DannyLyfe Plus vitamins. Well, she got quite ill. But then again, she’d just been in St. Croix, and she could have picked up a stomach illness from bad shellfish. You know how it goes in the Caribbean.”

  He didn’t.

  Lorraine glanced around. “I do wish you’d let us at least buy you a less depressing bookstore. Then again, why run a business. How tedious! I keep telling you to come around when we’re in Aspen. A few tech moguls might not mind…” Lorraine gestured to Georgie like she was a science experiment gone wrong.

  Georgie’s serial killer smile was back, and her mother looked away.

  “Well, if I’m not going to be an internet star, I might as well meet the girls at the Ritz for drinks. Kiss, kiss, pumpkin,” she said, then fluttered out of the shop, leaving a trail of Chanel in her wake.

  Neither he nor Georgie said a word, but after what seemed like forever, or maybe forty-six seconds, he couldn’t hold back.

  “Holy fucking hell, Georgie!” he let loose.

  She put up her hand. “Do not say one more word, Jordan.”

  “But that—”

  She gave him a look that could stop traffic, and he mimicked zipping his lips when their phones pinged.

  A challenge. But what kind of headspace was Georgie in?

  She glanced at her phone and confirmed what he already knew. “It’s CityBeat. They sent an address.”

  He nodded. “I can drive. I’m parked around the block.”

  She ran her hands down her face. “Okay, but we’re not going to talk about what you just learned.”

  That you used to moonlight as a beauty queen?

  He was still trying to wrap his mind around this book nerd, dropping the Moses sandals and strutting down a runway in five-inch heels. But…she did have a killer body, and she was pretty in that I just rolled out of bed sort of way. And then those eyes. Still, he couldn’t picture her all primped and polished.

  She locked up the shop, and they headed to the location, which happened to be downtown in a hip, young area sprinkled with bars, bistros, and microbreweries. It was Saturday night, and the place was already hopping.

  “What do you think the challenge is?” he asked as they stared at a green awning with McGuire’s Pub and Tavern written in bold letters. It was one of the largest bars downtown and had earned a rowdy reputation. Not his scene, but when he’d overheard a few clients recounting crazy nights on the town to their trainers, they always seemed to include this place.

  “It’s probably not goat yoga. Do you have a beer phobia you need to tell me about?” she deadpanned.

  This woman!

  “I do not have a beer phobia…that I know of,” he replied matter-of-factly, hoping to make her smile.

  It didn’t. She gave him a distracted nod, barely even acknowledging his answer. This was not a good sign. That brief encounter with her mother had really done a number on her.

  They sat quietly and watched as a stream of raucous men and giggling women, sporting tiny jean-shorts, entered the sprawling pub.

  “Then we should be fine. We’ll harness the Marks Perfect Ten Mindset. Always finish and always win. Rah-rah,” she answered robotically.

  He took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “Are you going to be all right?”

  In the space of a breath, her neutral expression morphed into a smile with a wattage so high, he squinted.

  “Smile like it’s your birthday,” she said as if she were auditioning for a teeth-whitening commercial.

  “What are you talking about, Georgie?”

  Her gaze grew distant. “That’s what my mom would always say before I had to hit the stage and parade in front of the judges.”

  “It’s not your birthday, is it?” he asked.

  “No,” she answered in one numb syllable.

  He brushed his thumb over her knuckles. “Then I say smile however you want. Or don’t smile at all.”

  She glanced over at him, sighed heavily, then pulled her hand from his, and got out.

  “Do we have a plan?” he asked, walking a step behind her, but she didn’t reply.

  They showed their IDs to the bouncer then entered the sprawling bar. Music blared over the speakers while people stood in large groups, drinking and horsing around. It was wall-to-wall, hormone-infused twenty-something pandemonium.

  “Jell-O shot?” a woman asked with a tray teeming with the frat house staple.

  Georgie scooped up six mini-cups and popped the gelatin squares into her mouth as if they were Gummy Bears.

  He leaned in toward the waitress, whose jaw had dropped. “What’s in those?”

  “Everclear. You know, one hundred ninety proof grain alcohol. And she just pounded six of them!”

  Dammit! That was not good.

  They weaved their way deeper into the bar and walked into what looked like a scene out of a Girls Gone Wild video. An elevated makeshift walkway pierced the center of the bar, running nearly the entire length with…holy fuck…young women in wet white T-shirts parading down the catwalk.

  He gripped her shoulder. “Georgie, we don’t have to stay here.”

  She blinked slowly, the Everclear clearly hitting her system, when she looked at one of the bar patrons and gasped.

  “Virginia?” came a man’s slurred voice from over his shoulder. He turned to see a decent-looking guy holding a beer with a Daddy bought me this Porsche haircut and a drunk grin on his face.

  “It’s been ages. You look…the same,” the guy said, then took a sip of his beer.

  Georgie stared at the man as if she’d seen a ghost.

  “Sorry, dude,” the man continued, then extended his hand. “Brice Casey, Vice President of Operations for Casey Pest Control.”

  Brice Casey.

  This was the asshat who hurt Georgie.

  Brice glanced around. “Good to see you, Virginia. I’m going to go check out the hot chicks on stage now,” he slurred, then disappeared into the crowd gathered at the base of the runway.

  As much as he wanted to go punch Georgie’s jerk into next week, after what she’d endured in the last hour, he needed to get her the hell out of there.

  He ran his hand down her arm. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  She gave him a tipsy smile then glanced at the stage as a woman did a sexy spin, teetering on sky-high heels with her breasts on full display beneath her wet shirt, as the crowd roared with approval.

  Georgie pointed to a group of women sitting at a table. “I’m going to go talk to those girls for a sec. I’ll be right back.”

  He glanced at the attractive young ladies who each fit the bill for a Marks Perfect Ten woman, which now sounded like a pretty dick description for any woman. Were they friends of hers? He kept her in his line of sight when another voice called out.

  “Jordan, I’m so sorry.”

  Barry, the CityBeat producer, pushed past a group of men. “We screwed up and got the dates switched around.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We meant to send you to trivia night,” the man answered.

  “Are the Dannies here?” he asked.

  Jesus, that’s all he needed!

  Barry frowned. “No, and I think something is going on with them. They keep posting all this great content to their blog and getting tons of likes, but they’re hard as hell to pin down.”

  Jordan nodded. At least, that was one thing off their plate.

  Barry looked past his shoulder. “What’s Georgie doing?”

  “Talking to some friends,” he answered, gestur
ing absentmindedly toward the table while trying to figure out how he was going to get his former beauty queen out of there.

  “Are you sure about that?” Barry asked with a perplexed expression.

  He turned and scanned the crowd for a woman with her hair in a messy bun, wearing a cardigan. Instead, he looked on in horror at the back of a woman with killer curves, borrowing a pair of scissors from the bartender.

  Georgie?

  Her dark hair fell in sexy waves as she used the scissors to cut off the jean capris. Her firm ass cheeks peeked out from beneath the frayed denim that led down her long, toned legs. She returned the scissors to the bartender then sauntered over to the table with the women. He took a closer look at the table and cringed. Littered with the tiny cups containing the potent little squares, the women looked as if they were competing for the title of most Jell-O shots consumed in one evening.

  One of the ladies passed Georgie a shot, and she joined the women as they swallowed their respective gelatinous cubes of highly potent alcohol.

  As he and Barry looked on, Georgie gestured to her sandals and then to a pair of red heels lying on the floor next to one of the women. Beyond tipsy, the women laughed and swapped shoes, and Georgie slipped on the sexy heels effortlessly. Then, the woman dug into her purse and handed Georgie a small makeup bag.

  He still hadn’t seen her damn face yet and couldn’t hear what they were saying. What the hell was she doing with these people? But he didn’t have to wait long to find out. Sporting those fuck-me heels like she was born to wear them and her face now made up with red lipstick and black eyeliner, the book nerd with a bun turned, transformed into a smoking hot vixen, rocking every curve.

  He glanced over at Barry, whose jaw might as well have been on the floor.

  Georgie glided over, hips swaying with each step. “Good! You’re here, Barry. You’re going to want to get this on camera.”

  “Georgie?” Jordan uttered, finding it hard to form words. She was always pretty, but this new Georgiana Jensen was a full-on sexpot temptress.

  She patted his cheek. “Buckle your seatbelt, Marks. I’m about to school you on what a perfect ten really looks like.”

  He shook his head. “You don’t have to do this.”

  Anger, disappointment, and determination flashed in her blue-green eyes as she set her cardigan on the bar, then swiveled on her five-inch heels and made a beeline for the DJ booth.

  “She’s really going for it. We should get to the stage,” Barry said, holding up his phone to get some footage.

  It was like watching a car wreck in slow-motion. Georgie, now wearing only a white tank top, barely-there jean shorts, and sexy red heels leaned over and spoke to the deejay presiding over the wet T-shirt contest. The man, grinning like a fucking idiot, handed her a bottle of water, and she climbed the steps to the stage.

  “We’ve saved the best for last! Let’s welcome Georgiana to the stage!” the DJ crooned over the microphone as Warrant’s heavy metal hit and unofficial stripper ballad, “Cherry Pie”, blasted from the speakers and the crowd went wild.

  A spotlight illuminated Georgie in a golden glow as she held up the water bottle and threw the crowd a sexy little smirk, which ratcheted up the boisterous group.

  “That chick’s hot as hell, right, dude?”

  Jordan glanced over to find the asshat, Brice Casey and anger surged through his veins.

  A muscle ticked in his jaw. “If it takes a wet T-shirt contest for you to see Georgiana’s beauty, then you never deserved her,” he bit out, and before he could stop himself, he took the beer from the moron’s hand and dumped it on his head.

  VP of Pest Control, take that!

  “What the fuck? If you weren’t as big as a tank, I’d totally kick your ass,” Brice whined, brushing the liquid off his shirt as he turned and headed for the restrooms.

  Jordan didn’t hold back a grin as euphoric victory replaced his anger until he glanced at the stage to find Georgie tipping the plastic bottle. Water drenched her white tank top, revealing her gorgeous breasts and torso. Rivulets trailed down her legs, and she might as well have been every wet dream he’d ever had. Except, this was Georgie Jensen. She wasn’t a vixen exhibitionist. She was a sweet woman with a good heart who loved literature and helping others.

  “Let’s see it, Georgiana! Show us what you’ve got!” the DJ bellowed.

  In time with the music, Georgie strutted down the catwalk as if she owned it.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Barry rasped as Georgie made her way toward them.

  She moved like a supermodel, devouring the stage, but she wasn’t smiling. Not even close. Her expression had gone blank as if she’d disappeared inside herself. Was this how she’d survived years on the pageant circuit?

  Men banged their hands on the catwalk as she passed them. A glass beer bottle someone had left on the stage tipped over and rolled toward the center of the runway.

  And Georgie didn’t see it.

  He burst through the crowd, pushing the rowdy, hooting men out of the way just as her heeled foot collided with the rolling bottle. She pitched forward, and he caught her flailing body in his arms.

  “Wow, man! Good save!” Barry said, still filming.

  Georgie wrapped her arms around his neck as shame flooded her gaze.

  “How about we get out of here?” he asked gently.

  The realization of what she’d just done was written all over her face, and she blinked back tears.

  “Yes, I’d like to leave,” she said, tightening her hold.

  The crowd parted as he carried her through the bar and out the front door into the cool night air.

  She rested her head on his shoulder and sighed heavily. “You can set me down now.”

  He complied, but as soon as her feet hit the ground, she wobbled, and he caught her forearms.

  She leaned into him. “I’m not really a big drinker. I think those Jell-O shots were pretty strong.”

  He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. “Yeah, you don’t want to mess around with Jell-O shots.”

  She nestled in against his chest as relief washed over him. He was so damned grateful to have her off that stage and in his arms.

  He rested his chin on the top of her head. “Can I ask a favor of you?”

  She chuckled against him. “You did save me from an awful fall. A favor is the least I can do.”

  He tightened his grip on her wet, shivering body. “Give me a heads-up next time you decide to unleash mayhem in a bar.”

  She shook her head against his chest. “Did I really just enter a wet T-shirt contest?”

  “And you won it.”

  They pulled apart to find Barry, holding a trophy of a naked Barbie doll fixed to a solid wooden base.

  He handed her the fucking offensive prize.

  “You know I have to turn in the footage to Hector and Bobby,” he said, not meeting either of their gazes.

  She nodded. “I know it’s your job, Barry. I understand.”

  “Thanks, Georgie,” the man answered with slumped shoulders. He started off down the street then turned around. “Are you guys going to be all right?”

  “Yeah, Georgie and I will be fine,” he answered, pressing his hand to her back and wishing she was still in his arms.

  After Barry was out of sight, Georgie took a wobbly step forward. “I think all those Jell-O shots are really kicking in.”

  “Seven will do that. Let’s get you some coffee,” he said as his phone rang.

  He wrapped an arm around her, then pulled out his phone. “Shit, I need to take this.”

  “Go ahead,” she said with a woozy grin.

  He pressed his cell to his ear. “Hey, Uncle Rob, what’s up?”

  “Did you forget what day it is, Jordy?”

  Jordan closed his eyes. Dammit! With all the CityBeat commotion, he’d forgotten.

  “He’s here. He’s drunk, and he’s not leaving,” his uncle continued in a weary voice.


  “I’m sorry. I’m on my way,” he answered and shoved his phone back into his pocket.

  “Is everything all right?” Georgie asked.

  He held her gaze. There was no way he was going to leave her alone tonight, not after what she’d gone through.

  He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “We’re going on a little drive. There’s something I need to take care of before I bring you home.”

  10

  Jordan

  Jordan pulled into a parking space next to an old F150 pickup in the potholed lot and cut the ignition. He glanced from Georgie, sleeping peacefully in the passenger seat, to the structure in front of them. Another bar that had the potential to be more explosive than the last one. But this rundown place wasn’t in Denver’s trendy downtown. No, this bar was forty miles due east of this city in the tiny Colorado plains town where he’d grown up. A prickling sensation spider-crawled down his spine. No matter what he did, no matter where he went or how he’d changed, this place would always be a part of him.

  He patted her leg. “Georgie, we’re here.”

  “Where’s here?” she yawned, opening her eyes.

  “My uncle’s bar.”

  She cringed. “I don’t think I should drink any more tonight.”

  He stared at the familiar brick building. “We’re not here for drinks. We’re here to get my dad.”

  She sat up. “Your dad?”

  He glanced at the paper cup, resting in the car’s console. “Yeah, you downed all that coffee, and then you were out like a light. I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to explain. But my dad’s in there, and he’s not doing very well. I need to get him home.”

  “What happened?” she asked, now fully awake.

  Jesus! Where should he start? The part where his mother died eighteen years ago, and his father became the worst version of himself? Or should he fast-forward to the part where the man berated him for being skinny and weak and ridiculed his love of books and comics, wishing he’d favor baseball and muscle cars instead?

  He decided to go for a more direct answer. “Today would have been my parents’ thirty-second wedding anniversary. Since my mom’s death, he hasn’t handled this day very well.”