by Hagen, Casey
A bit older, I’d put them at mid to late twenties. Every last one of them wearing narrow skirts or fitted dresses, showing off mouthwatering curves of every variety from the subtle flare of hips and delicate narrow shoulders common for dancers to hourglass curves with lush hunks of flesh spilling from their cleavage.
Hmmm, maybe losing the coin toss wouldn’t be so bad.
I watched the brunette with big curls slipping from the clip on the back of her head lean down to drop her cell in the bag at her feet. Her skirt drifted up, the slit pulling apart revealing a flash of black thigh-high stockings.
The peek of her creamy thigh sent my blood surging to my cock.
“Did you see that?” Hawk grated out.
The air left my lungs in a shallow breath. “Fuck yeah, I did.”
Hawk pointed, his laser focus locked in on the vixen. “I pick her.”
She reached for the clip and in seconds, waves cascaded down her back forming a V pointing straight to the round ass straining her black skirt. Curling her left arm around the back of her head, she scooped up her locks, her left hand and nimble fingers sliding behind her right ear. In one swift movement, she pulled the thick mass over her left shoulder in a gesture shooting me right back to another time, another place…another life.
I held my breath. Flames erupted inside of me, the searing heat pulsating through my veins. A craving I thought I had banished flared to life, resurrecting inside, mocking me for thinking I had broken free from its grip.
There was no way. No fucking way.
A decade had come and gone. The memory, the familiarity, it had to be some twisted wishful thinking fucking with my head.
She turned and laughed, and something in my chest squeezed, sending a sweet ache rippling through me. An ache with razor-sharp edges shredding me from the inside out.
Emory.
Hawk pushed away from the bar and headed for the prize. And why wouldn’t he? He trusted me to know my job. He could always count on me to follow. To have his back.
He pursued her with a confident swagger, bold and sure, making Emory his conquest, unknowingly rewriting the bro code rules with his every step.
Hawk could have anyone in this bar.
Anyone but her.
The game shifted and changed.
We were no longer on the same team.
Knowing what I needed to do, but no fucking clue how I would do it, I caught him halfway to the group.
“Hold up,” I said, the words gravelly as they scraped out of me. Clapping my hand on his shoulder, I squeezed, stopping him about ten feet from the table.
Emory stood, leaning on her left foot now, her hip cocked, her hand raised as she clanked her glass with the cluster of women partying with her.
The image was enough to have my brain short-circuiting while caught between fractured memories. Her taste, her warmth, the goddamned sigh sliding from her slim throat when I kissed her…I could practically touch those resurrected moments as they floated in the misty haze of my past. They circled me, keeping me twisting in this tortured place where I never quite remember enough to be satisfied, but I can never forget.
“What?” Hawk snapped, his nostrils flaring.
“There’s seven of them and two of us. Time for a game plan.”
Hawk’s eyebrows snapped low over his narrowed eyes. “When the hell has the quantity ever stopped you?”
“I’m just saying, they look tight. Maybe not so interested in a couple of guys crashing their good time. You wanna get laid, let’s be ready to make it happen.”
“Guy, it’s not like I’m going to go in there with, ‘You’re like my toe, because I’m going to bang you on every piece of furniture in my condo.’ I have more finesse than that.”
Actually, I’d love it if he could do me a solid and go in with that line. I wouldn’t have to break any code; Emory would shoot a good dose of venom at the both of us with those piercing blue eyes and we’d be out. Granted, Hawk would have to either find another willing body or rub one off when he got home, but anything was better than the image of him balls deep in my—in Emory.
“Guy, loosen the fuck up and get on your A-game. I’ve got this. Just follow my lead,” Hawk said, the way his eyes wobbled in their sockets a sure sign he’d had more to drink than I thought and maybe he’d manage to decimate this all on his own.
I caught Emory’s profile as she tossed back a shot of liquor, her pink cheeks flushed, those eyelids drifting shut, her eyelashes curled and fanning out from the corner. Her lips parted on a gasp and split into a small smile as her tongue darted out and grazed along her plump bottom lip.
All grown up, making her own decisions, alcohol fueling her blood, and Hawk heading her way.
I tried to block the images, but they flashed in my brain anyway, accompanied by gut-twisting audio.
The intro…a sound—thanks to inescapable memories—I knew would slip from Emory’s lips the same way it did in the narrow space right before I took her innocent mouth so long ago.
The verse…the unmistakable sound of Hawk devouring her.
The chorus…them pawing at one another.
Their moans and growls the climax.
The ringing in my ears muffled the sound of laughter around me. My blood surged heavy and hot in my veins leaving a burn streaking over my skin. Propelling myself forward, I shoved past Hawk and slid up alongside Emory.
“Ladies, I’m hoping you’ll help my buddy and I solve a debate. Team Edward or Team Jacob?”
Seven sets of widened eyes and lips parted in surprise met mine.
Emory gasped next to me, the sound low and familiar.
“What the fuck is wrong with you? Twilight, dude. Really?” Hawk muttered through clenched teeth as he forced a smile and elbowed me in the ribs.
The unspoken answer was a violation of our brotherhood.
I’m the wingman and I’m about to go rogue.
2
“Now that is the look of a woman who’s finally let go of the bullshit. Cheers!” Soraya said, lifting her drink and nodding to me before tossing back the shot.
The bullshit Soraya raised a glass to is firmly planted two hours in my past, thank God. I tipped the glass to my lips and gulped the liquor straight down.
Yessssss.
“More,” I said, forcing the word from my raw throat. I swallowed hard to hold back the cough threatening. It’s all I dared to say until I’m sure I won’t crumple under the weight of my bleak horizon.
“Oh, don’t worry, we’re going to get you good and loosened up tonight. We’ll tackle the rest tomorrow,” Soraya said with a wink before yanking me into a half hug with a reassuring pat on my shoulder.
Soraya meant well and had become one of my best friends since we met after I wrote in to Ask Ida forever ago, looking for advice about how to handle my shit employer. The same shit employer I’d told off a handful of hours ago.
Maybe I wouldn’t be in this mess if I’d listened to her advice then.
So sure she’d worry about me, but she’d also climb into bed next to her husband Graham, one of the single hottest guys I’d ever laid eyes on, and I’d be alone, the mess my life had become resting solely on my shoulders.
With the way he looked at his wife, touched her, yeah, I had no doubt the minute she walked through the door later, he’d fuck her so thoroughly—something which according to her had only become more intense after she’d had their son and he’d been gobsmacked by intimately witnessing what the female body could do—any worry about my precarious situation would vanish on her first O.
I didn’t begrudge her the O.
I just wanted a good O of my own. And not the self-service kind either.
Warmth spread through my belly. My skin flushed with a surge of heat. My eyes drifted shut as I enjoyed the rush and my skin grew damp. The only way this could be better is if the heat came from an intense bout of aggressive sex. Not that I’d found a man capable of giving me what I looked for yet.
Unlik
e my pal, Soraya.
God, Graham practically ignited the two of them whenever he looked at her, coveted her.
Just add it to the list of what’s wrong with my life.
Right after how to put food in my belly, but before my 401K worries.
A city of over twelve million people and finding a guy who liked a good animalistic hard fuck was like looking for a unicorn with golden hooves pissing rainbows and farting pots of gold.
Looked like I had a lot of time on my hands to hunt the mythical beast since I was now unemployed. Actually, the hunt had a shelf life since now I couldn’t afford any extras, which meant it wouldn’t be long until my nails were chewed short, my toenails coated with lumpy polish since I never let them dry long enough before pulling on fuzzy socks, my hair was all split ends, and my vag looked like I was bushing it up, the down below doppelgänger of every 1970’s porno.
Don’t all line up at once to hit that.
I stared down into the bottom of the shot glass, a part of me looking for the answers to my future in the remnants of liquor sliding over the thick, clear base.
Slamming the glass down on the table, another round appeared at my elbow, and I welcomed the next gulp.
Discontentment tried to take root inside me like a chastity belt acting as a fortress for a maiden’s no-no place, looking to kill my hope for a good time. The first good time I’ve had in far too long.
Because again, shit-ass day job with no room for advancement, riddled with covert backsliding, nepotism, and hinky bullshit I didn’t notice until it was far too late to stand up for myself with any hope of actually making a difference.
Oh, and my nights… mostly alone with the occasional ho-hum interlude with one of those gentle-ass men who thought I wanted tender lovemaking with long stares, cuddling, and flowers.
I didn’t need a man to buy me flowers. I would buy me flowers if I wanted them, thank you very much. I’m a damned wedding planner—or was a wedding planner—with fifty florists at my fingertips. I’m ass-deep in flowers every weekend.
Was.
Is.
Dammit, I will be again.
It’s so not a problem.
I didn’t need my free time feeling like job number two, spent appeasing the ego of some dude bro who had a burr up his ass to bring on his gallant game.
My money was on the fact some asshole probably wrote a book outlining what women wanted. Like we all hid some simpering inner 1950’s housewife dreams, just waiting for some Cary Grant-esque moves to sweep us off our modest heels. Why did guys always dial back to that time in history anyway?
I glanced down at my black four-inch heels and grinned. Nothing modest about the way the narrow ribbons crisscrossed over my calves.
Yeah, I was more of a free love, burning bras, and peace period sort.
Why not dial it back to that time in history, guys, huh?
Oh, that’s right, that was about the time women had had it with men and their bullshit so they began to take their power back in earnest.
Couldn’t have that now.
God, if my eyes rolled any harder they’d land at Soraya’s elbow.
I’d forever be in powerful woman camp. Controlling my fate, wielding my expertise with precision. Which made my profession perfect. Not my job maybe, but the career path. Yeah, I’d found my strength.
Maybe that’s why losing the job hurt so much. Or did, before the first shot. The twinge that lingered…well, there was a cure.
I picked up the next glass, didn’t meet the gazes of my concerned friends crawling over my skin, and gulped the shot back, hoping to find my pride in the bite of liquor crawling down my throat.
If not my pride, I’d settle for an off switch for my pathetic inner monologue.
A pang twinged in my heart at the jobs I’d started, the families I’d met—they’d all be assigned a new wedding planner now. It would be awkward for them at first, but by their wedding day, I, and the part I played in their early plans, would be all but forgotten.
I loved my job taming bridezillas, their controlling families, and keeping those hundred and fifty balls all flying through the air with precision and purpose because I was a damned boss at juggling. I thrived on it. Add one more ball—ten more balls, yeah, I handled that shit too without a damned blip.
“Girl, I can’t tell if you’re sad or angry. You going to say something?” Soraya asked as she searched my face with her shrewd gaze.
“I’m the goddamned best wedding planner they ever had. So fuck them. And I miss men. Not all men. But the kind who won’t ask if your shirt is special. The kind who will just grip it and rip it, sending buttons skittering over the floor, dammit.”
“Well, she said something. Mood…angry and horny with hints of heartbroken flavor in the finish,” Marie, the craft beer enthusiast of the group, said.
“She sounds more horny than angry. Either way, good combo, just lock up the sorrow if you take a guy home tonight. Guys may love blowjobs, but flooding their balls with soggy tears while you deliver is a real turn off,” Ava said with a grin as she sipped at her shot.
I wrinkled my nose, more at sipping the shot than the blowy advice.
“Girl, you would not be so horned up if you’d give in and let us help you find a guy. Because for real, you have some of the single shittiest taste in guys I’ve ever seen which is surprising considering what you do for a living,” Soraya said with a sad shake of her head.
“Well, I’m drinking so that ship sailed. I’m not going to be some drunk hookup,” I said with a shrug, despite how focused my psyche seemed to be at getting laid.
“Okay, first, don’t knock drunk hookups because those buttons hitting the floor might very well be on the menu for a drunk hookup. Second, you’ve had two drinks. Pace yourself. We’ll trade in the shots for something fruity and you’ll be fine. Besides, you shouldn’t waste your outfit. It’s got ‘fuck me’ written all over it,” Soraya said, her gaze roaming over me from head toe, her lips twitching when her eyes landed on my heels.
Soraya wasn’t exactly wrong.
“I hate to be the downer here, but maybe tonight is not the best night for her to bang one out with a hot stranger. The last thing we want is for it to hit her, really hit her, or those tear-drenched balls might become a real thing,” Julia said.
“What hit her?” Marie asked as she sucked down another drink.
“Um, hello? Jobless,” Ridley pointed out.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence. Jesus.”
“Hold up, maybe we should think about this. Julia’s not exactly wrong,” Kennedy added.
“Stop,” I said, holding my palm up. “You guys are on the edge of ruining a perfectly good buzz. I’m not so drunk my standards have escaped me, and I’m done being dissatisfied. My eyes are open, but I’m not getting my hopes up tonight’s the night I’ll stumble upon the kind of guy I really need.”
“We’ll help you. Other than the buttons flying thing, what are you looking for?” Soraya asked.
I sighed. “A man. Not a husband, not even a boyfriend, but a damned man who doesn’t feel the need to always take the lead or give me the romance hard sell. A man who knows his place, puts himself in it, and surrenders himself to my hungry needs.”
Kennedy snorted. “Why do I feel like wedding planner is not far off from dominatrix?”
“Bonus points are up for grabs if he finds his way to the door within ten minutes of the finale,” I added.
Oh, and I wanted the fucker to be silent. Was it really so much to ask? He could grunt, moan, gasp, but I swear if I had one more guy look at me and say, “I want to make love to you,” I’d burn something to the ground using his boxer briefs as kindling.
Men didn’t know where to find my itch, let alone how to scratch the insatiable lush. But I did. And if something didn’t change soon, if the pool of guys to choose from didn’t change from nauseating into thrilling in the next few seconds, I might let out a window-rattling scream right here in this very pub.
The waitress stepped up between us and set another round of shots on the table. Soraya held out her platinum credit card. “Hi, hon. If you’ve got something fruity, but not too weak, I’d appreciate it if you could bring us a round and keep them coming.”.
For a moment, seeing her card, the reality of what I’d done gripped me by the throat and I swallow hard. This was it. Tonight I was partying, tomorrow I was what?
Enjoying the last of my groceries before I switch over to ramen and contemplated why I thought telling off my boss was a good career plan. Eternally Yours—a name I loathe with every fiber of my being—is the single most sought-after bridal company in the greater New York City area and had clout with every single wedding venue in the entire state.
From the outside looking in, founder and current dictator, Vera Mason, sat ramrod straight perched on the bridal throne of New York’s elite. The problem was with confidence came one hell of a blind spot. If her clients bothered taking a closer look, they’d see the fringes of outdated, overdone, ho-hum ideas, they sold as classic.
And everything I’d done to drag their nineteen eighties-esque asses into the here and now had been met with a polite, yet mocking smile, a condescending pat on my head, and a door promptly shut in my face.
A dull ache formed in my skull despite my best efforts to drown out my pain. I unhooked the clip and let my hair fall down my back. The release of pressure sent tingles along my scalp, and a wave of relief.
“No!” Soraya commanded while she shoved another glass in my hands. “Get that look off your face. It’s going to be fine. It’s going to be even better than fine. You’re going to be brilliant and soar. Now drink.”
“They never appreciated me, the bastards.” I tipped the liquor back and prayed it would wipe away the worry unfurling in my gut.
And that’s what hurt the most. The time I lost. I could have spent it building real, valuable, professional relationships based on respect, and instead I stayed for whatever scant crumbs of approval Vera tossed my way.