Heartbreaker (Rascals Book 3)

by Katie McCoy

  “Pretty busy tonight,” I commented, looking around the room.

  “Yeah.” He gave me an exaggerated frown. “Guess I’m going to have to pay up.”

  “Pay up?” I asked, drinking more of the beer.

  “The dance party thing was my girlfriend’s idea,” he told me. “I told her that no one wanted to make a fool of themselves on a weeknight.”

  “That’s patently not true,” I teased.

  “Obviously I was wrong.” He winced as he said it. “And I’m going to pay.”

  I couldn’t help smiling. “Hopefully she’ll be gentle,” I said.

  He gave me a wolfish grin. “I hope she isn’t.”

  I nearly spit out my drink with my sputter of laughter. “TMI,” I told him.

  “That’s the way we do it in Rascals,” he offered. “We’re your inappropriate uncle’s favorite bar.”

  “I don’t see that on the door,” I pointed out.

  “We’re having a special sign made,” he responded, before leaving me with a wink to help other customers.

  I smiled down at my drink. Inappropriate uncle humor notwithstanding, Rascals was quickly becoming my new favorite bar.

  “Hey pretty lady,” someone interrupted my thoughts.

  I turned to find a very drunk, very sloppy-looking guy standing behind me. He was wearing a T-shirt with beer stains down the front and a very impressive beer belly.

  “Hey,” I said, and then turned back to the exit, hoping he’d take a hint.

  He didn’t.

  “Can I buy you a shot?” he asked, putting his sweaty hand on my shoulder and leaning in way too close.

  I stepped away, causing him to lose his balance and stumble a little bit.

  “Whoa there,” he said, his hands reaching out in the direction of my boobs.

  I moved away, and he fell face first onto the floor.

  As people hurried to help his drunk ass off the ground, I made my exit.

  The night had cooled down significantly when I got outside, and I took a big gulp of the fresh air as I stepped onto the sidewalk. I stood there for a moment, just enjoying the summer night, letting my hearing readjust after the loud music, when I noticed someone standing on the corner, leaning against the building.

  It was the man in black.

  His head was down, his attention completely focused on his phone. It was dark on the street, so his face was mostly illuminated by the light from his screen. His eyebrows were drawn downward—whatever he was reading appeared to be stressing him out.

  I knew all about stress. Even though I had loved dancing, had loved almost every aspect of it, I hadn’t loved the stress that came with it. Stress about how I performed in rehearsals, stress about the way I looked in my costumes, stress about what my next part would be. It had been a wonderful, challenging job, but it had also made me an extremely stressed out person. All those rules and guidelines—all those requirements—it had worn me out just as much as actual dancing had worn out my body. And now, almost a full year after my injury, when I had done everything I could to heal my body, I was starting to work on my mind and my soul. Trying to get both of them used to this new life.

  A life without dancing.

  Maybe that’s why I felt a sudden surge of boldness. I was trying new things now, wasn’t I? Taking risks and having the adventures I never got the chance to when ballet was the number one priority in my life.

  “Hey,” I said, walking towards him before I could think better of it.

  The guy looked up at me, and a slow, sexy smile spread across his face. He put his phone away.

  “Hey,” he responded.

  “You abandoned me on the dance floor,” I teased.

  He smiled wider, and I noticed that he had a dimple in one cheek. “I didn’t want your boyfriend to beat me up,” he said, and it took me a moment to realize he was talking about Viktor. I laughed.

  Not only was it ridiculous to imagine anyone mistaking Viktor as my boyfriend, but even if he was, Viktor was ninety pounds sopping wet. And even though he was all muscle, like most dancers, Viktor wouldn’t stand a chance against this guy, who was at least a foot taller than my friend, and seemed to have at least sixty pounds of muscle on him.

  “He’s just a friend,” I told him.

  He nodded, a smug little smile playing at the corner of his mouth. It was both sexy and annoying. I wanted to kiss it right off his face.

  So I did.

  I could have blamed it on the tequila, or the beer, or whatever made me brave enough to kiss a complete stranger on the street outside of a bar, but the truth was that at that point, I was stone-cold sober. I was kissing a complete stranger on the street outside of a bar, because that’s exactly what I wanted to do.

  I felt the man in black’s surprise when I pressed my lips against his, the way his body stilled as I leaned against him. But that surprise didn’t last, and within seconds, he was kissing me back.

  And oh my God, could he kiss.

  His mouth was hot against mine, his hands immediately going to my waist, pulling me tighter against him. I could feel his impressive chest muscles beneath my hands as I spread my fingers across his pecs, getting only slightly tangled in his tie.

  My entire body went red hot as he slanted his head and deepened the kiss, slipping his tongue into my mouth. It felt so good—hot and wet—and I wanted more. I slid my hands upward, doing exactly what I had wanted to do the moment I’d seen him across the bar. I buried my fingers in his thick hair and messed it the fuck up.

  I felt him smile against my mouth, and then before I knew what was happening, he was pushing away from the wall, and pulling both of us into the alley next to Rascals. He pressed me up against the brick lining the alley walls and took control of my mouth. My knees almost buckled as he kissed me, but his hands had slid downward, cupping my ass and keeping me from losing my balance. I dragged my fingers through his hair—loving how it felt against my hands.

  His mouth moved from my lips downward, dropping hot kisses along my throat. I leaned my head back against the bricks, colors exploding behind my eyelids. His hands, his mouth, his tongue, all of it felt amazing. It had been a long time since I’d been with anyone, and even when I’d had time for trysts, they’d never been this hot.

  Never.

  I tightened my grip on his shoulders as his mouth moved lower, pausing briefly as he reached the neckline of my dress. It was one of those soft, drapey necklines—all he had to do was move it aside and he’d have complete access. Because I wasn’t wearing a bra.

  But before he could, a cool breeze blew into the alley, and hit me with a chill of reality. I was in an alley, next to a bar, with a complete stranger. And I was about to be topless in an alley, next to a bar, with a complete stranger.

  The man in black stopped immediately, like he could sense my hesitation. We just stood there for a moment, both of us breathing heavily. My entire body was still buzzing with sexual energy, and I felt like melting into a puddle on the ground.

  “Well,” I somehow managed, my voice and knees shaky, unsure what to do next. Part of me wanted to go home. Another part of me—the part that was tingling and unsatisfied—wanted to invite him to join me. I didn’t know what I wanted more.

  “I should go,” the man in black said, making the decision for me.

  I nodded, both grateful and disappointed. Because I really wasn’t the kind of girl that took men home with her after making out with them in an alley. But I kind of wanted to be that kind of girl.

  “See you around,” the man in black said, giving me a wink before ducking back into Rascals.

  “See you,” I said, but he was already gone.

  I turned and began walking, a massive smile spreading across my face. Because I’d done something unexpected. Something wild and adventurous. And it made me realize there was a whole world of experiences out there I hadn’t begun to taste. And now that dancing wasn’t my 24/7 obsession, I had all the time in the world to explore them for myse
lf.

  It was time to stop grieving the life I’d left behind and start living the one I still had.

  Starting with finding myself a new job . . .

  2

  Juliet

  I woke up the next morning with a mild hangover and memories of that amazing makeout imprinted on my mind. I snuggled deeper in the covers, remembering the feel of his arms around me . . . his mouth on mine . . . his hands . . .

  I flushed and checked my phone for the time. Almost nine?! For a split second, I was filled with panic at being late for rehearsal, then it hit me all over again.

  I didn’t have rehearsal today—or any day. Now I was without a schedule. For the first time in my life.

  I flopped back into the pillows. I’d felt so optimistic last night, but now that buzz had faded, leaving the usual heartache and fears in its place. Dance had defined me for so long, and being without it had been even harder than I expected. And difficult in ways I hadn’t anticipated.

  It was ironic. When my days had been filled with rehearsals or performances or practices, I had often wished for more free time. Now I had nothing but free time and I didn’t know what to do with it. The days seemed endlessly long, and I was pretty sure I had already binge-watched all the TV shows I needed to binge when I had been on bedrest. Besides, there was only so much Real Housewives a girl could take.

  I was lucky, I tried to remind myself. My injury had healed enough for me to walk, even work out, and I had a chance now at a new chapter in life—whatever that turned out to be.

  I forced myself out of bed and went to look for something to eat. My tiny studio apartment was a mess—cleaning it was something I now had time to do, but something I kept putting off. I opened my fridge and realized that I had done the same with grocery shopping. There was absolutely no food in my place.

  I grabbed my bag, and then remembered that I had left the bar last night without closing out my tab or reclaiming my credit card. Which meant I’d have to go back there before I could go to the grocery store. Pulling out my phone, I checked and saw that they wouldn’t be open for a few more hours, so even though I didn’t have an appointment, I went downtown to my physical therapist.

  “Hey, sweetie,” Marcella greeted me when I came into the office, giving me a big hug and a kiss on my cheek. “Didn’t know we were expecting you today.”

  “I’m not on the schedule,” I told her. “Just thought I’d stop by.”

  She gave me a look, which meant that she could see right through my bullshit.

  “OK,” I admitted. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

  She nodded. “Having trouble adjusting to civilian life?” She took a seat, and I did the same across from her.

  “I guess.” I picked at some lint on my pants.

  They were black—most of my clothes were black. I didn’t own a lot of color or clothes that I couldn’t move in. Not a lot of jeans or underwire bras or most of the normal things that women wore. Mostly yoga pants and drapey tops—like I was wearing now—even though they were all a little more snug than they had been when I was dancing every day and carefully watching what I ate.

  “You’ll get used to it,” Marcella told me, patting me on the knee. “Just give it time.”

  “Are you sure I don’t need to be doing more physical therapy?” I asked.

  Marcella gave me a sympathetic look. “We both know that’s not going to solve the real problem, baby,” she said. “You can come here whenever you want, but you and I both know that more physical therapy isn’t going to fix what you’re feeling.”

  She was right, and I knew she was right. I guess I had just needed to hear it.

  As I was leaving, I got a call from a former teacher.

  “Ms. Allen,” I picked up, already knowing how the conversation would go. After all, I’d had a dozen or more of them in the past year since my injury.

  “Juliet, darling,” she said, in her faux British accent—she was from Detroit. “I just wanted to check in on you.”

  “That’s very nice of you,” I responded, walking out of the physical therapy building.

  It was a beautiful day, so instead of taking the bus, I just decided to keep walking while I talked to my former instructor.

  “How are you doing?” she asked, her voice thick with meaning.

  She was really asking what everyone wanted to ask, but no one was brave enough to say out loud: “Are you completely lost without dancing?” I was grateful no one had actually asked it because I really didn’t know how I would answer.

  “I’m doing well,” I told her, knowing that even if she was actually curious about my state of mind, she didn’t really want to hear the nuances of what I was going through. Everyone just wanted to hear that I was doing fine. So that’s what I told them. Over and over and over again.

  “How is physical therapy going?” she inquired.

  “I’ve finished physical therapy,” I answered. “Got the all clear to . . .” I paused. To walk around Chicago. To go out to clubs in heels. To spend my morning in bed.

  But not to dance professionally. I was never going to have that again.

  Part of me wanted to cry. But I hadn’t cried when I got passed over for the lead in Swan Lake. I hadn’t cried when I was the understudy to the lead in The Nutcracker for four years. I hadn’t even cried when I injured myself. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to cry now.

  “You must be having so much fun, having all that free time,” Ms. Allen told me.

  Just like everything she had ever said to me, she made something positive sound like a negative. It would be crazy to miss the constant criticism and abuse I had gotten from my dance instructors, but grief was apparently complicated, because Ms. Allen’s passive-aggressive comment had me missing her classes something awful.

  I assured her that I was having fun with all my free time—a complete lie, of course—and said goodbye. By that time, I was a few blocks away from Rascals, and even though they weren’t set to open for another hour, I decided to head to the bar anyways. At the very least, I could find a coffee shop nearby where I could wait.

  But when I arrived, the door to the bar was open.

  I walked in, noting that whoever was there seemed to be in the middle of cleanup or setup, or whatever would require boxes on the bar and cleaning supplies on the table. But I didn’t see anyone around.

  “Hello?” I called out.

  “We’re closed,” came a voice from behind the bar.

  “I know,” I said, straining to see who was speaking. I only caught the top of their head, but from the sound of their voice, it was clear it was a guy. “I just left my credit card here last night.”

  A head popped up from behind the bar. It was the bartender I had chatted with last night—the one who had mentioned his girlfriend had suggested the dance party idea. And by the way he smiled, it seemed that he remembered me too.

  “Are you Juliet?” he asked, opening the register.

  I nodded, coming over to the bar.

  The bartender rang me up, sliding the bill across the counter for me to sign.

  “Glad you remembered,” he said. “We get about one of these a week.” He took the bill from me once I had signed. “Not everyone remembers where they left their card.”

  “Well, I didn’t go anywhere else yesterday,” I said before I realized how pathetic that sounded. “I mean—”

  But the bartender held up his hand, a friendly smile on his face. “I’ve had days like that,” he said.

  If I remembered correctly, his name was Chase.

  Then, before I could leave, he took out a bottle of beer from behind the counter.

  “Do me a favor?” he asked, opening it and pushing it towards me. “Try this.”

  I was pretty sure he was doing me a favor, not the other way around, but I pulled up a barstool and took a sip of the beer. It was the same one I’d had last night.

  “It’s good,” I told him.

  “But does it taste different from the ta
p?” he wanted to know. “Because you had a pint from the tap last night, right?”

  I nodded, and took another drink, really trying to tell if I could discern a difference.

  “Tastes the same to me,” I told him.

  Chase looked relieved. “Good,” he said. “We’re bottling it for the first time and I wanted to make sure that it didn’t affect the taste.”

  “Want everyone to get that award-winning flavor?” I asked, gesturing at the plaque.

  “You know it,” he said with a wink.

  “This is getting ridiculous,” a voice came around from around the corner.

  I looked up to find another handsome man coming into the bar from what appeared to be the back room. He looked a little frazzled, his hair sticking straight up as if he had been running his hands through it. Unbidden, the image of the man in black, his perfectly combed hair mussed by my hands, popped into my mind. Had I made the right choice in saying good night to him? Should I have taken him home?

  It didn’t matter now. Last night was over. What I needed to worry about now was finding a way to fill my time. A job would probably be a good place to start, but I didn’t even know what I was qualified to do. All I knew was dance. I didn’t have many other qualifications.

  “We have a guest,” Chase said before the second man could say anything. “Juliet, this is Emerson, Emerson this is Juliet. She left her credit card here last night.”

  “And I was just leaving,” I tried to argue, but Chase gestured for me to stay.

  “Finish your beer,” he said. “There’s no rush.”

  That much was certainly true, so I sat and sipped while Emerson shoved a pile of paperwork in Chase’s direction.

  “You need help,” he said.

  “Kelsey’s been saying that for months,” Chase commented.

  “Not that kind of help,” Emerson grinned, before pausing for a moment. “Though, that’s not a bad idea.”

  Chase threw a dish rag at him. I kept drinking my beer, wondering exactly what their dynamic was. Obviously, they both worked here, but Chase wasn’t acting like a typical employee. He and Emerson had clearly known each other for a long time and had a brotherly-like familiarity with each other.