by Lexi Ryan
He nods toward the back exit. “Wanna bounce, baby?”
I’m trying, I really am, to keep an open mind about men who don’t look like Sam Bradshaw—men who don’t turn me on like Sam Bradshaw—but a thirty-something white dude with a gut shouldn’t try to talk like the frat guys down the road at Sinclair University.
“I’ll take you back to my place,” he continues. “Show you what I have to offer.” He winks at me—to make sure I’m picking up on the double entendre, I guess.
I shift uncomfortably. “Sorry, Harry, but I meant it when I said I don’t have sex on the first date.”
Of course Sam would choose that moment to appear again. Sam, for whom I’ve put out on two different occasions and with whom I’ve gone on a grand total of zero dates. He grunts softly, flashes a knowing grin, then heads toward the barroom and leaves me alone with horny, hairy Harry.
“We don’t have to have intercourse. I’ll show you a real man can give you pleasure without crossing that line.”
“It’s just that . . .”
“Tell me what you want, baby.”
I know what Harry means, but my eyes are on Sam’s retreating form and I can’t stop thinking that what I want is a second chance. With Sam. “Nothing. I’m just tired.”
“Next time, then.” He pulls me forward and presses a wet kiss on my mouth, sucking both of my lips between his. I’m not sure if he’s trying to kiss me or eat me. Yuck. “Night, sugar.”
I mumble a good night and watch him exit through the back door, simultaneously relieved and defeated when I’m alone again.
What am I supposed to do with myself now?
I could go home to my empty house and warm up a TV dinner, but that would be a lonely reminder of why I’m driven to dating guys like horrible Harry. I could surprise my twin, Hanna, at her house and visit my gorgeous little nieces, but then I’d have to watch my soon-to-be brother-in-law drool over my twin. Nate’s adoration would remind me why guys like Harry will never seem good enough. Or I could spend some quality time on the job websites, continuing my seemingly endless search for a new job.
Drinking it is.
I head to the bar and wave down Brady, the owner of this dive my friends and I love so much.
“That guy? Really?” Brady says.
I shrug. Brady’s seen me meet a lot of guys for drinks in the last few months, not many of them more than once. “He looked good on paper.”
He pours me a shot and hands it to me across the bar. “If you’re going to start going for the older men, I’d like to take a number.”
I grin, then shoot back the tequila, welcoming the warmth it sends humming into my chest. “He claims to be thirty-four. And anyway, I don’t think I could keep up with you.” I return the shot glass to his wrinkled, age-spotted hand.
Chuckling, he refills the glass. “Not many girls can.” Then, more seriously, “Still no prospects?”
I shake my head. “It’s possible I’ll be single forever.”
“Maybe not,” he says.
His eyes shift to the other side of the bar, and I follow his gaze to the booth where Sam is sitting with his best friends, William Bailey and Max Hallowell. Will and Max are laughing about something, but Sam’s eyes are on me. He holds my gaze for a moment before turning back to his friends, and my heart stutters out its disappointment.
“Sam and I wouldn’t be a good match,” I tell Brady as I straighten in my seat. Like any barkeep worth his salt, Brady knows more about my love-life woes than my best friends do—mostly because my best friends are so busy with their perfect love lives that I don’t want to bore them with my hopeless one.
“Why would you say that?”
Because he can’t forgive me for one drunken night of poor judgment. “He’s the consummate playboy,” I say instead. “Fun when I was younger, but not the kind of man who wants to settle down and make babies.” The thought of making babies with Sam sends my pulse into a tizzy. Now that would be fun. Le sigh.
“I think you’re underestimating him,” Brady says.
I shrug. “Call it women’s intuition.” Or once bitten, twice shy. I know the score with Sam. I learned it the hard way the first time we hooked up. By the time I decided I needed second helpings, I knew what to expect. Or, better yet, what not to expect.
“I call it foolish,” Brady says with a shake of his head. “You keep fishing for men in that barrel of losers called the internet and act shocked every time you reel in a dud.”
I take my second shot, grimacing a little less this time. “There are plenty of men who do online dating who aren’t losers.”
He huffs. “You haven’t brought any of them here.” With that, he heads to the other end of the bar to wait on a new customer. I’m left staring at my empty shot glass and contemplating my equally empty life.
No job. No boyfriend. No prospects.
My phone dings in my purse—not just any notification ding, but the special tone assigned to the Something Real chat application. The sound makes my lips curl into a smile and my stomach flutter in anticipation. It shouldn’t, but it does. There’s only one person who contacts me using that app, and the idea of a new message from him always brings a smile to my lips.
Riverrat69: How’d the date go?
Tink24: Let’s put it this way—my sister’s Rottweiler’s kisses do more for me. I’m officially striking out with this dating thing.
Ever since my sisters and best friends started finding their true loves, I’ve been determined to take my own dating life more seriously. I’ve always been more interested in the hottest guy in the room than the most stable one, but those days are over. After my Super Summer Screw-Up, I decided it was time to step up my game, and started using online dating sites, but the traditional online dating route has gotten me nowhere. Brady’s right about that, and tonight’s date with Harry the Horrible is evidence enough.
While I haven’t given up on the ForeverLove.coms of the world, I decided to roll the dice and gave a new service a shot. Something Real is the hot new dating website for New Hopers. Some web developer put the program together and has it in beta testing for people in and around the New Hope area. What makes Something Real unique is that it doesn’t allow its users to share pictures or even names until they hit certain relationship benchmarks. That’s how I met Riverrat69, my anonymous friend and current obsession.
Something Real is all about the kind of commitment I’m looking for—people who want babies and forever and old-age handholding. Only, River wasn’t on there looking for love. He’s someone who had an opportunity to invest in the program. He wanted to try it out and explore the user experience before ponying up the cash the developer needs to take the site to the next level.
River doesn’t want any of the things I do, and he’s been clear about that from the start. But we hit it off anyway.
Over the last two months, we’ve gotten into the habit of sending each other messages throughout the day, and I anticipate each one like an addict waiting for her next hit. I like him, but after all this time, as far as I can tell, the only thing he wants from me is to tie me up and make me come.
Not so different from what Sam Bradshaw once said he wanted from me.
My phone vibrates in my hand as his next message comes through.
Riverrat69: You can do better than that guy anyway.
How does he know? I sink my teeth into my lower lip. Is that just a generic thing someone says, or does he know whom I was with tonight? I glance over my shoulder back to the table where Sam is sitting. Max is on the phone and William is gone, and Sam has his phone is in his hand, and he’s typing something. My heart shimmies in tandem with my girl parts, and I tell both to calm the eff down.
Sam lifts his head and his eyes lock with mine. When my phone buzzes in my hand again, I jump.
Riverrat69: I have a confession.
Tink24: What’s that?
Riverrat69: I can’t stop looking at that last picture.
I close my eyes
and try to imagine my faceless friend looking at the picture I sent him before work this morning. After rereading last night’s texts left me hot and bothered, sending a picture of my hip was the best outlet for my sexual frustration.
From the beginning, we seemed to have an unspoken agreement that we’d keep it anonymous, but I’ve sent him pictures. My bare legs stretched out in bed from the knees down, my toes after a pedicure, my ass in a new pair of black panties—pieces to an erotic puzzle I desperately want him to solve.
Tink24: I’ll confess, I hoped you’d have that problem.
Riverrat69: I can’t talk right now, but message me when you climb in bed tonight.
Suddenly, climbing into bed alone again sounds better than it has in weeks. I reread his message. Can’t talk right now.
Snapping my head up again, I see Sam sitting with his phone under his hand. I was so absorbed in River’s messages I forgot to watch to see if Sam was typing before each new one.
I don’t know if my online friend lives in New Hope, but I know he lives in the area and that he went to New Hope High School. I know he has a big family and that he’s in finance, like Sam. I know he’s been burned by love and doesn’t want commitment.
I know he dirty-talks like a pro and wants to tie me up—and so began my suspicions that the anonymous stranger I’ve been talking to isn’t a stranger at all. Every clue points to Sam Bradshaw, God’s gift to women everywhere. The suspicions started early in our exchanges, but I disregarded them as wishful thinking. However, every clue pointed to him, and for as long as we’ve been swapping dirty messages, I’ve been picturing Sam.
I force myself to turn away from him. My only problem now is that I can’t decide if River is really Sam or if I just want him to be.
Okay, that’s not my only problem. If River really is Sam, that presents a whole new list of problems. On the top of that list? Since my Super Summer Screw-Up, Sam hates me.
When I look over again and see he’s left, relief washes over me. Because I’m a coward, and I’m not ready to admit to myself how much I want Sam to be the man I’ve been talking to online.
* * *
Sam
“Hello there, Mr. Bradshaw.”
The sound of that voice makes me go cold, but I refuse to let my body tense.
Asia Franks is sitting in the glow of my front porch light. Her dark hair is cut in short little wisps that lie close to her scalp and give full attention to her big blue eyes. She’s wearing a skimpy skirt not at all appropriate for the weather, and a cigarette hangs from her fingertips.
With the exception of the occasional cigar with my friends, I’ve never been a smoker. But the sight of her alone is enough to make me want to steal the cigarette and smoke it down to the filter.
“Asia,” I reply, my voice cold.
She cocks her head to the side and gives me one of those looks she uses to so skillfully manipulate the men around her. “Now why can’t you act happy to see me? It’s been so long.”
“Not long enough.”
She sticks out her lower lip in a pout. I can’t believe I once fell for that. “Fine. Be that way.”
I cross my arms and give her a pointed look, waiting.
“Baby, it’s cold out here. Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“I don’t want you anywhere near my house, let alone inside it.”
As if I flipped a switch, her face hardens, all that affected sweetness disappearing in a blink. “Some things never change, and I see you’re still a dick.”
“Tell me what you want. I don’t like being this close to you.”
She stands carefully, dropping the cigarette to the porch floor and stomping it out with the toe of her red high heel. “I need some money.”
“Not gonna happen.” I pull my keys from my pocket, ready to go inside and lock her out. I don’t need to hear whatever sob story she has for me. I’ve fallen for her shit before, and I won’t again. Not this time.
“The last two years have been so hard on me,” she says. “I was so depressed I could hardly get out of bed most days. I used up all my savings just trying to pay my bills.”
I snort. The “savings” she’s referring to is the nest egg I set her up with when I thought she was going to have my baby. If Asia had a penny in the bank before she pissed on a stick for me, I’d be surprised. I shove the key into the lock and push open the door. “Go find another sucker.”
Her eyes flash with anger but her voice is coy again, the sweet, ever-suffering Asia. “You can’t just ignore me. Not when you’re the reason I’m so depressed.”
When she hangs her head dramatically, I look over my shoulder to see who she’s performing for and, yeah, sure enough, Mrs. O’Neil is on her front porch watching us.
“Everything okay, Sam?”
“Don’t push me away, Sam,” Asia says dramatically. She blinks a few times and produces a few tears. “Not without talking to me first.”
“Sam?” Mrs. O’Neil calls again.
“Everything’s fine,” I reply. “Do you want to talk about this in the house?” I ask Asia. It’s all I can do not to spit the words.
Asia gives me a satisfied smile—“As a matter of fact . . .”—then strolls right into my house.
I’m a pretty easygoing guy, and there’s a very short list of people who aren’t welcome in my home. Asia Franks is at the top of it. And yet here she is.
I pull the door closed behind me. “I’m not giving you any money.”
“Sure you are,” she says, sauntering into the house and surveying the open-concept space. “You’re going to give me whatever I want, because you don’t want my story ruining your happy little life.”
Her eyes scan the room, and I know what she’s looking for—anything of value, anything to prove to her that the world is unfair and some people get everything while she gets nothing. Anything to justify her blackmailing me.
I cross my arms. “You don’t have a story that anyone wants to hear.”
She sticks out her lower lip again. “Why do you hate me so much?”
Because you stole something that was mine.
“I think a lot of people will be interested in my story. Especially now that your daddy is running for governor. I understand he has some stiff competition in the primaries.”
“His son got drunk and screwed a stripper. The voters have forgiven worse.”
She sighs heavily. “What I think they’d find interesting is the part where you made me . . .” She looks me dead in the eye and blinks those fake-ass tears back into her eyes. “The part where you made me get an abortion. I would have done anything to keep my baby.”
Rage screams through me so fast and so hard that I’ve taken three long strides toward her before I force myself to stop and clench my hands at my sides. “You fucking cunt. What did I ever do to you?” Anger and hatred drip from my voice.
Her eyes go hard, and she pulls something from her pocket. When she produces a tiny recorder, I stumble back a few steps. I know exactly how our exchange will sound to anyone she shares it with. And I know she won’t hesitate to share it with anyone who can give her something she wants.
“What do you want from me?”
She closes the distance between us and runs her hands down my chest. I don’t move her hands because I’m afraid of what I might do if I let myself touch her. I’ve never hated anyone in my life as much as I hate her. I’ve never wanted to hurt a woman, but I want to hurt her. “I can’t forgive you for that, you know,” she whispers. “You made me think . . .”
That line is for the recording, no doubt. “How much?”
“Ten thousand will get me out of your hair.”
“And if I refuse?”
“I’ll come forward with my story.”
“I’ll tell them the truth.”
She trails her fingers down the buttons on my shirt, one at a time. “Obviously you’d lie to protect your father from scandal. Just like you paid me to have the abortion to protect your fa
mily from scandal.”
I grab her wrists and squeeze. “Ten thousand, and then you’re out of my life.”
“Of course. I’m not asking for more than I need to get by. You don’t know how hard it’s been for me.” Her gaze flicks to her wrist where I’m squeezing. “I think you’re bruising me. What will people think?”
I release her and step back. “I’ll get you the money.”
“I’m glad we understand each other.” She swings her hips as she walks to the door.
I’ll never forget that night two years ago when Asia showed up at my house. My head was already buzzing from Liz showing up at my office, and then there was Asia, waiting to grant my wish, telling me she’d have the baby.
I was so stunned and grateful I had to remind myself to breathe. I cupped Asia’s face in my hands and studied her. “You promise?” I don’t know what I was looking for there, but I stared at her until I was sure I could believe her.
“I promise.”
Then I kissed her—not because I loved her or planned to make a life with her. I kissed her because I understood she was giving me a gift.
After she left, I showered and dressed and went back to Lizzy’s house. I’m a private person, but I wanted to tell Liz about Asia and the baby. I was venturing into unknown territory and I needed a friend. I wanted Liz to be that friend, to be part of my life.
When I got to her house, she was different somehow. More distant. Almost like she was embarrassed to look at me. I took her on a walk and stared at the changing leaves as I tried to figure out what to say. I’d never asked a girl to go steady with me, I’d never wanted to, so I had no idea how to start with Liz.
When I finally broke the silence, I said, “I know we said it was just a fling . . .”
She smiled at me, a strained, tight expression. “No strings, no attachments, no expectations. You’re not here because you’ve changed your mind on me, are you?”