Bad Bachelor

by Stefanie London

  “Do you ever get sick of women fawning over you?” Darcy asked once the woman was out of earshot. She slid into the booth.

  “No.” He appeared totally unapologetic. “Why would I get sick of it?”

  “I don’t know. Don’t men live for the thrill of the chase?”

  “Some men do.” He popped the button of his suit jacket as he sat. “I find women who need to be chased are usually more trouble than suits my needs.”

  “You mean they don’t want to be chewed up and spat out?”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing. Most of the women who encounter my ‘chewing’ leave without any complaints.”

  Darcy picked up the drinks menu and pretended to study the options. It was clear she should shut her mouth around Reed. The man had a comeback for everything. And the more they bantered, the more she was tempted to inflict bodily harm.

  Besides, if they were going to be working together, she should try to be professional. Even if it was proving difficult.

  * * *

  It wasn’t that Reed tried to make himself sound like an asshole. But winding up Darcy was fast becoming his new favorite sport. Anything to make her purse those pouty lips and narrow her electric-blue eyes at him.

  The women he dated were smooth. Confident in their ability to seduce. They were all soft tones and suggestive eyes. Fluttering lashes.

  Darcy was as smooth as a cactus.

  But despite her thorny disposition, she’d dressed up tonight by ditching the semi-Goth tones for something softer. Her tattoos played peekaboo with the fabric of her top.

  “Why did you pick this venue?” she asked, cutting into his thoughts. “I thought we’d agreed nothing too flashy.”

  “It’s classy.”

  “It’s over the top.” She reached for the bottle of sparkling water and inspected the gold label with a smirk before pouring them both a glass. How considerate—the girl had manners even when she disliked her dinner guest. “It’s not the sort of environment that I can see our members feeling comfortable in.”

  “That’s because your members aren’t necessarily going to be on the guest list. And they aren’t the ones who’ll be donating money. Not the kind of money you need anyway.”

  “Okay.” She stretched the word out like toffee. “But I was thinking the fundraiser could be a community-engagement thing as well. We could advertise some of the programs we’d start up with the funding, get their feedback—”

  “No.”

  She sucked in a breath. “You say no a lot.”

  “This is a fundraiser.” He sipped his water. “The key to a successful event is simplicity. If you crowd the agenda with too many things, people will become confused. And confused people don’t part with their money.” And besides, he wanted to avoid setting foot in that library again unless absolutely necessary.

  “Okay, fine. So we’re inviting people who expect to be wined and dined in some fancy-pants restaurant.” Her hand fluttered in the air.

  “Yes. There’s a function room on the other side of the foyer that will be perfect. We’ll do a short sit-down portion, nothing too formal but still elegant. Then we’ll follow it up with a cocktail portion while we run a silent auction.” A smirk tugged at his lips. “You might even be able to wear a dress.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Figures you’d give me style advice. Looks like you spent more time on your hair this morning than I did.”

  Darcy’s dark-chocolate hair was pulled back into a ponytail. He was tempted to point out that most preschoolers probably spent more time on their hair than she did, but he held back. The fact was Darcy didn’t need any bells and whistles to look hot as hell. An image of tugging on that thick ribbon of hair played across his mind.

  “Are you calling me high maintenance?” he asked, shrugging off the dirty little flicker in his imagination.

  “I could call you a lot of things, Reed. High maintenance is low on the list.”

  He wanted to ask her what she would call him, but he knew better than to court a woman’s derision. Especially when they were supposed to be working together. He really should rein in his teasing.

  Before the silence could stretch on too long, the first round of tasting plates arrived. Darcy’s brows rose as she picked up a small hors d’oeuvre with cheese, blackberry, and fresh dill on a skewer and popped it into her mouth. She twirled the empty stick.

  “Do people really eat like this?” she asked, shaking her head. “God, no wonder all these rich women are so skinny. Give me a cheeseburger any day of the week.”

  “You don’t pull any punches, do you?” Reed asked with a smirk, taking an hors d’oeuvre for himself. Truth be told, he’d have preferred a cheeseburger too.

  “I don’t care for BS.” She reached for another item from the tasting plate and instead of taking a delicate bite like most people would have, she shoved the whole thing into her mouth. “That’s just how I roll.”

  She was guarded, that was for damn sure, and it only served to stir his curiosity. Most women he dined with were all too happy to talk about themselves—he assumed because they’d all suffered through many a bad date where that wasn’t the case. But Darcy played her cards close to her chest.

  “You’re a bundle of contradictions,” he said. The corner of his lips lifted. “You like manners and etiquette, but you hate BS. I’ve always thought those two went hand in hand.”

  “It’s possible to be honest and nice.” She smirked. “You should try it sometime.”

  “No, I don’t think I will.”

  “There’s that word again.” She scrunched up her nose. “I really hate being told no.”

  Too bad. There’s plenty more where that came from.

  “Doesn’t everyone?” he asked.

  “I guess so.” She inclined her head. “Or maybe I hear it too much and it makes me want to do the opposite.”

  Ah, that was something real. A hint of rebellion under the surface, just like the tattoos peeking through her top. Her right arm was covered entirely—a full sleeve. He hadn’t expected that. The design featured some books, birds, and flowers. Some words too, but he couldn’t read them through the sheer fabric covering her arms.

  “Who told you not to get the tats, then?”

  “My mother.” Her eyes met his, hard and direct. “She said she didn’t go through indescribable pain to bring me into the world only for me to graffiti my body. Apparently, if I treat myself like public property, others will too.”

  To her credit, she didn’t flinch as she said the words. Old wounds, he suspected. He had a few of those himself.

  “Harsh.”

  She lifted a delicate shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “Sticks and stones. What about you, any ink?”

  “No ink. But I got drunk at a frat party once and had my belly button pierced.”

  “Really?” Her eyes lit up.

  “No.”

  The smile fell from her lips and she turned her attention back to the tasting plate. “Boring.”

  He stifled a laugh. “Gullible.”

  Darkness flickered over her face, uninhibited. She was easy to read—too easy. That quality would hurt her if it hadn’t already.

  “What can I say?” Her fingers hovered over the tasting plate as she decided on another bite-size appetizer. “It’s been a while since I had to deal with such an accomplished bullshit artist. You’ll have to forgive me. I’m a bit rusty.”

  “I’m more than happy to help you sharpen your skills, Darcy. Bullshit is my specialty.” A chuckle forced its way up his throat when she folded her arms across her chest indignantly. If looks could kill… “Did you expect me to be insulted? Sorry, I’m not that easily rattled.”

  “I’d like to rattle you right now,” she muttered, picking up the drink menu.

  “I wish you would. We could go back to my place
once we’re done.”

  Ignoring him, Darcy signaled to the waiter. “I’m going to need some alcohol. Now.”

  Chapter 6

  “If you’re looking for a good time, Reed is totally your man. He’s incredible in bed. But don’t expect him to recognize you if you bump into each other on the street.”

  —JadedLady89

  Darcy steeled herself as she stood outside in the dying light. The door in front of her had been recently painted pistachio green. Retro cheerful. It made her sick to her stomach.

  “Come on, you’ve done worse things in your life.”

  She shut her eyes and tried to remember getting her last tattoo. The blinding pain had stolen her breath as the needle etched words into her skin, spelling out her personal message in permanent ink.

  The quote “In the end, we’ll all become stories” by Margaret Atwood was curled around the underside of her right breast. Each letter had been a reminder that she would never let other people make her feel less than, that she would never let other people make her feel unworthy. No one had seen it except Darcy and the artist.

  In other words, no one had seen her naked in a year.

  “You can do this.” She sucked in a breath and shook off the unsettling thoughts. “Three, two…one.”

  She brought her knuckles down on the door, and a moment later, it swung open. Her mother, Marietta, stood there with arms outstretched, her round figure illuminated by the warm light within the house. It could have been a perfect picture of familial love. But she wasn’t fooled. Her family might have looked perfect on the outside, but it wouldn’t take long for them to start chipping away at her. Like always.

  “Hey, Ma,” she said, leaning in for the requisite kiss on each cheek. Her mother’s chubby hands clutched at her shoulders. “The house smells wonderful.”

  “We’re having lasagna.” Marietta held the door open. “Come on. Dinner is ready. We’ve been waiting for you.”

  Darcy was no more than three minutes late, but she’d hear about it at least twice more before the night was over. She started a mental bingo sheet of all the things her family would criticize. She’d even switched her tongue ring out with a clear retainer for the night to avoid her mother commenting on it. Sure, she hated skulking around like a teenager when she was a grown woman, but it was easier than dealing with the guilt trip.

  “You look lovely. I can’t even see that awful piercing.” Her mother beamed as if she’d said something nice.

  Backhanded compliment. Check.

  Her mother ushered her into the dining room where her stepfather and half sister were already seated. Genio muttered something about punctuality under his breath and took the foil off the lasagna tray without waiting for Darcy to sit.

  Given some of the things he’d said upon her arrival previously, this didn’t even warrant a response.

  “Hey, Big Sis,” Cynthia said cheerfully as she stood, oblivious to the tension crackling in the air. As usual.

  Blissful ignorance was practically Cynthia’s middle name.

  Darcy wrapped her arms around her sister and squeezed. Seeing her was the only reason she bothered to turn up to their monthly family dinners anymore. “Hmm, you smell good.”

  “I’ve been doing some recruitment for Bergdorf Goodman and they sent me a little gift basket. It’s Chanel.” She gave a little shimmy before taking her seat again. “I feel super fancy.”

  “Cynthia gave me a bottle of perfume too,” her mother said, as she started dishing up the dinner. “So thoughtful of her.”

  Subtle comparison between the good child and the bad child. Check.

  “I would have given you one, Darcy”—Cynthia looked guilty—“but they’re all so expensive and I know you don’t bother with that stuff.”

  “All good. I prefer going au naturel.”

  Genio grunted from his position at the head of the table. “Maybe if you made more of an effort you’d be able to find a man to marry.”

  Not so subtle dig at marital status. Check.

  “Dad!” Cynthia frowned and patted Darcy’s arm. “That’s really rude. Besides, you were complaining to me before that most boys these days are disgusting.”

  “That’s because you’re not old enough to date,” he grumbled.

  Apparently, there was a big difference between being twenty-two and twenty-seven. At what point had Darcy veered into left-on-the-shelf territory? Or perhaps Genio just wanted Darcy to be someone else’s problem.

  “Speaking of which,” her mother said as she handed over a plate with a piece of lasagna bigger than Darcy’s head. “How was the cake? Did you share it with the girls?”

  Mention the devil cake. Ding, ding, ding! Congratulations, you’ve won a lifetime supply of familial guilt and a fast track to mental fragility.

  “In a manner of speaking,” Darcy said, digging into her dinner. “Let’s say the cake disappeared very quickly.”

  Marietta clapped her hands together. “Oh, I am so pleased. We paid so much for that wedding. It would have been a shame for everything to go to waste.”

  Darcy cursed her ex, for what must have been the millionth time, for lying to her right up until the wedding. If he was going to ruin her life, couldn’t he have done it before the venue’s no-refund cutoff date?

  “But it doesn’t matter,” Marietta continued with her best cheerful martyr expression. “We know you’ll find the right man. Someday.”

  The rebellious side of her wanted to declare that she’d sworn off the opposite sex and decided to embrace celibacy, that her lady parts had shut up shop for good—to show her the pictures from the trash-the-dress shoot and watch the shock on her mother’s face.

  Okay, that made her sound like a bitch…but doing the opposite of what her mother wanted was the one way she could gain control. To take back the ground she’d lost by being a yes-woman for too long.

  They got through the rest of dinner without too much drama, and then Cynthia tugged Darcy toward her bedroom to show her some new, shiny thing she’d purchased.

  “You’re never going to believe what I did,” Cynthia said as she closed the door behind them with a soft snick. She grinned and jumped up and down on the spot.

  “If you spent a stupid amount of money on shoes, I would believe it.” Darcy glanced around her sister’s room.

  It looked more like the kind of bedroom suited to a twelve-year-old girl than a young woman. A pink-and-white bedspread was topped with enough lace-trimmed pillows that Darcy wondered how her sister wasn’t smothered in the middle of the night. A porcelain figurine of a girl with a large sun hat sat on her bedside table, next to a vanilla-scented candle and an old picture of the two of them. The frame was encrusted with rhinestones.

  “Look.” Cynthia’s high-pitched squeal dragged Darcy’s gaze to where she’d pulled up the hem of her skirt to reveal a tattoo.

  A fresh tattoo. The skin around the scrolling ink was still a little red and the letters etched into her sister’s upper thigh spelled out a name—Brad. The location was designed for easy cover-up. It was parent proof so long as they didn’t go to the beach.

  “What the hell were you thinking?” Darcy pressed her fingertips to her forehead.

  “What? Are you the only one who’s allowed to have tattoos in this family?” Cynthia pouted, her glossy, pink lips turned down. “I thought you’d be happy for me.”

  “You never get a boyfriend’s name tattooed on your body. That’s, like, rule number one.” Her mind reeled. Darcy knew exactly how this would go down if her parents ever found out—they’d blame her, thinking poor, little Cynthia had been led astray by the big, bad family failure.

  “We’re in love,” Cynthia said, dropping her skirt and folding her arms across her chest. “I thought you of all people would understand.”

  “If you wanted to get a piece of art created, then I would un
derstand. But that”—she pointed to her sister’s leg—“is not art. It’s a mistake.”

  “Gee, tell me how you really feel.”

  “I just… It’s a shock. I can’t believe you didn’t come to me to talk about this first. I could have shown you some reputable studios, helped you pick a design…”

  “Brad helped me. He has three tattoos,” her sister huffed. “But that’s it, isn’t it? It’s nothing to do with the ink—it’s that I went to him instead of you.”

  Darcy forced herself to swallow the frustration rising up her throat. If she’d learned one thing about her sister over the years, it was that she didn’t respond well to conflict. They were related after all. “That’s not it at all. Who is this guy? You haven’t even mentioned him before.”

  “Not that I should even be telling you,” she said trying to maintain her annoyance, “but he’s a mechanic. He lives in Williamsburg and he’s so romantic. He bought me flowers on our first date and he’s the sweetest guy.”

  “How old is he?” She cringed at how much she sounded like their mother.

  “He’s a little older.”

  Darcy speared her sister with a look. “Don’t be vague.”

  “He’s thirty-two. But age doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’m totally in love with him.”

  In love enough to get some guy’s name—a guy who was a decade older than her, no less—tattooed on her thigh. Darcy knew how this would go. She’d heard about it a dozen times from the artist at the studio where she had most of her work done.

  Lovesick couple comes in for matching tattoos, and then six months later, they were back for a cover-up job after the relationship had gone south. Every. Damn. Time.

  “I’m not going to talk to you if you keep giving me the judgment face.” Cynthia waved her hand in front of Darcy’s eyes. “I thought we were supposed to be able to tell each other anything?”

  “We are. I’m sorry I reacted like that. I was surprised.” She pulled her sister in for a hug and grappled for the right thing to say. “I’m happy you’re happy.”