by J. C. Cliff
An undeniable strain started to wear on our marriage. But being the master manipulator he is, Dean always found a way to diffuse the friction between. He’d spin a story, twist my words, and I’d wonder if I was to blame for the destruction of our marriage.
There’s a label for that.
It’s called emotional abuse.
As painful as it is to acknowledge the manipulations, it’s more excruciating to admit that wasn’t what had ended our marriage. I would’ve kept my commitments to him no matter how hard my burdens were. It’s how I was raised. But then I learned of what he did, and I knew I could never forgive such a betrayal.
“Annmarie? Are you hearing me,” Trish snaps.
“Yes, I’m hearing you,” I reply, drawing my attention back to the conversation at hand, having heard nothing.
Pulling my car into an open parking space, I shift into Park and glance around. I don’t spot any motorcycles in the lot, making me assume I’ve arrived before my so-called date. Being here first and seeming to be in control of this venture, calms my nerves and it allows me to feel as though I have the upper hand.
Unwilling to divulge my address to a complete stranger, I chose a neutral place for the two of us to meet. See, not just a pretty face—there’s still a shred of intellect in this mind.
I half listen to Trish as I grab my purse, then balance the phone between my ear and shoulder as I slip out of the car. “Are you sure you’re wearing the proper attire to ride on that machine?” Trish asks with an authoritarian voice, yet with a tinge of disgust as if I were going to mount a muddy pig.
“Would you like me to take a picture and send it to you, mom?” I emphasize mom while rolling my eyes toward the blue sky. “Stop treating me like a teenager.”
“I don’t need a picture,” she responds with a snarky attitude, “because something tells me I wouldn’t care for your outfit even if it was road approved.”
“That’s because you don’t approve of what I’m doing.”
“No, I just don’t agree with the way you’re haphazardly checking things off your bucket list.”
Even though she can’t see me, I shake my head. “Whether I’m right or wrong, there’s no point in arguing with me. The wheels are set in motion, and I’m already here.”
“Unfortunately,” she mumbles under her breath.
“Like it or not, I’m living my life for me now,” I remind her. “And I can tell you with certainty, you wouldn’t approve of my tight jeans and skimpy t-shirt. If anyone in our little circle of friends saw me right now, they would snub their noses at me. Unless of course, I was wearing a five-hundred-dollar pair of jeans and a diamond necklace—because that’s totally appropriate,” I add dryly as I shut the door to my Mercedes with the bump of my hip.
Technically, this car still belongs to Dean. I didn’t want any of his money when we divorced, but the attorneys obviously wanted a larger piece of the pie, and my parents convinced me I deserved it. Looking back now, I’m glad I didn’t walk away penniless. While I didn’t take him to the cleaners, I did settle on enough money to keep me comfortable for a long while, affording me plenty of time to decide on a career of my choosing.
Who knows?
Maybe I’ll go back to college and finish off the degree I failed to get after we got engaged.
Or maybe I’ll open my own boutique.
I should probably buy myself a new car too. You know, one that he doesn’t hold the title to.
I might even buy a Harley after today. My lips twitch at the thought.
“Will you at least text me every now and then… let me know you’re still alive?” she asks in a worried voice. “Maybe even send some pictures of mile markers and highway information along the way so I know where you were last seen.”
“Trish,” I laugh, “don’t be so paranoid. People go on blind dates all the time, and let me remind you, your husband is the one who provided me with a background check on my date and gave me two thumbs up.”
I open the door to the sports bar where I’m supposed to meet my date/escort, and make my way to the bar. “Plus, if he gives me the creeps, I can always find an excuse to bow out. I can pretend I’m sick or something. It’s the main reason we’re having a drink first.”
“Yeah, because you’ve dated so many men, and your creeper radar is at its optimum,” Trish replies with sarcasm.
“Jealousy does not become you, sweetheart,” I calmly tease.
“Will you just do it… please?” she begs. “Keep me updated.”
“Okay, fine,” I pacify her. “Now, let me go so I can get down to business.”
We say our goodbyes and I end the call, taking a seat at the bar. Scanning over the hundred’s of colorful bottles of alcohol decorating the shelves, I decide to steer clear of the hard stuff and order a glass of Pinot Noir. As the bartender pours the wine, reality begins to settle in and I force the anxiety away.
Am I really going out on a bind date? No, it’s not a date. I’m meeting an escort, a hired individual who is escorting me to a concert. See, not a date. So, why the hell does it feel like a date? Why am I feeling anxious all of a sudden?
My nerves start to get the best of me and my pulse begins to pound as the bartender sets the glass of lightly colored liquid in front of me. Wondering why I didn’t order a double shot of vodka, my mind races and my palms start to sweat.
What the hell am I doing?
Needing the courage to see this through, I lift the glass to my lips and take a large sip.
Maybe Trish is right.
What if I am losing my mind?
Sighing, I take another sip and force myself to recall the reasons I placed the ad. By the end of the night I’ll have another check on my bucket list completed. I’ll officially be able to say I rode on the back of a motorcycle, that I had the wind in my hair and the open road at my feet.
Glancing to my left, I look out the floor to ceiling windows at the open patio and think of all the possibilities the night has to offer. It’s a beautiful night for an outdoor concert, and truth be told, I’ve been looking forward to seeing 3 Doors Down and Matchbox 20 for a long time. Dean wasn’t a fan of concerts. He’d never allow me to let loose, and he sure as hell would never let me on the back of a bike. Forcing myself to forget my ex-husband and all his ridiculous rules, I shake my head and focus on the here and now.
Tonight isn’t about the past.
It’s not about Dean.
It’s about me.
Keeping that in mind, I scan the room, searching for my ride. At the end of the bar sits a man alone with his back toward me and I nervously wonder if that’s him. He wouldn’t wear a suit to a concert, would he?
Then it dawns on me that the man in the ad was wearing a suit and tie just like my ex-husband. Glancing down at my attire, I run my hands over the denim hugging my thighs like a second skin and I can’t help but wonder if I dressed too much like a hussy.
Suddenly, I feel very out of place, and I squirm in my chair. Peering down at my watch, I take note of the time. I’ve got a few more minutes before my date arrives and I need to get my shit together.
It doesn’t help that my mind is jumping from one insecurity to another.
What if I’m not pretty enough?
Maybe I shouldn’t have worn these skintight pants or these boots?
What if I say and do all the wrong things?
What if he’s angry that I lied in the ad and portrayed myself to be something I’m not? Of course, he’s going to be mad at the fact that I misrepresented myself. He’s expecting someone completely different, someone who doesn’t dress like a sex kitten, or wears a full face of makeup. “Stop it,” I hiss, scolding myself. I will not let my insecurities eat away at what little confidence I have left.
“Stop what, beautiful?” A deep, raspy voice whispers near my ear, sending a jolt of shivers down my spine. Startled, I gasp, turning my head ever so slightly to see the face belonging to that velvet tone. My eyes widen as my heart skips a beat.
&nb
sp; Rough and rugged.
Masculine and oh, so sexy.
Acting as if he has every right to infringe upon my personal space, the devilishly handsome man continues to hover over me, wearing a relaxed smirk.
Speechless, my jaw remains agape as he rakes his eyes over me. My lungs finally force me to take a breath, and when I do, the scent of his cologne mixed with worn leather assaults my senses.
The atmosphere shifts causing me to forget about the suit and tie I was expecting and why I’m even here in the first place. It’s amazing how the mere presence of a man can change the dynamics of a room in one breath. All he has to do is stand over me and everything in my universe is altered. As if he knows the effect his presence has on me, he gives me a cocky grin and treats me to a quick wink. It’s a simple gesture, one that shoots straight down to my core.
Caging me in, he drapes one arm over the back of my chair and stretches the other in front of him, signaling for the bartender with a slight lift of his forefinger. His bare forearm comes into view, revealing thickly corded muscles and colorful tattoos. My entire body is engulfed by his presence and, mindlessly, I watch him scan the room as if he’s searching for potential trouble before his brown eyes find mine.
Giving me a sideways smile, he whispers over the background noise, “Breathe, baby.”
Sucking in a breath, I continue to stare at him intently as he orders a beer for himself. Motioning to my partially empty glass, he quirks an eyebrow.
“Another?”
The deep timbre of his voice hits me right between my thighs. I can’t think, much less conjure a verbal response. Instead, I jerk my head and watch as his eyes rake over my face, trailing down to my shoulder. Following his gaze, I notice the neck of my shirt has slipped some, revealing my bra strap. Lifting his eyes, which dance with mischief, he holds my attention as his fingers brush across my bare skin. At the gentle touch, my heart stills and I hold my breath as he takes it upon himself to right my shirt.
“Didn’t mean to startle you. Just thought a pretty woman shouldn’t be having a conversation with herself,” he teases, pausing for a beat. His eyes travel slowly over the length of my body before finding mine again.
“Anyone ever tell you a pretty woman like yourself shouldn’t drink alone?”
Somewhat embarrassed, I look away from his fixed stare and wind up locking my sights on his broad chest. He’s built like a damn bronze medalist weight lifter.
“Why is that?” I swallow hard, lifting my gaze back to his. “What’s wrong with a woman having a drink by herself?”
“Well, for one thing, it’s an open invitation for a man like me to slide in next to you,” he replies with a confident grin. Noting the day-old scruff lining his jaw I become distracted, wondering how the coarse hairs might feel against my smooth skin. Drawing my wandering mind back to him, he dazzles me with the sexiest, broadest smile I’ve ever seen before turning to the bartender and paying for the round of drinks.
Realizing I’m probably drooling by this point, I turn my head and take a sip of my drink. The man is as compelling as he is mysterious, and something tells me he’s the type who can switch gears without warning. I bet it doesn’t take much to replace his ridiculous charms with a super intimidating temperament. It’s like there is a certain edge to him; he screams trouble.
Licking my dry lips, I blink slowly and try to formulate a sentence.
“I happen to be waiting for someone,” I stammer, thinking of my date.
“Is that right?” he mutters, lifting the beer to his lips, seeming not giving a damn about my plans.
I watch his throat as he greedily gulps the ale before setting the longneck down on the bar with a thunk. Slicing his narrowed eyes back to me, he leans closer.
“Wonder what you’d say if I told you I’m your date,” he says smoothly. There is an undeniable hint of arrogance to his tone as he pins me with a serious look. When I remain silent, he raises one brow, confidence oozing from his pores. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I shake my head like a fool.
“No… no…no,” I stutter, staring at him, unsure if I want it to be true or not. “You’re not my date. I’m here to meet—”
“Johnny Perosi?” he interrupts, cocking his head to the side.
Shit.
To say I’m shocked is putting it mildly. Shaking my head in denial, I watch him nod with that cocky grin firmly planted on his lips.
“How?” I whisper, sucking in a breath as panic washes over me. “You don’t look anything like the picture,” I accuse.
Perusing me from head to toe, I uncomfortably squirm under his scrutiny. “I guess the computer has a way of distorting images, wouldn’t you say?” he retorts, his tone smug.
My heart slams to a complete stop, and I wind up choking on the thin air which surrounds me. “You… you lied…” My words trail off as my throat starts to constrict.
He scowls. “No—it was you who lied, sweetheart. You’re the one who created the ad and started the deception,” he points out. Lifting the beer to his lips, he pauses and narrows his eyes. “Now, why don’t you explain why a woman as beautiful as yourself felt the need to run a bogus ad in the first place?”
Daring me to answer, he cocks an eyebrow and takes another long gulp of his beer. I watch his throat as he swallows, wondering when something as simple as drinking became so sexy. Maybe it’s not, maybe it’s just him. Everything about him exudes sex appeal.
Drawing the bottle from his lips, he continues to stare at me, expectant and patient, as he waits for me to respond. The heat from his gaze paired with the question lingering thick in the air between us becomes too much for me, and nervous, I slice my eyes back to the bar. Reaching for my glass, I finish off my wine in one swallow. Reaching for the refill he ordered for me, I contemplate my answer.
If I told him the truth, his tires would probably skid away from the bar so fast I’d never see him leaving. Telling him I’m a newly divorced woman experiencing a bout of insanity is also embarrassing.
Hi, my name is Annmarie, and I’m looking to ride you—I mean, I’m looking for a ride.
Choking on my wine, I set the glass on the bar as his large hand gently pats me on the back.
“Careful, sweetheart, if you want my mouth on you there are other ways to go about it. You don’t need to choke for a taste,” he drawls.
Oh my God.
Feeling my cheeks flush with heat, my eyes widen as I try to recover.
I need space.
Lots of space.
Brushing his hand away from me, I square my shoulders back, trying to regain my composure. But by the small quirk of his lips, it’s obvious he enjoys watching me make a complete ass out of myself. Desperate to avoid explaining why I lied and to take the attention away from myself, I focus on the small patch sewn into his leather vest.
“So…” I begin, tipping my chin toward the patch that reads Blade. A sure sign he isn’t a businessman who rides for leisure. “What’s the patch stand for?”
Swallowing, I can practically hear Trish’s condescending voice whisper, I told you so.
His lips quirk with arrogance. Mr. Hot and Handsome is full of himself, and for some reason, I find that as attractive as his smooth demeanor. The hint of his smile disappears as his lips settle into a thin line, and he studies me with quiet regard.
The intensity of his silence causes a blush to creep over my cheeks and for a moment I think he’s going to ignore my question just as I ignored his. Somehow, I manage to hold his gaze until he finally answers.
“If I tell you, I might scare you away,” he replies in a controlled voice, leaving me in doubt about if he was being serious or just teasing me.
Completely enthralled by him, I watch as he runs his forefinger and thumb along his lower lip, seeming in deep thought. Every move he makes seems to have me clenching my thighs and I realize I’m in deep trouble.
“Nice try, babe,” he says, leaning into me. “Need to wake up real early in the morning to pul
l the wool over my eyes. So, I’m going to ask you again,” he continues with a tone full of authority. “Why’d you feel the need to lie about who you were?”
At his tone, something snaps inside of me. I reach down from within and find some boldness. “I could ask the same of you,” I retort.
“You can,” he agrees with a nod before he leans back and returns to playing with his lower lip. “But I asked first,” he points out.
“Maybe I just wanted to go to a concert on the back of a bike,” I answer, shrugging my shoulders. “I suppose I figured if a person was able to look past the imperfections of the picture I posted with the ad, then maybe he couldn’t be all that bad.”
“Or maybe he’d put up with anything just to get his hands on those sweet tickets,” he quips with a smirk.
“Is that what you did?” I ask with an arched brow.
“Nah…” he answers.
He leans forward in his seat, caging me in, and I can feel the dominance roll off him in waves. “That’s not how I operate.”
For reasons unbeknownst to me, I believe him. He doesn’t look like the type of man who hides behind lies. If anything, I think he’s more of a what you see is what you get type of man. He’s self-assured and appears fearless, and certainly has no need to hide from anyone because of those traits.
There’s an unfamiliar magnetic force between us, that causes my pulse to quicken as he shifts his chair closer to mine. His tongue snakes out, licking the remnants of beer from his full lips and without realizing it, I mimic the gesture. His eyes zero in on my mouth and his brown eyes swirl with lust.
A wild heat surges off him and pierces through me, igniting me in places I forgot still existed. Realizing he’s throwing me off my game and that I may be in way over my head, I clear my throat and reach for my wine.
He’s definitely too much for me to handle.
Trying to get the bartender’s attention, I lean over the bar and lift a hand to wave him down, but my gesture goes unnoticed to everyone except my date. Slipping two fingers between his lips, he whistles, beckoning for the barkeep. A moment later my glass is refilled. Glancing at him from the corner of my eye, I watch the satisfactory grin spread across his lips as the barman offers an apology.