Misadventures on the Rebound

by Lauren Rowe

  I smile to myself at the thought. “True. That definitely won’t suck. Well, thanks for cheering me up. I’m going to continue hiking up this lonely mountain now.”

  “Atta girl, Savage.”

  We say our goodbyes.

  I continue hiking up the trail, and forty minutes later, I reach my destination: the overlook where Derek declared his love for me, right before leading me into the nearby thicket of trees.

  Carefully, I creep to the edge of the steep drop-off and take in the sweeping views of the valley below…and, I’ll be damned, as I take in the scenery before me, a deep-seated serenity washes over me. Yes, I lost my job today. And yes, six months ago, I found out my dad had a secret family—a longtime mistress with two young kids who apparently love him. But those setbacks don’t define me. What defines me is that I respond to bad news by hiking to the top of a freaking mountain.

  Suddenly, I want nothing more than to talk to Derek. Oh, man, he’s going to flip his lid when he finds out his computer-nerd girlfriend hiked all the way to our special spot all by herself. With pride and excitement surging inside me, I pull out my phone and push the button to place the call…and the instant I hear the line ringing in my ear…I also hear a faraway ringing sound behind me, coming from the direction of the nearby thicket.

  I whirl around. The distant ringing is coming from behind the thicket where Derek led me two weeks ago…and it’s happening in perfect lockstep with the ringing in my ear.

  Derek’s outgoing voicemail message starts in my ear…at the precise instant the faraway ringing sound behind the trees…stops.

  What the…?

  Without leaving a message for Derek, I disconnect my call. And then, my heart pounding, I walk slowly toward the trees.

  I enter the thicket. Pine needles and sticker balls begin crunching beneath my hiking boots. As if in a trance, I pass a large pine tree. And then another. Apparently, my feet know exactly where to go. I turn a corner and weave through some trees…

  And there he is. Derek. Naked and having sex with a woman on top of the same plaid blanket he laid out for us two weeks ago on this very spot.

  I stand frozen, my eyes taking in the horrific scene. Derek’s muscular ass clenching and unclenching with each enthusiastic thrust. The two small piles of clothes and hiking boots perched on the edge of the blanket. The opened bottle of champagne and two plastic cups.

  My gaze drifts to the naked woman writhing underneath Derek. She isn’t particularly fit, I notice—and I’m quite certain I’m not making that observation out of spite or to body-shame the woman. God knows, even after eight months of rigorous diet and exercise, I’m no hard body myself. No, I’m certain my brain is making note of this woman’s apparent fitness level and body shape as part of its rapid-fire deductive reasoning process. That woman looks similar to the way I did when I first hired Derek eight months ago. Ergo, it seems reasonable to conclude she’s also Derek’s…

  Bile rises sharply in my throat. “Liar!” I scream, sending Derek and his new client scrambling off the blanket like cockroaches after a light has been flipped on. Shrieking, I gather up the woman’s clothes and shoes off the blanket and toss them toward a nearby bush. God speed, my gullible sister. And then, I dump Derek’s cell phone, clothes, and shoes onto the center of the blanket, add the opened bottle of champagne and two plastic cups onto the pile, fold the blanket over the top, and sprint at full speed with my booty in the direction of the overlook.

  “Wait, Savvy!” Derek screams behind me.

  But I’m not waiting. And Derek can’t catch me, either. Not when he’s barefoot and there’s an infinite sea of prickle-balls and pine needles on the ground. Not when I’m a woman possessed and he’s a naked guy trying to run after me with a hard-on and blue balls.

  Panting, I reach the overlook. I stop on a dime, wind up like an Olympic shot putter, and hurl my entire blanketed treasure trove over the cliff.

  “Noooo!” Derek calls out from a distance behind me.

  I turn around, my eyes wild. “Enjoy your naked hike down the mountain, you lying, cheating sack of shit con artist!”

  With that, I begin marching back down the dusty trail, muttering expletives to myself as I go. But just before I’ve turned a corner and disappeared from Derek’s sightline for good, I throw up both middle fingers over my head in a final “fuck you” to the man—the liar—who told me he loved me solely to get into my pants. But my bravado is an act—a display of strength I don’t actually feel. Indeed, the moment I turn a corner and I’m certain Derek can’t see me, I lower my arms and hang my head…and melt into a sobbing mess.

  Chapter Two

  Savannah

  “Another one, Cal,” I say, holding up my empty glass to the bartender. He’s a stout guy with a salt-and-pepper beard and black pleather vest, and he’s my only friend in the world besides Kyle. “Let’s keep that whisky coming.”

  When I got off the mountain about an hour ago, I tumbled into my SUV, my vision blurred by rage and rejection and humiliation, and drove east like a bat out of hell along the two-lane highway. I didn’t know where I was headed or what misadventure I was hoping to find when I got there. But I knew I was about halfway between LA and Vegas and that there was nothing good waiting for me from whence I’d come. I didn’t necessarily want to make it all the way to Vegas today. My prepaid three nights at the Bellagio start tomorrow night. But I knew I wanted to get as far away as possible from my money pit of a condo, my cheating ex-boyfriend, and my heartless ex-employer. Oh, and I also knew that after eight months of drinking nothing but lemon water in the name of “becoming my best self”—ha!—I now wanted booze. And lots of it.

  After thirty minutes of driving, I came upon a small cluster of businesses along a straight stretch of highway. It was a cluster that included this shabby-looking bar, a gas station with an attached service garage, a motel, and a Mexican food joint. And, instantly, I knew I’d found my new home. I filled my gas tank, checked in to the rundown motel, stowed my laptop under my saggy bed, took a hot shower with the world’s tiniest bar of soap, changed into jeans and a T-shirt, and trudged over to the Mexican place where I promptly scarfed down the burrito with the highest calorie count on the menu. After all that, I marched into this bar, put a dollar into the jukebox, and started pouring whiskey down my booze-hole.

  And now, here I am, drinking, talking to the bartender, and listening to my song of choice on the jukebox: “Shattered Hearts” by none other than Kyle’s favorite entitled rock star, Lucas Ford. When the song ends, I raise my glass to the jukebox. “To Lucas Ford and me!” I bellow. “And anyone else with a shattered heart!” With great flourish, I take a long guzzle of my whiskey drink and glance around the bar. “Hey, Cal!” I say to the bartender. I point to a framed headshot on the wall above the jukebox. “Who’s that mustachioed Ken doll?”

  Cal laughs. “Tom Selleck. He came in here to use the bathroom on his way to Vegas in 1993. And then he sat down on that stool right there and ordered a Diet Coke.”

  “Tom…?”

  “Selleck.”

  I stare blankly.

  “Magnum P.I.?” the bartender says. And then he hums what I assume is a theme song. “You know, the TV detective who drives around Hawaii in a red Ferrari?”

  I shrug. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “It was a huge hit.”

  “In the nineties?” I ask.

  “The eighties. How old are you?”

  “Twenty-three.” I point at him. “But don’t underestimate me based on my tender age. I’m an up-and-coming ‘hot shot,’ Cal. One of four being considered for promotion to team manager.” I snort and raise my drink to my lips and take a long gulp. “Seriously, Cal, I’m the motherfucking shit.”

  The bartender chuckles.

  I’m about to say more to Cal—something witty and snarky and fabulous—when a beam of sunlight shoots across the bartender’s face, signaling the opening of the front door behind me. Reflexively, I turn around to see wha
t form of human has dared let the sunshine into my crypt…and my heart physically stops. Whoa. Forget that mustachioed TV detective on the wall. This guy is the hunk I’d want to take back to my motel room tonight if given half the chance.

  The sexy dude entering the bar looks to be in his mid-twenties. He’s holding a motorcycle helmet in one hand and a dark backpack in the other. He’s got sandy hair, a chiseled jaw, and light eyes framed by bold eyebrows. His extremely fit body is clothed in a dark leather jacket, worn jeans, and a blue T-shirt that matches his stunning eyes. In short, he’s perfect.

  My heart thumping, I turn back around and take a long gulp of my drink and, a few seconds later, Mr. Perfect bellies up to the bar to my right.

  The air between us fills with the delicious scents of him: leather, faint aftershave, and the great outdoors. He places his helmet atop the bar and his backpack on the ground and greets the bartender in a low, masculine voice. “Hey, man.”

  “What’ll it be?” Cal replies, placing a cocktail napkin in front of the guy.

  “Whatever will get me shitfaced and stupid in short order,” comes Mr. Perfect’s perfect reply.

  “Great minds think alike,” I murmur.

  “Huh?”

  I clear my throat. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t initiate contact with a stranger in a bar, especially not a stranger who looks like this guy. But, today, normal rules don’t apply, apparently. Today, I’m all out of fucks to give. “I said, ‘Great minds think alike.’ Meaning my plan is to get shitfaced and stupid in short order, too.” I raise my drink. “Indeed, I’m well on my way. This is my second drink, and I’m a lightweight, especially after eight months of not drinking.”

  “Well, damn. As long as we’re both getting shitfaced and stupid tonight, we should probably do it together, don’t you think? Drinking is a lot like sex. You can do it alone, but it’s a whole lot more fun with a partner.”

  I can’t help returning his wicked smile. I motion to the stool next to me. “Please.”

  “Thanks.” He settles himself and the delicious scents attached to him intensify. “So what are you drinking?” he asks.

  “Whiskey sours,” I say. “But, actually, I’m imbibing, not drinking. Because drinking is sad.” I make a sad face. “But imbibing is fun.” I make a happy face that makes him chuckle. “Actually, no, that was a lie,” I say. “I’m not imbibing. I’m most definitely drinking. Drowning my sorrows, in fact. I’ve had a horribly shitty day, and I’m numbing the pain.”

  “Sorry to hear that. Is the whiskey doing the trick?”

  I slap my face. “So far, so good.”

  “Perfect.” He motions to Cal. “I’ll have whatever the fuck this gorgeous woman is having. And add her drinks to my tab. A woman this beautiful, especially one having a horribly shitty day, can’t pay for her own drinks. Not on my watch, anyway.”

  Every cell in my body spazzes out, all at once. “Thank you,” I say, my cheeks blooming. “I appreciate it.”

  “My pleasure.” He leans toward me. “I’m not doing it simply to be nice. I’m trying to seduce you after having a horribly shitty day myself.”

  “Oh. Wow. Thanks for letting me know.”

  He winks. “Sure thing.”

  The bartender slides a drink in front of Mr. Perfect, and he raises it to me. “Cheers,” he says. “To getting shitfaced and stupid and numbing the pain.”

  “Cheers to that.” I clink his glass. “Although I hope you’re not planning to get too shitfaced and stupid. I’m quite certain Uber doesn’t pick up out here in 1982, and I’d hate to see that thing turn into a brain bucket on you.” I motion to his helmet on the bar.

  “Thanks for your concern, but I won’t be driving anywhere tonight, unfortunately. Hence, my horribly shitty day. My bike crapped out on me a couple miles back, and I had to push it until I came upon the garage across the street. As it turns out, they had to order a part, which means I’m stranded for at least a couple days.”

  I grimace sympathetically.

  “And that was just the tip of the iceberg of my horribly shitty day,” he adds. He exhales. “So I’ve decided to get shitfaced and stupid, crash at the motel tonight, and figure out my game plan tomorrow morning.”

  “Great minds think alike again,” I say. “That’s my exact itinerary, as well. I’ve already booked my room at the motel.”

  “You’re one step ahead of me there. I came straight to this bar after the garage. But don’t worry about me. I promise I’ll be crashing at the motel tonight.” He flashes me a wicked smile and winks. “One way or another.”

  Holy crap. Did this sexy man just call his shot? Did he just imply he’ll be sleeping with me in my room tonight? By George, I think he did. “So where were you headed when your bike broke down?” I ask.

  “Vegas. What about you? Unless, of course, this place was your final destination.”

  “No, I stumbled upon this place by chance. I’m actually headed to Vegas, too. I grew up there, and my five-year high school reunion is this Saturday night.”

  I wait. Surely, he’s going to try to bum a ride to Vegas from me now. And what will I say? It’d be no inconvenience for me to take him. And I’d thoroughly enjoy glancing over at him for three solid hours during the drive. And yet, on the other hand, I think I’ve seen this particular after-school special…and it didn’t end well for the female driver who picked up a handsome stranger.

  But, nope. Much to my surprise, he doesn’t broach the subject. Instead, he takes a long sip of his drink and mutters, “If that’s your second drink, then I’ve got some catching up to do.”

  I return his smirk. “If you want to keep up with me, then you’d better make your next drink a double.” I throw back the rest of my drink and place my empty onto the bar next to his. “I’m not fucking around today. I’m done fucking around.”

  His eyes blaze. “Damn.” He chuckles. “I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but that was sexy as fuck.”

  I grin. “I don’t mind you saying it at all.”

  “Good. Because it was.” He motions to the bartender. “Hey, Cal. Another round. And on the recommendation of this sexy-as-fuck woman, you’d better make mine a double.”

  I can’t breathe. My heart is medically palpitating. This is the most electrifying interaction with a man I’ve ever had in my life. I lean into his broad shoulder. “I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but I think you’re sexy as fuck, too.”

  “I don’t mind you saying that at all. In fact, I’m thrilled to know the attraction is mutual.” He sticks out his hand. “I’m Aiden, by the way. Nice to meet you.”

  I take his hand, and electricity zings and zaps across my flesh at the point of contact. “Savvy,” I say. “But don’t let the name fool you.”

  Aiden cocks his head to the side. “So does that mean your name is Savvy, but you’re not savvy?”

  I giggle. “Correct. My full name is Savannah. Savannah Valentine. But I’ve always been called Savvy. And that’s just a ridiculous nickname for me because I’m the least savvy person you’ll ever meet. I’ve got book smarts for days. But street smarts? Not so much.”

  “Sounds like we’re a perfect match. I’ve got street smarts for days, but book smarts? Not so much.”

  “Wow. I’d totally pick you for my zombie apocalypse team, Aiden.”

  “I’m honored. Thanks. And I’d pick you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Aiden chuckles and leans his forearms on the bar. “So, tell me, Savvy Who Isn’t Savvy, why’s a smart, funny, pretty girl like you sitting in a bar in the middle of nowhere on a Wednesday afternoon, drowning your sorrows?”

  Surprised, I look down at my ruby ring, my cheeks flushing.

  Aiden adds quickly, “Unless, of course, you don’t feel comfortable talking about it.”

  I look up. Aiden’s eyes are warm and comforting and gorgeously blue. He’s truly magnificent to behold. “No, I…I actually want to babble about what happened today. You just surprised m
e, that’s all. The way you looked so genuinely interested and…compassionate.”

  He smiles and my heart flutters.

  “Do you want the short or long version of my story?”

  “Long, of course. I’ve got nowhere to go, remember? Tell me everything.”

  To emphasize his point, apparently, Aiden takes off his leather jacket and lays it carefully onto a stool, thereby treating me to the glorious sight of his muscled, tattooed arms peeking out of his tight T-shirt. His right forearm is inked with the frets of a guitar. Piano keys grace his left. Musical notes dance around his right bicep while two sets of numbers—specific dates, apparently—are inscribed on his left. Damn. He’s gorgeous.

  I take a deep breath and smile. “Okay. Um. The long version, it is…” I clear my throat. “Well, when I arrived at work this morning, I found out my employer had been acquired by a conglomerate, and my entire department was no more. No notice or severance given to any of us. See ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya. We were unemployed.”

  “Brutal. Where’d you work?”

  I put my hand on my heart like I’m saying the pledge of allegiance. “Kidwell, Kasner & Barnes. My dream job.”

  “Is that a law firm?”

  “It’s nothing now, thanks to the merger. But it was a full-service accounting and finance firm with a bunch of different divisions—accounting, finance, legal, cybersecurity.”

  “And that was your dream job?”

  I blush. “Yes.”

  “Huh. Well, I’m really sorry you lost it, then.”

  “But that was only the first of the one-two punch of my day. Right after I found out I’d been shitcanned without notice or severance, I raced home, packed a bag, and drove to a mountain hike about forty-five minutes that way.” I point. “And that’s where I climbed to an overlook—the same overlook where my fitness trainer of the past eight months, this guy Derek who later became my boyfriend, took me to confess he’d fallen in love with me two weeks ago.” I snort. “Can you guess what I discovered today at the top of that mountain?”