Insufferable man.
I was pissed off this morning, as I scrubbed at the indelible ink in my bathroom, wishing I had something stronger than lavender-scented soap that might remove it in the five minutes I had to spare before dragging my hungover ass off to work. Now, as my eyes scan the faded numbers, I’m so happy I could do cartwheels.
(I could but I won’t — I have a feeling Officer McHolyShitHaveYouSeenThoseBiceps wouldn’t appreciate any further antics out of me.)
I don’t let myself think about the consequences of making this phone call. There’s little point. I have no other options, no one else to turn to except…
Him.
I shiver involuntarily. Steeling myself, my fingers still shake as I punch in the digits, one after another, trying to think of something cute or clever to say as the call connects.
Heeeeey, what’s up? You’ll never guess where I am…
I listen to the rings — one, two, three jarring peals — and begin to think he’s not going to answer. It’s late, well after midnight… he’s probably sleeping… or his phone is on silent… or he’ll think it’s a mis-dial…
“Talk.”
His voice is deeper than usual, as if I’ve woken him, but I’d recognize that trademark growl anywhere. It’s him.
I open my mouth to say something… and find I cannot formulate one single, non-idiotic word. My tongue quite literally refuses to cooperate.
“Hello?” He waits a beat, listening to me breathe. “Who is this?”
I hear a rustling sound — skin against sheets —and an entirely NSFW image shoots into my brain.
Does he sleep naked?
“Last chance,” he grumbles, impatient as ever.
Crap con queso.
He’s going to disconnect.
“Wait!” I squeak in a small voice that makes me sound like I’ve swallowed a balloon animal. “Please, just… don’t hang up.”
Utter silence blasts across the line. I hold my breath, afraid to squeak out another word, completely at a loss as to what I’m going to say next. To my everlasting regret, before I can think of a dignified way to explain my current situation, he speaks again. And when he does, that sleepy edge is gone from his voice. It’s been replaced with something that sounds a lot like amusement and… gloating.
“That you, Delilah?”
My jaw clenches. “Don’t call me that.”
“So, she finally uses my number. If I’d known all it would take to get your attention was a sharpie, I might’ve done this months ago.” A low chuckle hits my ear, and I squirm a little. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
I grip the receiver a little tighter, wishing I could reach through the line and punch him.
“If you’re hoping for a bootycall…” He pauses pointedly. “I can be at your place in twenty.”
“Oh, dream on,” I snap, indignant at the suggestion. (As if I hadn’t been picturing him naked approximately twenty-seven seconds ago.)
“I was dreaming,” he reminds me. “You just woke me. And it was a good dream. Amy Adams was in it. So, unless you’re about to make a point, I suggest you let me get back to her.”
I roll my eyes.
“Well?” he prompts. “What’s it gonna be?”
“I…” My teeth chew my bottom lip. “I… sort of… need your help.”
He goes silent for a beat, contemplating that. “Gonna need a few more details, babe.”
I hedge. “Well, see, I’m in a bit of a jam. I’m sort of… stranded.” My voice drops. “And… I didn’t have anyone else to call.”
I can’t see him, obviously, but there’s a tangible change in his demeanor, evident even across a phone line.
“Are you safe?” His voice is abruptly serious. In less than two seconds, he’s shifted gears from teasing to intense. It’s disarming.
“Yes,” I murmur. “I’m safe.”
I hear crinkling sounds — him, pulling on clothes. “Will you be able to stay safe until I get there?”
“Yes,” I assure him, feeling like the grandest of fools. “I’m fine. Phone-less, but fine. Honestly…” I swallow hard. “Listen, you don’t have to come. I just need you to get in touch with Phoebe for me, she won’t mind…”
“Not a chance. I’m coming.”
My eyes widen. “You’re not going to ask me any questions?”
He barely hesitates. “Babe. You called me, a man you usually refuse to give the time of day, in middle of the damn night, sounding scared instead of like your usual sassy, full-of-shit self—”
I roll my eyes, at that.
“—and you tell me you’re in trouble. I know you said you’re safe, but I also know you’re in more than a bit of a jam if you had to resort to calling me.” He pauses. “Furthermore, I know I’m gonna be the one who helps you.”
My mouth parches. “But Phoebe really won’t mind. In fact, she kind of owes me—”
He cuts me off, sounding even more growly than usual. “Address.”
I blink in surprise. “Phoebe’s address?”
“No.” I hear a door slam closed through the receiver. “I’m already on my way. Tell me where I’m headed.”
Bossy, arrogant, stubborn man.
My hold tightens on the receiver. “I could be in Tibet, for all you know.”
There’s a beat of stony silence. “Are you in Tibet?”
I sigh. “No.”
“Delilah.” An engine rumbles to life. “Address. Now.”
“Mattapan,” I mumble, wincing. “At… the county jail.”
He pauses, digesting that tidbit, and when he speaks again, his voice is almost… soft. For some reason, that unnerves me far more than his growls or grumbles or gloating comments.
“Hold tight. I’ll be there in thirty.”
The line goes dead as he clicks off.
Crap with a side of extra fries.
If you’d told me twenty-four hours ago that Luca Buchanan, Boston’s most badass MMA fighter, would be on his way to bail me out of jail… I’d have laughed in your face. Now, all I can do is set the handset in its cradle with a dull click, lean back against the gunmetal gray precinct wall, and wonder what the ever-flipping heck I’m going to do when he gets here.
Especially given the last time I saw him…
Chapter Two
Sure, I’d say I’m a hard worker… I make almost everything harder than it needs to be.
Delilah Sinclair, interviewing for job she absolutely will not get.
24 hours earlier…
"Another round? You guys are just asking for a hangover, at this point."
“True.” I grin as I slam the cluster of shot glasses down on our high-top and cast a glance around at the four women gathered there. Three gorgeous brunettes and one blonde with a platinum pixie cut — my best friend Phoebe, her big sister Gemma, our recently-divorced pal Shelby, and married mom-of-two Chrissy. “You know what they say… One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, more!"
"No, Lila.” Gemma's nose crinkles. "I think it's actually one tequila, two tequila, three tequila, FLOOR. Because after three shots, that's where you wind up."
Shelby shrugs. "Irrelevant, since it's about our fifth round."
"Sixth," Chrissy corrects. "Assuming you're counting the body shots we did off the stripper."
"Who could forget that?" Gemma rolls her eyes. "I'll never get those images out of my head. In fact, I have photographic evidence I plan to use as blackmail, should I ever need to exact a favor from any of you."
I scoff. “Blackmail? Oh, please. As if I'd be embarrassed by that. Did you see the abs on that guy?"
"Seriously." Phoebe nods, wide-eyed, before her gaze slides to her sister. "And Gemma, I'm sorry you can't drink with us, but just because you went and got yourself knocked up doesn't mean the rest of us have to act like Quakers. Especially tonight.”
“I know." Gemma sighs and leans back with her hands on her stomach. She’s more than seven months along, but you can barely tell with h
er small frame. "I'm not trying to be a spoilsport. I am, however, trying to prevent you all from getting hit by a car. Or losing your panties. Or catching chlamydia.”
“Aw, I guess those maternal instincts are already kicking in.” Phoebe pats her sister’s small bump and makes clucking noises.
Gemma bats her hand away. Her blue eyes narrow in menace. “Keep touching me like that and my fight or flight instincts are going to kick in… and your ass will either be stranded here or thoroughly whupped.”
“Gemma, you can barely waddle. Flight isn’t much of an option,” Phoebe teases.
“I may be more pregnant than April the giraffe, but I will still kick your ass, little sister,” Gemma fires back.
I snort. Shelby and Chrissy hide grins behind their glasses. By this point, we’re all used to the sisters bickering — and we know better than to interfere. Whatever disagreement they’re having usually resolves within forty-five seconds, and they’re back to being best friends before you can say mood swing.
I pick up my shot glass. “A toast to the bride!”
"Bride-to-be," Chrissy amends, brushing platinum blonde strands out of her eyes. "The wedding isn't for another week."
“One week. Less than a week, actually! Can you believe it?" Phoebe asks dreamily. Her voice is slurred, but I can't recall ever hearing her happier. “On the twenty-sixth, I’ll be a married woman. Married. To a man. No… to the man.” She hiccups. “Of my dreams.”
Oh no.
Her eyes have begun to gloss over — a telltale sign she’s about to dissolve into weepy tears. Once the waterworks start, with a BAC level this high, I fear there will be no stopping them.
Determined to avert a total meltdown, I force my features into an expression of alarm and grab my best friend by the arm.
“Wait… you don’t mean June twenty-sixth, do you? Of this year?” I wince. “I actually have a commitment that day..."
Phoebe shoots me a death glare with eyes that thankfully have stopped watering. Just as I predicted — any threat to the impending nuptials promptly incurs Bridezilla’s wrath and puts an end to all tears.
“You are not funny, Lila.”
I sigh. "My jokes tend to go downhill after five drinks."
"Six," Chrissy corrects again.
"Speaking of drinks..." Phoebe scoops up her shot glass. “TEQUILA!”
Gemma throws up her hands. "I take no responsibility for what happens after this round. For the record, I tried to talk you out of it."
"Oh, come on. This is my bachelorette party, for god's sake!” Phoebe bellows over the band, drawing the attention of several surrounding tables. “We are required by law to drink until our feet go numb and dance until we drop."
"Oh, really? Is this your bachelorette party? I had no idea." Gemma rolls her eyes and sips her water. "It’s not like I planned the entire evening, or anything." Her eyes slide to me. “Except the strippers. That was all Lila.”
“Guilty as charged.” I shrug unapologetically. The movement makes the room spin a bit. I have officially reached white-girl-wasted status. The point of no return. Which means Gemma may be right…
I’ll probably regret taking this last shot in the morning.
(Correction: I’ll definitely regret it in the morning.)
“God, I’m going to be so hungover tomorrow,” Shelby says, mirroring my thoughts. “I have to teach a sunrise yoga class at six.”
Chrissy groans. “Ugh, you want to trade? Try having two toddlers in the house. You’ll be begging for your early-morning exercise.”
“Thanks, but no,” Shelby says quickly, wincing at the thought.
“Isn’t that what husbands are for?” Phoebe asks. “Taking care of the kids when Mommy is too hungover to move? Otherwise, I’ve been entirely misled about this whole marriage thing.”
“Usually,” Chrissy confirms. “Unfortunately, Mark has a meeting tomorrow.”
“Phoebe, don’t forget you have a dress fitting at three,” Gemma reminds her sister. “Think you’ll be able to move by then?”
“Um.” Phoebe screws up her face in a grimace. “What’s their cancellation policy?”
“If you miss your fitting, your Vera Wang will look like something you got off the clearance rack at David’s Bridal.” I elbow my best friend. “Drink a Gatorade, eat a banana, take a few Advil. You’ll be just fine. All you have to do is remain upright while the seamstress pecks at you. At least you don’t have to start a new job at 8AM.”
“Like you do?” She snorts as if the idea of me working is absolutely ludicrous. “Lila, you’re the only one here without any responsibilities. Hell, you can sleep all day. If I didn’t love you so much, I’d hate you.”
Shit.
All the tequila has evidently loosened my tongue, because I almost slipped up. Almost told them the truth about what’s been going on, these past few months…
“You’re right, of course. Nothing on my agenda.” I force out the lie in a falsely cheery tone. “I’ll probably sleep till noon. Maybe have a late brunch… hit the boutiques on Newbury if I feel up to it…”
Lie, lie, lie.
Chrissy and Shelby shoot envious looks my way, but don’t seem to notice anything amiss. Phoebe is no longer listening — she’s begun singing along with the band, belting out lyrics to an old Backstreet Boys song and swaying in her seat. Only Gemma, who is painfully sober, seems to notice my twitchy discomfort.
My heart starts to race as her pretty blue eyes narrow on my face, trying to read me. I’m typically great at covering my tracks, but after this many rounds, I’m not exactly up to my usual standards of deception. Still, I’ve managed to keep my financial situation under wraps for months, even from my best friends. I’m not about to blow it now.
Better I allow them to continue thinking I’m still an unemployed party girl than admit the mortifying truth…
Turning my back on Gemma’s sudden scrutiny, I reach out and adjust the neon-pink BRIDE-TO-BE sash drooping across Phoebe’s shoulder, admiring the white Prada sheath dress she's wearing underneath. After two bars, one strip club, and several hours riding around in the party bus Gemma rented for this occasion — a fifteen-foot-long stretch Hummer, complete with a disco-ball, champagne buckets, mirrored ceilings, and a solemn driver named Evan who her fiancé Chase keeps on payroll — the sash has lost some of its luster.
Then again, we're all a little worse for wear by this point in the night. It’s nearly two in the morning; most of my makeup has long since melted off, and the only things that will hurt worse than my head in the harsh light of day are my feet from dancing in these skyscraper heels all night.
“For the record, I love you guys," Phoebe drawls, her teary hazel eyes sweeping from me to her sister to Shelby to Chrissy. "Really. You're the best."
"Yes you've told us, Phoebe." Gemma shakes her head. "In fact, that's the tenth time tonight."
"Well, I mean it. Times ten." Phoebe's smile is lopsided and her hair, typically immaculately styled, is tangled around the cheap plastic tiara resting on the crown of her head. "I can't believe I'm getting married. To Nate. I mean... have you seen him? He's hot. Hotter than hot. He makes Charlie Hunnam look like a stale piece of bread. And he’s marrying me. I just can’t wrap my head around it.”
"Me neither." I smirk. "Thought it would never happen, frankly."
My best friend hurls an ice cube at me across the table. Her aim is so poor, it’s easy to dodge despite the fact that my bloodstream is currently eighty-five percent Patrón.
"Guys…” Phoebe adopts her most solemn look. Her eyes are watery again. “Can I ask you a serious question?”
Uh oh.
"Never a good idea to ask serious questions after this much tequila," Shelby mutters.
"Have to agree," Chrissy says, hiccupping.
Phoebe continues as if she hasn't heard them. "I'm not a bridezilla, am I?”
The entire table goes silent. The din of the club seems to press in on us from all sides, the longer the
silence stretches on.
“I mean…” Phoebe's bottom lip starts quivering. "I do recognize that I’ve been... picky... about things."
"Picky?" Gemma's brows lift in twin arcs of incredulity. "Phoebe, picky is complaining to the caterer when they change your rehearsal dinner salad course from romaine to iceberg unexpectedly. I don't have a word for what you are."
"What have I done that's sooooo bad?" Phoebe pins each of us with a stern look, as if daring us to come up with something.
"Well, you’ve sent back your dress to the tailor four times," Shelby points out, tucking a strand of chestnut hair behind her ear. "Not to mention our bridesmaid dresses..."
"And... didn't you make the florist cry last week when she said she only had blush pink peonies instead of pure white for my maid-of-honor bouquet?" Gemma asks.
"Plus... you did drag us to look at about sixteen venues...." Chrissy blushes up to the roots of her platinum pixie cut. "But, really, compared to some of my old sorority sisters, you weren't so bad..."
"Like hell she wasn't," I grumble. "You guys were spared the experience of shopping for wedding lingerie. Phoebe, I've now seen more lace thongs on your body than I've ever witnessed on my own."
Phoebe's mouth twitches. "You guys! You're supposed to tell me I was a delightful bride!" She glares at her sister. "Admit it, you're just holding a grudge because that woman suggested you buy something from the maternity section at the dress shop—”
Gemma's face flushes.
"You can barely even tell you're pregnant," Chrissy assures Gemma.
Phoebe snorts. “Maybe when you're looking at her from the front. The profile is a whole different ballgame."
"You know, you really shouldn't insult the overly hormonal, aggressively sober woman who happens to be carrying your future niece or nephew." Gemma pins her sister with a scary look. "Especially since you left your phone at home, and without me you wouldn't be able to find your way out of a brown paper bag at the moment, let alone get yourself back onboard the party Hummer in one piece."
Take Your Time (A Boston Love Story Book 4) Page 2