The thrash of music thumps through my body, and my foot taps the brass foot rail in accord.
“Another please.” I put my cheerful game face on for the bartender when he snags my empty glass.
“Five cherries again, sweetheart?”
I nod.
The bartender addresses someone next to me. And, though the stranger’s alluring scent piques my curiosity, I don’t look. Yet.
Invisibility cloak in place, I eavesdrop. No harm in that.
“Come on, stop grading papers and join me for a good time. You were the one who suggested this in the first place. I’ll be at the south end of the bar.” A deep chuckle rumbles out of him. “Oh, got it. You’re grading papers with someone. Sorry I didn’t catch on to that. All right, man, enjoy.” He clears his throat with a hum and hangs up. His phone clanks on the bar’s copper surface. “Bourbon please, Johnny Drum, rocks.”
Incapable of resisting a peek for another second, I twist my head to check out Mr. Goodtime. What sort of man has a voice that sounds more decadent than a breakfast of chocolate truffles at midnight?
He leans over the bar, his elbows on the edge, and massages his temples. My god, those hands. I can only imagine the forearms attached to them.
When he angles his head, our eyes meet in a stare. Scrumptious with a side of rough and tumble. Groaning into one palm, I rotate away and lift my glass to my lips, the charred-caramel scent of my drink drifting through my senses. What do I care if Mr. Goodtime can likely tell by my tear-tracked face that my day’s been uglier than homemade sin?
“Hey, you okay?” he asks.
I watch him through wet lashes. “A little blue is all. Thanks.”
“You look like you want someone to talk to.” He searches my face, his tender eyes pools of emerald and concern. Oh, those eyes. Maybe they’re more hazel than emerald-fuck-me-yummy. Whatever, they’re appetizing.
The bartender slides the guy’s bourbon in front of him. And, for the few seconds he’s sipping his drink, I study him after popping a boozy cherry in my mouth. He looks like a take-all-your-worries-away type of gent. Also known as a beautiful distraction. I’m guessing he’s in his early thirties by the gentle smile lines around his eyes. On the bar in front of him is a newspaper with a partially worked crossword puzzle and a fountain pen. And what the hell is he wearing? Threadbare orange jeans and a pea green leather jacket that looks like it was dragged down a bumpy road behind a pickup. A pocket watch and a vest too? What on earth. He’s not steam punk, and he’s not eighty. What is he? Sexy.
And damn, does his wavy golden-brown hair and perfect scruffy stubble make him a possible entry in my journal. He looks like a good start. And I’ll bet he’s a hell of a finish.
He skates his glass along the bar.
I glance down when it clinks mine. After clearing the web in my throat, I mutter, “I’m not much for company tonight.”
“I’m not company. I’m just a guy. You look like you need to tell someone something.” He slides my bobby pin out of my hair and studies the bluebird on it for a few seconds, and a smile forms on one side of his wide lips. He places the bobby pin between his teeth, at the corner of his mouth, and shoves wayward strands of hair behind my ear. Then, after gliding the pin back in place, he says, “There. You’re fixed.”
I choke on a sip of my drink. If only it were that simple. “Yeah. Fixed.”
“You get your heart broken, little bluebird? I can’t imagine anyone doing that to such a gorgeous girl.”
A smirk sits on my pout.
“See there? She smiles.” He nudges my elbow.
I shake my head, and my smirk grows.
“Oh, hell yeah. She shines.” His grin is boyish, but he’s as man as the gender gets.
“You got me, Mr. Goodtime.” I chuckle. “Seriously though, I’m here for booze hugs.”
He leans toward my ear while he digs in his back pocket and pulls a handkerchief out. “Does it love hard and understand you?” he asks softly. “Spill it, shmoop.”
Shmoop? I’ll bet he makes pancakes from scratch and knits slippers for his girlfriend while he’s naked. My stomach flutters when he tucks the cloth in my fisted hand.
“Guys still carry these?” I fondle the soft square. “Do you have superpowers too?”
“Probability manipulation,” he deadpans. “I can cause unlikely things to happen.”
We both laugh, my double snort catching him off guard. He flashes a smirk my way.
After dabbing my eyes, I chase ice around in my glass with one of my markers. “Like making me smile?”
“Captain Compassion,” he says, throwing his arm over the back of my chair as though we know each other.
And it feels like we do. Guess my guard is down. Deception and death can do that to a girl. It can also build your guard sky-scraper tall.
“So, is it a guy?” His tone is gentle and soothing. Tender. He strokes my back, and I surprisingly let him. “Nothing hard liquor can’t solve, huh?”
“Are you going to tell me you’re a hard licker? Now that would be a pick-up line I’ve never heard.”
He shakes his head, his teeth grazing his bottom lip, where my gaze is welded. He smirks then spins my books and studies them, probably wondering what kind of weirdo brings self-help books to a bar. “Looking for inspiration?”
I rush to slam a hand over my journal when his fingers inch toward it. My “don’t forget to be awesome” plan front and center in bright scribbles dancing across the pages.
“Yep,” I say. “Just sitting on the corner of Bloom Again and Be Fearless. Also known as my new master life plan. I’m going to blow my own mind. Now, shoo.” I gesture a hand at him.
He leans close, too close for such a sexy man. “Why are you still talking to me?” I ask. “I’m guessing I’m not your type anyway. I mean, come on, are you aware of what a rebel you are? Look around. Where’s your beard and plaid shirt and tattoos?”
We both laugh. Then he narrows his eyes on mine. “How could you possibly know what my type is? How about you tell me what type you are and we’ll take it from there.” He examines my sapphire sequin jacket, fingering the sleeve. I had to dress up a little or I never would have made it out of the house. Cece is no question stalking my house to make sure I really did go out. Though I almost didn’t. After she left, I was a wreck. I buried my bird in my backyard, then like an idiot tempted by torture, I went through my ex-fiancé Sebastian’s photos of me. Us. Him. Stupid, silly girl.
I spin to face my hunky bar mate, though I shouldn’t have. His wandering gaze crawls over me as if he’s discovered a new world.
“What type am I?” I clear my throat then chuckle. “I snort when I laugh and snore when I sleep, to begin with.”
“Versus snorting when you sleep and snoring when you laugh?”
“Yes, smartass.”
“Is that it? You snore and snort like a snuffleupagus? That’s kind of cute.”
“Ppfft! Cute? I only eat toast that’s cut diagonally and crustless, smothered with mayonnaise and cake sprinkles. I wake up looking like a toddler drew my hair, and I used to dress my bird in costumes, but now, since he’s dead…I draw doodles of him in costumes.” I swallow deeply and point to a drawing in my journal. “Still interested?” I smile, forcing the prickle in my eyes to stop. “And, to top it off, simple things normal people embrace baffle me. Love and relationships.” I clear my throat. “Not to mention how to fold fitted sheets.”
“Wow, that was random, but… I’m sorry about your bird.” He touches my knee. A simple touch that should be meaningless because it’s an, I’m-sorry-about-your-dead-bird touch.
So why does it feel like something more?
“Today?” he asks.
“This morning.”
“No wonder you’re getting your booze hugs on.”
I twist my fingers around on my lap until his hands cover them. What a lovely man. Comforting in a chicken-noodle-soup way.
“What was his name?”
/> “Breakfast at Tiffany’s. He was a blue budgie.”
“I’ve never met anyone who dresses up their bird. Why does one do that?”
We linger in a stare, me biting my thumb, him throwing silent questions all over me with his wandering eyes.
“I don’t know? It’s just a thing I did. I’m into fancifying birds. I used to have nine white doves I hand-painted with food coloring. They were…so beautiful. The muses. But my ex… Oh, never mind. Anyway, they’re gone now. So, your turn. Why does one do crossword puzzles, not to mention with a fountain pen? Ego much?”
We have an awkward moment of silence. Maybe I crossed a line and offended him. Good job. I twist on my stool, nurse my drink, and nervously scribble in my journal. I wish he’d move away. No, closer. I imagine Cece nudging me…Off-road.
I snag his newspaper, and the pen rolls until he scoops it up.
“Because they like to figure things out. Things and people.” He taps his pen against the paper, waggles his brow, then pulls my journal toward him.
I let him, unsure why.
While studying my doodles, he grins. His smile is so gorgeous, it makes me giggle.
“What’s with his name? The movie or the store?” He snatches my blue marker up and tries to draw his version of a costume on one of my birds. His tongue pokes out the corner of his mouth while he doodles a crown. God, he’s adorable. And off plan.
“My ex-fiancé gave him to me instead of an engagement ring, since I’m not a diamond girl. Anyway, Breakfast was the last of my birds.”
“Well, that stinks.”
“Yes, it does. Worse than a rotting dead mouse in a wall.”
We clink glasses. I snag a cherry from my glass and dangle it by the stem in front of him. Yep, this proves it. I’m drunk. His tongue comes out to play, licking and rolling over the dripping, red fruit. I nearly die when he winks then bites the cherry with a snarl. A fat drip of juice rolls down his chin.
He must realize how tempting he is with that line of wet, red juice on his chin. I linger on it. Then my gaze floats up his face after a cocky smirk lifts the edge of his lips. He drags his hand across his chin then licks the juice from it. Dirty bird. Flirt.
I look away and pop the last cherry in my mouth, chewing mechanically. Holy heartbeat. Speaking of cherry popping…hello, one-night stand?
He chuckles. Surely he can tell I’m flustered. He picks a marker up and pulls my journal closer to him.
“For the record,” he says, scribbling a top hat and a bow tie on a bird. “It’s best to ball up fitted sheets and shove them to the back of the linen closet.”
I cock my head and observe him as he draws. He doesn’t look like a baller-upper. Or the kind of person who would admit such a universal truth.
He taps my empty drink. “Another? I’m buying.”
I rest my face on my hands, burying my smile. “Sure, why not.”
After motioning the bartender for another round, he thrusts a hand toward me. “Hunt Hardick. Nice to meet you, not-a-diamond girl.”
I burst out laughing. Double snort. “Please tell me women don’t go for that. I mean, seriously. Can you imagine if your last name was truly Hard Dick? You deserve a little sparkle for the smiles you’re bringing me.” I yank a sequin off my sleeve and press it onto the back of his hand.
“Hardick,” he says, rolling his tongue in his cheek as he fingers the sequin. “Versus the way you’re saying it, naughty little bluebird.”
“That’s really your name?” To bury my grin, I take a sip of my new drink, and then I realize how beyond tipsy I am. No wonder I’m still talking to this guy. “Hardick.” I laugh.
“Scout’s honor.” He makes the sign with his fingers.
“You must have gotten killed in school.”
He raises his brow. “More like I was killing it.”
“Wow.” I laugh again. “Nice to meet you, Hunt Hard Dick. I’m Jane Cock Block.”
His eyes narrow as he half smiles.
“Okay, that was uncalled for. Sorry for mocking you.” I stick my hand out. “Happy Lucky, and that’s for real.”
“Happy Lucky?” He chuckles. “Cute and quirky. It matches you. Family name?”
“No. My grandfather was shooting for Hello—his favorite musical being Hello, Dolly! My grandmother mercifully objected. She said it would be awkward for me when people said, ‘Hello, Hello.’ Brace yourself for weirdness overload. My middle name is Go. They stole it from Capote.”
“Happy Go Lucky?” His crooked smirk… Oh my god, I want to kiss him. Eat him whole. I want to poke him and see if he’s chocolate all the way through or just one of those hollow, cheap piece-of-shit bunnies. Guys.
“Yep. Imagine if I married you. Happy Go Lucky Hard Dick. I’d for sure land in the Guinness Book of World Records for craziest name ever.” My face flushes as I take a breath and his eyes find mine.
And that look—oh hell. I don’t know if he’s finally figured out I’m a fancy mess or if he’s interested.
“You’re adorable.” He picks up the string of lights I brought with me and drapes them around my shoulders like a necklace. “You bring Christmas lights to bars?”
“Just like my MasterCard. I don’t leave home without Christmas lights or sequins.” I make jazz hands.
“Because they’re happy?” He winks.
“You can’t look at Christmas lights without smiling, and you can’t wear sequins without feeling a little fancy-free no matter what kind of day you’re having.”
He takes the rest of the strand and hangs it around his shoulders. “You’re truly one of a kind. In all my life, I’ve never liked someone so much in the first few minutes of meeting them.”
Does he have to be so lovely? My plan is to begin with a non-relationship relationship. His hand lands on mine, and as I glance at his fingers clutching me, my eyes well up. Why do I matter to him? My blinks come slowly, as though my lashes are coated in honey. I swallow over a lump of nerves. So much so, that when I escape the strand of lights while sliding off my stool, I trip. Drunk indeed. My toe catches the foot rest, and my hands slap the sticky floor. The unsavory scent of stale cigarettes and beer coats my nostrils, and the lights crash to the floor in a jangle behind me.
Hunt pulls me to my feet seconds later. “I’ve got you,” he says, smiling.
“Sounds convincing.” I cover my mouth with the back of my hand, my heart skipping wild beats in reaction to his words. “I need to use the restroom.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’ll be fine,” I whisper. Then I bulldoze into a waitress. “So fucking fine,” I swear under my breath.
I spin off her body then battle through throngs of dancers smelling of sweat and candied vanilla. Once in the bathroom, I look up at my reflection. Black swoosh marks glaze the swollen, red skin under my eyes. And my hair? I mean, seriously. What a perfect reminder that some plans fail.
“Don’t forget to be awesome,” I whisper.
Chapter 4
Eight-letter Word for Daring. Fearless.
HUNT
Without a second thought, I scan the titles of her books then flip through her journal. Doodles randomly scattered of birds wearing hats, crowns, or other accessories float across the pages along with expectant phrases.
Be fearless. Trust the Universe. Find love. Off-Road. Fly like a bird. Don’t forget to be awesome. Shine and sparkle.
My god, does she ever.
My foot catches Happy’s giant purse as I cross my leg, and some of its contents spill to the floor. Upon lunging off my stool, I grab her things and shove them into her bag.
A tiny snow globe with a broken-winged blackbird floating freely through glittered water. Two negative pregnancy tests. A half-empty pack of fruit stripe gum.
What is her story? After ten minutes of nursing my drink, I try to track her down.
“Nice bag, dude,” some loser says as I dart along the dimly lit corridor leading to the restrooms.
Taking a left, I run
into someone soft—her. An engaging scent envelopes me.
“It’s American Express, not MasterCard,” I say when our eyes meet.
“Kind of a late response, isn’t it? Whatever, I’ll add that I don’t share dessert or toothbrushes.”
I chuckle. “That was terribly random. Again.”
“I’m weird like that. A random rambler.”
Every muscle in my body becomes rigid when her eyes brighten for an instant and her lips give way to a smile. The kind of smile you might get after a long time away from your lover. Welcome home. I’ve missed you. I need you. How I could shove her against the wall and kiss her the way she looks like she deserves. Endlessly and with passion. She’s beautiful in that has-been-wounded way. Her eyes hold secrets and stories I’d like to discover. They say she’s lived and then some. They say she’s not twenty, though she doesn’t look much older. They say she’s soulful and discover me.
“You see a weird girl. I see an empty-row-of-seats-on-a-flight-to-Europe girl.” I slide her purse off my arm, my fingers brushing her hand as the leather strap falls.
“And you call me random?” She laughs so hard she falls off-balance and grips my arms. “How is my weirdness seducing you? You might be weirder than I am.”
“Maybe, but you really are. Beautiful. Colorful. Unique.” I wipe a sequin off her face. Then I lick it and place it on my cheek. “You’re the kind of girl who makes a guy walk into a pole.”
Her grin is edible when she stares at the sequin then my eyes.
“I’m not stalking you.”
“Yes you are.” She takes her purse then drops her hand from my bicep. Pinning her lips in her teeth, she smiles again. Then, in her low, velvety voice—which I could live in—she says, “We’re like two peas in a patch. Both looking for something, aren’t we?”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “It’s pod. Two peas in a pod.”
“I beg to differ. Typically, there are three or more in a pod, and that’s a few, not two. Two is a couple.”
I cup her cheek, lean closer to her ear, and whisper, “You’re puzzling.”
“You like puzzles, and you’re kind of cute,” she answers. A shy, hypnotic look fills her face.
Of Winged Creatures & Nesting Grounds: (A Quirky, Sexy, Dirty Doctor Romance) Page 2