Dirty Ties

by Pam Godwin

  So I sat on the last stool at the L-shaped bar and made the best of it. God knew I’d needed to let my hair down. Literally. It hung in thick waves around me, warming my back and tickling my elbows. The rest of my senses tuned in to the retro-festive surroundings.

  I loved The Watch the first time I came here with Collin. Loved it now. The live jazz, the waitresses in fishnet stockings, the pre-prohibition furniture, the energy, the eccentrics it attracted. This nightclub was straight-up sexy.

  A low snap sounded from the stage across the open room. Click. Click. Click. Steady, patient, the snapping fingers set the beat.

  The murmurs waned. Heads turned. Bodies leaned. The foot of the older man beside me tapped in time. Then the saxophone joined in, breathing each note with a heavy soul. Slowly, the crowd angled toward the stage, listening, swaying, losing themselves.

  I felt it, too. Deep, rich, and devastatingly bold. Like the eyes of the man at the other end of the bar. He was just a silhouette in my periphery, but I didn’t need to look. His gaze was palpable, tracing my face and burning my cheeks, demanding I answer his silent query.

  I was too damned nervous to flirt or mingle. Wait at the bar. Accept the delivery. The courier would come to me, unlike the man with the unnerving stare.

  The bartender glided from counter to counter, taking orders and mixing drinks. When I caught his eyes, I threw back the last of the dirty martini and held it up. One more.

  God, that searing stare. Make it stop. My breaths shortened, and my palms grew slick. I fought not to meet it, afraid if I did, I’d engage. Then what? Too risky.

  I kept my attention on the bartender, who flitted around in his dapper vest, suspenders, and fedora as if he were serving up bootleg in the back of a speakeasy during the Woodrow Wilson administration. His outfit, the dim lighting, black velvet curtains, and deep shades of red all played into the vintage vibe.

  My own throwback to the by-gone era was a blood-red rockabilly dress, empire waist, flared skirt, and thigh-high stockings topped with black bows. An outfit that had fetched numerous compliments when I walked in, which made this ol’ thirty-seven-year-old feel right at home amidst so many gorgeous young ladies in short skirts and towering heels.

  And after a survey of the sharply-dressed crowd, I was pretty sure every gentleman in Chicago with a penchant for cabaret was in the room.

  Evader could be one of them, donning suspenders and sipping an elixir with a girl on his arm. He didn’t know my face. I didn’t know his. My chest tightened. It was tragic really, but I refused to let his douchery ruin my fantasy of him.

  My one night with him might’ve pissed me the fuck off, but it had also added luminance to that achy place I burrowed every time I thought of him.

  And I thought of him a lot. Goddamned always.

  Maybe I would never find out what had spooked him, but part of me didn’t want to know. He’d given me an erotic memory, one that breathed life into all that hard muscle beneath his dark leathers, and I wouldn’t give that back. And despite the way he ran off, I bet I’d given him something comparable.

  The bartender dropped off the martini, and unguarded, my senses flooded back to the man at the opposite end of the L-shaped bar. Before my brain caught on, my eyes snapped up and collided with his.

  Trapped in the unblinking grip of his gaze, a swallow hung in my throat. My breath suspended. My entire body reacted. The shadow of stubble on his jaw made my skin prickle. The fullness of his lips sent a tingle through mine. Brown hair, trimmed on the sides and a mess of sexy on top, begged for my fingers, to rake and pull and not let go. I balled my hands in my lap.

  Separated by a good twenty feet with the scurrying bartender between us, I couldn’t make out the color of his eyes, but boy, were they smoldering. The heat they emitted raised the temperature in the room, stoking a trembling fever through my body. Who the hell was this guy? And why was I responding this way?

  Five nights ago, I had the same intense reaction to a different guy. Ugh. I wasn’t some shallow slut in pursuit of carnal pleasures. I didn’t let my attentions flit randomly from one man to the next. I didn’t want multiple men. What was going on with me?

  His chin was tilted down, his gaze angled up beneath hooded lids. Combined with his stern jawline and the slight arch of one brow, he looked oh-so arrogant, broody, destructive. Sweet Jesus, he was so fucking gorgeous it was insulting, like a slap in the face to every man in the club.

  And he was looking at me like I was the only woman on his radar.

  My heart panted as I squeezed my thighs together, trying and failing to dull the throb between my legs, every sensation magnified by the buzz of alcohol coursing through my blood. The nightclub faded away, and the air between us charged.

  He leaned forward, his hand reaching up to trace the lip of the pint glass in front of him, his eyes never leaving mine. The slow movement of his finger sent a shiver through me, hardening my nipples, as if he were trailing that fingertip around the curve of my breast. I sucked in my bottom lip and bit down on a shaky breath.

  The corner of his mouth crooked up, replacing the broody look with a confident half-grin. I wished he wouldn’t have done that, because holy mother of God, the lift of his right eyebrow was still there, fixed in place. Which meant he wasn’t just insanely handsome. He was insanely handsome with a natural, lopsided arch in his brow.

  As if that wasn’t enough, I greedily drank in his body. He wore a white collared shirt that stretched tightly over his broad chest and thickly-muscled arms. Definitely a man who worked out. Virile. Strong. Probably in his late twenties. Couldn’t be younger than that since the age limit at The Watch was twenty-seven and up.

  His hands were big, rugged, relaxed on the bar top. And no wedding ring. Though I didn’t wear one either.

  When I returned to his face, his eyes narrowed, locked on something over my shoulder.

  An arm reached from behind me and slid over the bar. A black sleeve. A man’s hand. Holding a watch.

  Hot breath stroked my ear, snapping my spine straight. “Tell Mr. Anderson,” he whispered, “Time’s up.”

  As I turned, the man’s lanky backside slipped into the throng of people and disappeared. I blew out a breath. Well, that was weird.

  Twisting back, my attention caught on the watch beside the martini. A Timex watch with a fake leather band, the dials frozen on October twenty-seventh, eight o’clock. A month from today.

  I glanced across the bar, and my ogler was no longer ogling, his gaze on the dark draft cupped in his hands. My stomach dropped. Had he lost interest? Maybe he was just giving me privacy?

  Reaching into the clutch on my lap, I removed my phone and pulled up the text screen.

  Me: still at the studio?

  The response came back instantly.

  Collin: Leaving shortly. Everything okay?

  Me: meeting’s over. gave me a timex to give ur dad. does trent have a cheap watch collection I dont know about?

  I’d told Collin I was meeting someone for Trent, because I did that a lot, handling dinners with big clients and schmoozing with investors.

  Collin didn’t need to know tonight’s meeting hadn’t been a meeting at all. He didn’t need to know about the shady shit I did for his father. It would only add to his guilt about our situation. He’d ask questions, and the answers would make him an accomplice. Like me.

  An accomplice to what I had no fucking clue.

  Collin: Well you are at The Watch. Maybe it’s a joke? What did he say?

  Me: time’s up

  Collin: LOL. Probably something to do with his odd bohemian fraternity buddies.

  I wasn’t so sure. My gut told me something significant was going to happen on October twenty-seventh at eight o’clock. I slipped the watch into the clutch. Tomorrow morning, I’d have one of my trusted engineers in the I/T department check it for chips before I turned it over to Trent.

  Collin: You headed home?

  Was I? I glanced across the bar and locke
d onto a pair of moody eyes. We exchanged a look, but I had no clue what it meant. He glared at me like he wanted to eat me. Or hurt me. Maybe both. Yet he hadn’t moved a single sinewy muscle to make that happen.

  Maybe he was married. Or assumed I was.

  Or maybe he was aggravated because I was giving my phone more attention than I was giving him. I grinned, and his scowl deepened.

  Me: a man is staring at me. hard.

  Collin: Not bald and holding a knife is he?

  Ugh. He was never going to let me forget that. Not that I could. He’d made me swear on his life and the lives of the children we would never have that my Evader days were over.

  As much as it sickened me, I agreed. The races weren’t safe. Didn’t stop me from having a little meltdown in the privacy of my room, complete with pathetic farewell tears for the underground racing world.

  Me: not funny

  Collin: No it’s not. So is he hawt?

  Hot? He had the bearing of a medieval warrior. Thick forearms, broad shoulders, strong jaw, heavy brow, battle-ready glare. My body itched to move, tensing, leaning forward. I wanted to go to him, touch the scruff on his cheeks, fold into his side, and smell the skin on his neck.

  Me: scorching

  Collin: What are you wearing?

  Me: rockabilly red

  Collin: Damn. No wonder he’s staring. He’s probably not the only one. You look like a pin up girl in that dress.

  Oh, Collin. A smile warmed my cheeks. I hadn’t realized how much I needed that effortless compliment. It invigorated me, like the unpredictable notes of the saxophone, soothing away the notion that I wasn’t enough for my husband, that the underground racing would go on without me, that I had a menacing watch in my purse.

  The guy with the glaring problem didn’t seem very thrilled with the smile I gave my phone. If he squeezed his pint any harder, it might break.

  Collin: Garters?

  Me: of course

  Collin: In that case, I won’t expect you home anytime soon. Don’t break too many hearts.

  What did he think I’d do? I didn’t have sex without Collin choosing the man and running the background check.

  Except Evader. I would’ve fucked him. Right there in that elevator.

  Me: I need a Seth

  Collin: Yeah, you do. He's incredible.

  Oh sure, rub it in. I returned the phone to my clutch and set it on the bar.

  The older man beside me slipped off the stool and wandered into the crowd, leaving a vacant seat. An opening for another man. My pulse fluttered. I glanced up, and he was definitely staring. Just not at me.

  A curvy woman leaned her hourglass hip against his knee. Little black dress, platinum hair, bright red lipstick, the red forming a crimson sheen as she licked her pillowed lips.

  He reclined against the stool back, his gaze following the fingernail she trailed down his chest, around the shirt buttons, disappearing beneath the counter. His eyes flicked to hers, his lips parted.

  I slammed back the martini in two gulps. Dammit, I should’ve gone over there. I still could.

  God, all that perky cleavage on display. And her youthful smile so full of sass. She could have any man in the room. I couldn’t blame her for choosing the most attractive one.

  Her mouth moved, no doubt seducing in sultry tones. I didn’t have a chance at stealing his attention back. Nor should I try. Picking up a stranger at a bar without a background check? Too much risk for a selfish night of pleasure.

  He caressed his knuckles over her bare shoulder, down her toned bicep, and wrapped long fingers around her elbow, yanking her close. My stomach clenched, but I couldn’t look away as he dipped his head. He angled his mouth near her ear, moved his lips in a whisper.

  Her body tensed right before he removed her hand from his lap and used it to spin her away. Then he dragged his stool closer to the bar, gave her his back, and downed his beer. Dismissed.

  Ouch. If that had been me… Fucking hell, I couldn’t handle another rejection. It had been fourteen days since Seth went limp inside me. Five days since Evader yanked my mouth off his cock and zoomed away.

  My confidence with men had plunged into no naked touching, tasting, holding, kissing. Okay, it had only been five days, but was it an indication of the weeks and months to come? A future of going to bed alone while listening to the laughing moans of Collin and Seth? Fuck that.

  “Been waiting for that fossil to leave.” A deep voice interrupted my pity party. “Finally moved his old ass from this seat.”

  Charming. I dragged my attention from the man across the bar and met arctic blue eyes inches from my face.

  He sat, facing me, and bracketed my stool with his long legs. “Name’s Holden.”

  Holden radiated sex appeal. It danced in his eyes, glowed in his cheeks, and tumbled through his voice.

  His boyish charisma brought a smile to my lips. “I’m—”

  “The finest lady to grace this club. Don’t freak out, but I’ve been watching you since you walked in.” He looked me over from my lips to the bows beneath the flare of my short dress. When his eyes came back to mine, he shook his head, grinning. “So damned hot, girl. There’s not a guy in this place who doesn’t know it.”

  I was either desperate for compliments tonight or that was a really good pick up line.

  He angled his blond head, holding that All-American smile with an ease that seemed involuntary.

  “You’re not so bad yourself.” I held out my hand. “I’m Kaci.”

  His happy expression didn’t flicker with recognition as he grasped my hand and placed it on his hard thigh. He was too young to connect my name to my face. He’d probably never even heard of Collin Anderson.

  Why did it matter anyway? I wouldn’t be leaving with him.

  Fifteen minutes later, we’d covered the standard pleasantries, agreed on the underlying subversiveness in the retro decor, disagreed on the quality of the Chicago Bears quarterback. Basically, avoided all things personal even as the way he looked at me grew more and more intimate.

  He bent in, his nose so close he could smell my breath. “Come home with me.”

  Oh wow, that was forward. I pulled my hand away, even as my needy insides tightened at the inviting curl of his plush lips and the glimmer in his lusty eyes. He was undeniably good-looking yet dimmed in comparison to the sexy broodiness I’d recently acquired an attraction for.

  “No.” My gaze swept across the bar and landed on the stool that had been empty since Holden showed up.

  Holden reached for my hand, and I yanked it back. “Kaci, I promise—”

  “Take a hike.” An unfamiliar voice dripped over me, low and rich like syrup. A voice that could only belong to—I shifted around, and oh my God—haunting green eyes. Or were they yellow? Definitely smoldering.

  He bent at the waist, resting his arm along the back of my stool, the overhead pendant light illuminating his daunting expression and the complex hues of his eyes.

  Golden irises, ringed in green, fastened on Holden. “Find somewhere else to put your dick. She’s married.”

  She’s married.

  I sank deeper into the barstool and closed my eyes, realization landing like a brick in my gut. He’d stared at me all night because he recognized me. I was certain those weighted looks were sexual in nature, but apparently knowing I was married had discouraged him from approaching.

  I sighed. It was for the best.

  “She never said she was married.” Holden’s voice was low, frustrated.

  A warm hand gripped my thigh. Way too big to be Holden’s hand. I snapped my eyes open as the man, whose name I didn’t know, leaned into Holden. “My wife doesn’t have to tell you shit.”

  My thoughts froze, every cell in my body zoomed in on that syrupy voice. His wife? So he didn’t know I was married? A tangle of relief and confusion sifted through me.

  Had he said it to mark his territory? Stake his claim? Kind of a strange way to go about it. Strange in a really sex
y way.

  Which pinched my stomach with guilt. Letting him believe I was available made me feel horribly dishonest. But why? I wasn’t married in the conventional sense.

  Holden glared at the hand on my thigh and blinked up at the intimidating man’s scowl. “Your wife? Then why have you been sitting over there eye-fucking her all night?”

  My husband slipped his hand beneath my skirt, spiking my pulse as he traced a finger along the strap of my garters. “We’re having a little fun tonight. Role-playing our first date.” He slid me a smile that was so disarmingly hot I felt it in my panties. “Isn’t that right, baby?”

  For a moment, I let myself imagine that, to forget I didn’t know this beautiful man, to simply enjoy the unexpected pleasure of his game and his warm hand against my leg. “Mm hmm.”

  Holden stood, his earlier grin replaced with flattened lips. “It was nice to meet you, Kaci.” He glanced at the other man then strode toward the entryway.

  My lungs released a breath then seized again when the gorgeous stranger grumbled, “Kaci.”

  If there was recognition in that expression, it was eclipsed by his dark brows and overall growly disposition.

  I narrowed my eyes, every molecule in my body gravitating toward the fingers caressing my thigh. “And you are?”

  He lowered onto Holden’s stool without removing his hand, his legs sprawled around me, his heavy gaze in full force. “Logan.”

  I nodded. The name fit his serious, rough-hewed edge. I wanted to ask about the hand still touching my leg, but I didn’t want him to remove it. “Why did you tell him we were married?”

  “I didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”

  The impact of his glare and the deep rumble of his timbre spread warmth through my body, no doubt reddening my cheeks.

  He tilted his head, his hair all kinds of sexed-up as if he’d mussed it with aggravated fingers. “I heard you tell him no. Should I call him back?”

  “No,” I said a little too desperately. “Not interested.”

  “What about me?” The possessive hand on my thigh clenched. Relaxed. “Are you interested?”