What Matters More

by Liora Blake

  Clearly, she was terrible at this whole picking-up-a-guy-in-a-bar thing, which probably explained why she’d never tried it before.

  Inexperience aside, it also didn’t help that this wasn’t really a bar. But the restaurant was just across the street from the budget hotel where she was staying, and for tonight, convenience trumped everything else. Even if it wasn’t your typical pickup joint, she figured that if there were barstools and a happy hour menu, then that was good enough. Her current cash situation wasn’t pretty, so she couldn’t really afford to drive around wasting a bunch of gas just to find a “real” bar. As it was, she barely had enough in her wallet to cover the greasy appetizer and the sickly-sweet rum cocktail she’d ordered.

  But she was craving an indulgence, something—or someone—to make her feel a little better about how crappy the last few weeks of her life had been, which included getting laid off from her job and finding out that her boyfriend was cheating on her.

  Losing her creativity was the worst of it, though. Painting had always been Anya’s refuge from disappointment. In front of a canvas, she could ask for anything—both from herself and from the rest of the world—and then bring those desires to life with just her own agency and a series of brushstrokes. Real life might be full of moments that fell short of what she hoped for, but in her artistic life, she always found a way.

  Until now.

  Now, she was desperate for the safe haven painting had always provided her. Unfortunately, finding her art professor boyfriend all in flagrante delicto with his current TA—atop one of the tables in Anya’s studio—had made it difficult for her to see anything else in her mind’s eye. And she was so tired of that. Anya was determined to replace that not-so-pleasant sexual image with one of her own making.

  Tonight.

  Ideally, the next few hours involved a man just like the one sitting next to her, the two of them working through her artistic funk with some sweaty, wild, naked antics. For Anya, a rush of artistic productivity always followed great sex. And based on the well-defined outline of his upper body in the fitted t-shirt he was wearing, the aftershave model certainly possessed the strength and stamina needed to help Anya get her mojo back.

  “So,” he said slowly, “are you going to try that thing or what?”

  The low tone of his voice had Anya picturing all the delicious ways his stamina might benefit her, vividly enough that she had to shake her imagination free before sliding her gaze up to meet his. He cocked one brow.

  “If so,” he continued, “I’d get after it. Those things don’t improve at room temperature.” He gave the plate a wry look. “You have about two more minutes before it becomes almost inedible.”

  Anya fought the urge to announce that she couldn’t care less about the appetizer. When it came to food, she generally avoided anything with ingredients she couldn’t pronounce. Clean eating was a carryover from her childhood, spent in what most outsiders would call a hippie commune, where her family had grown almost all of their own food. Today, though, she had made her dinner choice based on what she thought would work as man-bait. But given the look this guy currently had on his face, it seemed she hadn’t selected her bait well.

  She stared down the plate, unsure about everything all of a sudden. She gave up an exaggerated sigh. “Here goes, then. You’re only a virgin once, right?”

  He let out a surprised snort and Anya dared to look his way, hoping she wouldn’t end up staring again. He had turned in his chair to face her, a sly smirk tugging up one side of his mouth.

  Good grief.

  He was too attractive, really. Both traditionally good-looking—like the dreamy doctor in a serial TV drama—and with a touch of something smoldering and moody in his eyes. As if he was perfectly put-together on the outside but a little bit broken on the inside. An honest sort of brokenness, though, the kind that didn’t need to be fixed or fussed over.

  And just like that, she was staring again.

  Except this time, the experience wasn’t one-sided. His eyes were on her, too. Seconds passed as Anya tried to interpret what she saw in his gaze.

  First, there was amusement. Then curiosity. Followed by a flicker of doubt that she was sure would make him look away. But he didn’t.

  Instead, his gaze sharpened and he looked . . . decided. As if he knew exactly how she wanted this night to end.

  Immediately, a thrill chased up Anya’s spine, her head went fuzzy, and her lower chakras rejoiced. If she weren’t in pursuit of a simple one-night stand, the intense energy between them might lead her to think that destiny was at work in much bigger ways.

  Confident now, Anya gave him a small smile and then plucked off a deep-fried onion petal, dunking it in the dipping sauce. She popped it in her mouth and before she even had a chance to swallow, she realized why he’d looked at the plate the way he did. The taste defied all logic by managing to be both bland and salty. She did her best to chase away both by taking a long sip of her rum punch, which basically tasted like she was sucking corn syrup through a straw.

  Anya narrowed her eyes on the confusing concoction in front of her.

  “It doesn’t even taste like an onion. I can’t imagine how that happens. I mean, it’s an onion. But this is like an onion-less onion. How is that even possible?”

  He gave up a low chuckle. “One of the world’s great mysteries, I guess. Like Stonehenge.”

  Anya grinned. “Or what happened to Amelia Earhart.”

  His gaze tripped upwards for a beat before he grinned back at her. “Crop circles.”

  “Bigfoot. Mothman. The Loch Ness Monster,” Anya said. “All of which are real by the way. Nonbelievers simply refuse to accept the truth. Obviously.”

  “Obviously,” he replied with the same deadpan Anya had used, while matching the amused glint in her eyes. “What about D.B. Cooper? Two hundred thousand dollars and a parachute. Did he hit the ground and never get up? Or did he make it and then lived out his golden years somewhere along the Pacific?”

  Anya hummed a little as she considered the question.

  “I know it’s wrong, but I hope he made it. I get that he hijacked a plane, but it was a boatload of money. Who hasn’t been so broke that they’d do just about anything to avoid ending up back at their parents’ house, right?”

  She chuckled, giving him a side-glance, fully expecting to find him grinning back at her. Instead his face fell, his laid-back expression shuttering into something distant and cold. Before she could figure out what she had said to cause that, her cell phone trilled from inside her purse.

  Anya grabbed her bag from the back of her barstool and rifled through it, while still attempting to decipher her companion’s sudden change in mood.

  The new text was a continuation of her earlier exchange with Tara. An hour ago, Anya had texted her best friend to proclaim that she was venturing out to see if she could find someone to spend the night with, in hopes she might cure her artistic funk with some testosterone and an evening’s worth of casual companionship. Right after entering the restaurant, she’d spotted the aftershave model and it had felt as if her harebrained scheme was truly coming together, so she’d sent Tara a quick follow-up that was something to the effect of arm the lasers. Tara then demanded details. Anya bided her time until aftershave guy’s friend had left, then fired off a short but sweet reply to Tara.

  Tattoos. So many tattoos.

  That’s it? Tattoos? That’s all the info you’re giving me? When you mysteriously disappear, THAT’S the description I’m supposed to give the police?

  Anya’s reply was to ask what else really mattered. This was one of the few times in life when it seemed perfectly okay to base one’s decision on looks alone. After all, she was just looking for someone to share her bed for one night, not entertain picket fence fantasies with. Tara did not agree.

  NO. NO-NO-NO. You do not decide whether a guy is quality one-night stand material based solely on the fact that he has tattoos. Tattoos should NOT be your baseline. I’ll su
bmit every dude currently serving time in county jail for some incredibly stupid crime involving barnyard animals as proof of that. You KNOW they all have bitchin’ tattoos.

  Anya rolled her eyes a little and tapped back a quick reply.

  YOU have tattoos. Lots of them. So does your husband. Hypocritical, much?

  Tara’s reply came within seconds.

  Hypocrisy is one of my great strengths. I also make the world’s best enchiladas. I’m also a badass scientist. Most of all, I can always be counted on to remind my friend that she deserves the best. So unless one of those tattoos somehow proclaims that he’s safe, sane, and knows what to do with his dick, then YOU NEED MORE DATA.

  Tara’s professional life revolved around data, so she couldn’t help but bring those same skills into her personal life. Tara rarely made decisions on the fly, while Anya often felt she was at her best when going off instinct. Tara was her voice of reason—one Anya usually tried to pay attention to.

  But Anya had already made up her mind. She started to tap out a reply to Tara, working out the best way to assure her that this decision wasn’t solely based on tattoos, but that there had been banter, too. And for God’s sake, the man made beer-drinking look hot.

  Unfortunately, in just those few squandered minutes, the bartender had managed to swoop in and settle his tab. Anya abandoned her text to Tara just as the aftershave model stood up and grabbed his jacket from the barstool beside him, tucking it under his tattoo-and-muscle-covered arm.

  Before she knew it, he had his car keys in his hand. He gave her a quick nod, his expression still tense. “Have a good night.”

  With that, Anya suddenly saw her entire night slipping away.

  3

  Anya

  Anya’s mind started to work overtime. She needed to come up with a way to stop him from leaving, without sounding like a nut, but nothing came to her. She just stared at his retreating form as he walked across the room.

  He passed by the hostess—who seemed to enjoy the long view she had of his lazily hot, slow amble toward her—and when he reached the front door, Anya practically leapt from her chair. There was no way she was going to just sit back and watch him walk away. No way, no how. Not tonight.

  Rummaging through her purse again, she dug out the last of her cash. She managed to catch the bartender’s attention by waving the twenty-dollar bill around in the air.

  “Is this enough to cover my bill?”

  The bartender flipped through her tickets, humming a little before plucking a slip out. “Totally. I’ll get your change.”

  Anya grabbed her purse and slung it over her head, calling back over her shoulder to the bartender to keep the change. The bartender’s eyebrows shot up with a surprised smile. Given that look, whatever tip she was leaving apparently made Anya look like a Vegas high roller who was having an epic night at the roulette table.

  Jeez. That wasn’t good. She was not in a place these days to go around impersonating any sort of high roller. Every dollar she had was the difference between rice and beans for dinner and having to choose between the two.

  Losing her job at the museum and moving out of her cheating boyfriend’s house meant she was both unemployed and without a permanent address, which was one hell of a combination. Anya thanked her lucky stars for friends like Tara, who didn’t hesitate to offer her a place to stay until she was on her feet again. Even so, Anya had decided a few nights ago that a short-term hotel stay would be better for everyone involved, at least for the next few days. After that she’d start the house-sitting gig she’d been able to line up for the next six weeks, although compensation for that was only a roof over her head, which didn’t put food in her mouth or help with her student loan payments. Until she had a steady paycheck again, she needed to watch her pennies.

  She hauled butt out the door and straight into Tucson’s relentless summer heat, the worst of it just beginning to ease since the sun had been down for a few hours now. Scanning the lot, she spotted her target just as he slipped around the side of a black SUV, tugging on his jacket as he walked. Anya jogged that direction and when she slowed a few feet away from him, he lurched to a stop and whipped around, one hand tucked under his jacket at his hip.

  She caught sight of the back of his jacket just before he turned around. Big, bold yellow lettering was splashed across the black canvas material. Even though the words US MARSHAL were hard to miss, it still took her a moment to process them.

  Huh. So he was a cop.

  Anya wasn’t sure how she felt about that. While it didn’t really matter since this was a one-nighter, Anya couldn’t help but think about what his career choice implied about him—and how that probably meant the two of them couldn’t be more different. A US Marshal wasn’t the kind of guy she could bring home to meet her parents, that was for sure.

  Anya’s eco-warrior father had monkey-wrenched his way through most of the seventies, racking up quite a few legal offenses along the way. As for Anya’s mother, her path to citizenship wasn’t exactly a straight line; it involved overstaying a work visa, never returning to her family’s home in Oaxaca after meeting Anya’s father at a farmworker rights rally in the eighties. They’d married quickly and then spent the next few years doing activist work that occasionally landed them behind bars. Only after Anya was born did they decide it was time to settle down, buying a ramshackle ranch out in the Sonoita desert. Their homestead became a temporary stopover for a wide array of interesting souls over the next twenty years, passing through for days or weeks at a time. And while their ranch was a place with an open-door and an open-heart policy, that didn’t mean her unconventional parents would be keen on breaking bread with a Marshal.

  On the upside, becoming a US Marshal had to involve a background check of some sort, which meant he was probably a decent, solid guy. Unless, of course, he was a seriously bad guy. The kind of sociopath who was capable of outwitting a personality test while also keeping his background check spotless. One of those guys they eventually make a Dateline special about, chock-full of interviews with his neighbors and colleagues, all of them talking about how they had no idea, while looking horrified.

  Before she could decide which group he belonged in, he exhaled slowly and drew his hand out from beneath his jacket.

  “It’s not a good idea to run up behind people in a dark parking lot.” He blew out another exhale. “You okay? Is there something you need?”

  “I’m Anya,” she announced.

  His brow furrowed. “Hello. Anya.”

  He drew each word out slowly, giving her form a once-over as he did. At first, she wasn’t sure if the inspection was just that of a cop sizing her up, or if it was something more interesting. Then his gaze settled at the hemline of her dress. The pale yellow sundress she was wearing landed well above the knee, leaving plenty of her summer-tanned legs on display. His jawline tensed as he drew his eyes back up to meet hers.

  Okay, then. Unless cops were prone to using smoldering, heated looks to throw criminals off balance, this was not your standard cop inspection.

  He lazily thumbed toward his chest. “I’m JT.”

  Anya tugged on the strap of her bag, awkwardly adjusting it while trying to slow the hammering of her heart.

  That heated look, those tattoos, and that body? One night with JT the US Marshal just might ruin her. The idea of that panicked her, enough to make her consider abandoning this plan in favor of scrounging up enough loose change from the depths of her purse to buy a pint of ice cream and going back to her hotel room to scarf it down while watching something mindless on TV.

  No way, she scolded herself. Screw it. Screw all that noise in her head, all the parts of her heart that believed it would be easier to sink under the comforting weight of self-doubt. She didn’t need that. She needed to be ruined.

  Her instincts kicked in then, shouting that if she didn’t hurry up and tell him exactly what she wanted, he was bound to get in his vehicle and drive away. She steeled her remaining nerves and
pulled her shoulders back, straightening her posture.

  “Nice to meet you, JT.” She hesitated, trying to decide what words she should use next. At this point, though, there was no time for finesse. She drew in a deep breath. “There’s no subtle way to do this, so let me be upfront: I’m looking for someone to spend the night with. Do you want to have sex with me?”

  JT’s jaw dropped open. “What?”

  Anya frowned. She knew he’d heard her just fine, even if he wasn’t sure he had. Maybe if she tried again but kept her tone very matter-of-fact, that would make what she was proposing sound rational and reasonable, instead of completely insane. She did her best to steady her voice as she gave it another go.

  “I’d like to be with a man tonight. I don’t happen to be someone who has a friend with benefits I can text, and I’m not on any of those hookup apps. You’re hot, and when we were talking inside, it felt like there was a spark there. So if you’re straight, not married, not crazy, and interested in what I’m offering, I’d love to spend some more time with you and see if this goes anywhere. I’m staying right across the street at the Desert Flower Hotel.”

  She tipped her head in the direction of the hotel. The Desert Flower’s most positive online reviews included the words run-down and basic. Its worst reviews said it seemed like the kind of place that rented rooms by the hour. Anya agreed with both, but for fifty bucks a night, she didn’t expect much.

  JT cut a glance toward the hotel, then slowly shifted his attention back to her, narrowing his eyes like he was waiting for the punch line. When it didn’t come, he cocked his head a little, looking even more confused.

  “You’re serious.”

  She nodded. “I’m serious.”

  JT waited a beat, looking skyward as he ran a hand through his dark brown hair and sighed.