by Meghan March
The bartender slides the glass across the bar on a cocktail napkin. “This one’s on me then. Congratulations on knocking out your exams.”
Wait, what?
Fumbling for the cash I shoved into my pocket, I fish out a few bills. “You really don’t need to do that.”
He holds up a hand. “I insist. You deserve it.” His lips curve up into the kind of smile that would ensure he wouldn’t have to leave the bar alone any night of the week. Messy blond hair falls over his forehead and curls around his ears.
I open my mouth to thank him for the gesture when an arm slides around my shoulder and a bill is slapped down on the bar in front of me.
“I got this one. It’s a rare day when my girl goes anywhere but the library or class. You sure you don’t want something more festive, baby? This deserves its own celebration.”
Heat burns across my cheeks as the bartender narrows his eyes on Ryker’s possessive touch. The bartender lifts his chin at Ryker.
“Grant. Where’s your flavor of the week?”
I want to thank the bartender for not automatically assuming I’m Ryker Grant’s flavor of the week, but Ryker pulls me closer into his side. Now it’s not just my cheeks heating, but every point of contact between us. Bad Justine. This is why I avoid him. Stupid hot, I remind myself.
“You should watch how you talk about women, Caruthers. They don’t like to be called flavor of the week.”
I’m surprised Ryker knows the bartender, but then again, I’m sure he spends way more time here than I do.
“They probably prefer to be treated better than you treat them,” Caruthers says, pushing Ryker’s money back across the bar. “Her drink is on the house. I don’t want your money.”
As I duck out from under Ryker’s arm, I block out how amazing he smells under those layers of entitlement. So freaking good. It’s just because I’m drunk. That’s the only reason. I need to find Merica and get out of here before I do something stupid.
I grab my drink and step away from the danger zone surrounding Ryker.
“I’ll just get out of here so you guys can whip ’em out and measure them.” Forcing myself not to drop my gaze to Ryker’s crotch to gauge the truthfulness of the dick-print rumor for myself, I drop a ten on the bar. My pride won’t let either of them buy me a drink.
“I need to get back to my friends,” I toss out as I walk away, impressed at how steady I am on the heels Merica forced me to wear with my short black skirt and borrowed black low-cut top. Not my normal outfit choice at all, but how often do you get to celebrate finishing your second year of law school?
Cocky about how well I’m doing on my balance, I sip my drink—and catch a toe on the lip of the stairs. My entire body pitches forward and a vision of the drink flying everywhere as I land on my face flashes before my eyes. At least Merica won’t judge.
Before even a drop spills over the side, an arm wraps around me and a hand plucks the drink from my grip.
“Are you in such a hurry to get away from me that you’d rather cause a scene?”
Ryker. His deep voice and scent of all man mixed with off-limits for a good reason identify him immediately. He maneuvers us over to an empty booth as my heart hammers, and I plop down onto the maroon vinyl cushion.
Wrapping both hands around the edge of the table, I suck in a breath. Obviously, I don’t need any more to drink, but I unclench one hand to reach for my cocktail anyway and chug a few gulps to steady my nerves. It’s not until I put the glass down that I notice the crumpled ten on the table next to it.
“You okay?”
My gaze darts up to his brilliantly blue eyes as he towers over me. “What is that for?”
“You shouldn’t be buying your own drinks.” He says it like this is some obvious piece of information of which I should be well aware.
“I’m not letting you buy them.” Needing to extricate myself from this situation, I scoot out to the edge of the booth and stand.
But Ryker doesn’t step back like I expect him to, and my boobs press against his chest as soon as I’m vertical.
My nipples peak with interest at the contact. Traitors. I have to force myself not to lean into him. He’s solid. Hard. Man. I freeze for a beat, hoping he’ll step back, but he doesn’t.
“Excuse me.” My words are a hushed whisper. I need to step back. Move. Something. I have to stop touching him.
Ryker’s gaze drops to my cleavage, and I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t do anything but stare at his lowered eyes and wonder if he’s feeling what I’m feeling.
It doesn’t matter. No distractions allowed.
Several agonizingly long seconds pass before his gaze travels up to meet mine.
“You’re not going back to that bartender. Your money is no good with him. He wouldn’t even let me pay for the drink. So quit worrying about it.”
An odd sense of relief washes over me that Ryker didn’t pay for my drink, and I sit back down, desperate to remove all points of contact between us before I do something stupid like press against him harder and let my hands roam.
Why have I gone so long without any physical contact? I will my nipples to stand down. Bad nipples. Without any padding in my bra, I’m putting on way too much of a show. At least I’m not thinking about the dick print anymore. Crap. I’m eye level with his crotch since he’s still standing, so of course my gaze lands right on it.
Oh. Holy. Hell. I can see it. The outline against his jeans. The bulge. Does he not wear underwear? Is it getting bigger? Oh my God, is that because of me?
Ryker’s chest lifts and lowers with a deep breath, and I snap my eyes up to his.
Mortification sweeps in as Ryker stares down at me, those icy blue eyes blazing with heat. He knows exactly what I was looking at.
“So, what’s it going to take, Justine?”
I ignore the question and wrap my hand around my drink. Sucking down the last of it, I buy time to figure out how to get myself out of this situation. This is why I avoid him.
Once my glass holds nothing but ice, Ryker plucks it from my grip and sets it on the table.
“What’s it going to take?” he asks again.
“Wh—what are you talking about?” My stutter is smoothed by the liquor I’ve consumed.
“You. What’s it going to take for you to say yes to me? You’re hell on my ego, but I don’t give a shit about that. I want my shot. What’s it going to take?”
Oh no. This isn’t happening. I cobble together an excuse.
“I can’t. I’m busy. I have to keep up my grades.”
“School’s out, babe. Try again.”
I shake my head, which is already fuzzy from more alcohol than I’ve had in months.
“I’m leaving tomorrow. I’ve got a job up north for the summer at Legal Aid.”
He studies me for a beat as if deciding whether I’m feeding him a line of bull. I must pass, because he nods. “When you come back, we’re going out.”
Persistence. Ryker has it in spades, and the combination of the alcohol and my body’s traitorous reactions are wearing me down. But nothing can change the fact that I don’t have time for the distraction. Not now, not next year.
“It’s not a good idea. School is my only focus.”
He lowers himself down on the bench beside me, and instinctively I slide over to put some space between us. I don’t need more contact to melt away the last of my resistance.
“I need to go find my friend. She’s probably waiting for me to leave.”
“Give me five minutes, and I’ll convince you.”
That’s exactly what I’m afraid of. The words float in my head as I scoot around the U-shaped booth to slide out the other side. With that determined look in his blue eyes and my guard down, there’s no telling what he could talk me into in thirty seconds, let alone five minutes.
“I have to go.” I keep my tone firm.
Ryker leans back in the booth and crosses both arms over his broad chest. “I think you’re s
cared of me.”
Pushing to my feet, I grab the edge of the table to steady myself on Merica’s heels. “Excuse me?”
“You’re scared. Afraid you might actually want what I want, and that’s why you keep shooting me down.”
A forced laugh escapes my lips, and something—probably the alcohol—flips my filter to the off position. “Are you serious? Come on, we both know that you just haven’t given up yet because I’m the only girl who’s ever said no to you.” I gesture to the empty glass on the table. “I might be a few drinks in, but even I get you’re all about the chase. If I said yes, you’d lose interest within days.”
“Bullshit.”
“Doesn’t matter. The answer is still no.” And with that I stride away, making an exit that doesn’t include me falling on my face. Win.
I find Merica at a tall table near the door, and her face is even whiter than her normal Irish-American shade of pale.
“What’s wrong? Did something happen?” Taking in the other similarly horrified expressions on the faces around the table, dread curls in my stomach.
Merica turns and grabs me, fingers locking tight around my forearm. “Chad and Chris left the bar and there was an accident. We don’t know what happened, except that someone apparently hit them. Rachel just texted to tell me that Chad was in handcuffs and there was an ambulance.”
Oh my God. No.
“Chad France? My Chad?” Panic rises in my chest, stealing my breath.
Chad and I have been friends since we were eleven and he taught me how to play marbles in the dirty alley behind Gramps’s house. He lived with his grandma because his mom took off, and his dad died in prison for a crime Chad swears to this day he didn’t commit. That’s why he’s here—to become a kick-ass criminal defense attorney.
Merica nods.
“Is he okay? Is he hurt? If Rachel saw him in handcuffs, then he couldn’t have been in the ambulance, right?”
“Rachel said he was standing next to the cop car in cuffs. That’s all.”
She has to be wrong. Maybe Rachel got it wrong. “Did she see it happen? Is she sure it was them?”
“Rachel left here right after they did. Their apartment is on the way to her place. Apparently half of Red River Avenue is closed right now to clean up the accident.”
“Oh my God.” Handcuffs mean arrest. The most likely reason being . . . drinking and driving.
We’re all thinking the same thing; Merica just says it first. “Chad is fucked if he gets a DUI. He’s already got an offer for after graduation with that hotshot defense firm he’s been working at, but I bet they’d rescind that before he could say not guilty.”
“Oh my God,” I murmur again, squeezing my eyes shut. Working at the top defense firm in the state has been Chad’s goal since before we even started school. He’s going to be devastated.
Merica looks down at her phone again. “Rachel says they’re reopening the road, but Chad’s truck looks like it’s totaled.” She glances over to me. “Wasn’t he supposed to help you move your stuff into storage tomorrow?”
“That’s the least important thing anyone needs to worry about right now.” As much as I’m SOL, I can’t be upset that my moving assistance just went out the window because Chad’s future at stake is a way bigger deal.
“Maybe Rachel got it wrong. Maybe it wasn’t them? And what about Chris? No one has any word on him? This could all be a mix-up.” I’m scrambling for some other alternative.
James, a guy in our Evidence class, comes up to the table and holds out his phone. “Did you hear about Chad and Chris? Check out this picture of his truck. Totally crushed. I heard some asshole ran a red light, tagged his bumper, so he spun out and hit a telephone pole, and the person didn’t even stop. Unbelievable. That was a sweet ride after he lifted it.”
Any hope of Rachel being a typical girl and thinking all pickup trucks look exactly the same disappears. It’s definitely Chad’s truck.
Sadness and anger shove aside the panic. Why would he drive drunk? How could he take the chance?
“I wonder who he’s going to call for bail if they throw him in the drunk tank.” The speculation comes from James.
“His girlfriend will bail him out.” I offer up the information quietly. They’ve been together since high school, so I know she’ll be there for him. But what about after? His job . . . his future . . .
“Why was he even driving?” Merica asks.
James shrugs. “He didn’t want to leave his truck in the parking lot overnight. He only had maybe four or five beers. I’ve seen him drink way more and still act totally sober. That’s some shit luck, though. If someone hadn’t hit them, I bet they’d be home already.”
Shit luck and bad judgment. Chad, what were you thinking?
“This sucks all around. Now his entire future could be fucked, and you’ve got no one to help you move.” Merica looks from me to James. “What do you drive?”
“A Harley. Which you’d know if you ever let me take you out.”
Merica rolls her eyes. “I have a boyfriend. Not happening. Also, your timing sucks.”
Everything about this sucks, and I’m so freaking pissed at Chad. Why would he take the chance? We all have too much at stake to take chances like that.
James opens his mouth to reply to Merica, but a familiar voice rumbles from behind me.
“You need help moving?”
I force myself not to turn around when the heat from Ryker’s body registers against my back.
I can practically feel the sudden change in the air now that he is present. It’s like the alpha wolf showed up to the discussion.
Always looking out for me, Merica turns her focus on Ryker. “Do you have a truck?”
Oh, hell no. I want to slap a hand over my best friend’s mouth, but even that wouldn’t pull back the question.
“My old man has a truck we use for deer camp. It’s at my parents’ house, and they only live a few miles from campus.”
It’s crazy to hear Ryker refer to his father as his old man because he’s a state supreme court justice, not just some dad who works a regular nine-to-five. Also, he was my boss for the last four and a half months during my externship at the court.
To this day, I’m shocked Ryker didn’t show up in his father’s chambers while I was working. Either he didn’t know or he considered that venue off-limits—I have no idea which.
Ryker’s hand lands on my hip and squeezes before he turns me around to face him. All thoughts of his dad and Chad fall away when those blue eyes pierce me with a direct stare.
“Then you can totally help Justine move tomorrow.” Merica’s words are bubbly with triumph. No doubt she sees this as a case of life closing a door but opening a window.
“You need my help?” Ryker asks, never breaking eye contact with me.
“If she says no, she’s lying,” Merica offers unhelpfully.
I have to get out of this conversation before I cave and accept his help. I also need to escape to go call Katie, Chad’s girlfriend, and get the scoop on what’s happening and see if I can help.
I sidestep Ryker’s hold and announce, “I have to pee.”
Merica gives me a look that clearly says are you kidding me?
I ignore it. “I’ll be right back.”
Turning, I head for the back of the bar and the restrooms. As I walk, I mentally flip through my list of options for moving help. I come to a screeching halt because, oh wait, that’s right, I don’t have any other options. Chad was helping me out because he’s a good guy and I’ve known him forever. And now he’s screwed. My stomach twists with sympathy and disappointment and anger.
I try Katie’s phone as I walk through the bar. It goes straight to voice mail four times before I give up. I hope to hell they figure this out. As much as I wish there was something I could do to help, I’m coming up empty.
As I stare into the bathroom mirror, the liquor hits me hard.
I’m drunk. And I need to get home.
Pushing open the bathroom door, I keep my eyes trained on my feet so as not to pitch forward on my now-treacherous heels.
“Oomph.” I run into a wall.
Except it’s not a wall, because it wraps two hands around my hips. My palms go to his chest, and my apology is halfway out before I realize it’s Ryker and he’s backing me into the corner of the dark hallway.
“What are you doing?” My back meets the wall and I’m trapped. Where’s my fight-or-flight reaction? Where is the panic I should be feeling?
Instead, heat flares in my belly as he places one hand against the wall, next to my head.
“We weren’t done with our conversation.”
“Sure, we were.” My words are steady but my heart pounds so hard in my chest, I’m sure he can feel it.
“You didn’t answer my question. You need help, Justine?”
With everything that I am, I want to say no. But some shred of practicality rises up and fuels my words. “Yes.”
“Then why are you running away?”
“I’m not running.”
He leans closer to whisper in my ear. “Bullshit.”
Pulling back just enough for me to see his face, I swallow. “Fine, you win. I wish I didn’t need your help.” How’s that for honesty?
A smug smile slides over his face. “Why? You afraid of what it’s gonna cost?”
Of course he would put a price on everything. “How much?”
“Not a dime. Just a kiss and a date.”
The order throws me off. “I told you, I’m leaving tomorrow—”
“A date next semester. The kiss is payment up front. Right here, right now.”
I wish I could say the heat burning low in my belly is anger, but I’d be a liar. As his lips lower toward mine, alarm bells clang in my head. I should stop him. This is by far the worst idea ever.
But my body stays frozen in place, and my lips part as he brushes his across them.
Oh. My. Hell. Ryker Grant is kissing me. My mouth molds to his and my body curls into him.
Oh shit. I’m kissing him back.