Rosie:
“I’m allergic to Valentine’s Day,” I murmured mournfully as I stared into my second pomegranate daiquiri, which had failed to make my happy hour in the crowded Soho bar remotely happy – even at two-for-one prices. “Either that or I’m suffering from PTVD.”
One of my best mates, Tash, spat out a mouthful of her own daiquiri. “Bloody hell, Rosie, have you been to the clinic to have it checked out?”
“It’s not a communicable disease, you twat. It’s worse than that.” I rolled my eyes. “I have Post Traumatic Valentine’s Day Disorder.” I glanced around the packed bar in London’s West End, festooned with enough pink and fluffy décor to make the Sugarplum Fairy nauseous. “Because anything red and sparkly and/or shaped like a love-heart brings me out in hives. And those penis-shaped deely boppers are making me want to puke.”
A thirty-strong hen party had entered the bar ten minutes ago, every one of them whooping and shouting and laughing and proudly sporting phalluses springing from the Alice bands on their heads – inadvertently making an ironic statement about how Valentine’s Day brought out the dickhead in every man in my humble opinion.
I sighed, gazing into the vibrant red cocktail – which looked suspiciously like fresh blood. “And when I woke up this morning, I actually missed Vince. You know, we broke up a year ago today? Which means my love life has now officially sucked for twelve solid months.”
My other bestie, Imogen – better known as Imo the Emo because of the Goth phase she’d never grown out of – sent me a death stare through the eyeliner she’d OD’d on that morning.
“You don’t miss Vince. Because Vince was a massive unreconstructed dick with a tiny weeny peeny. And you’re probably just allergic to V-Day because, like every other single woman with more than two functioning brain cells to rub together, you’ve figured out it’s a corporate myth manufactured to sell greeting cards and overpriced flower arrangements.”
“Spoken like someone else who hasn’t humped anything without batteries in over a year,” Tash replied good-naturedly, laughing off Imo’s death stare. “But our resident femi-nazi is right about one thing.” She laid a consoling hand over mine on the sticky table of the booth we’d managed to secure across from the long antique bar. “Not having sex for over a year is bad for your mental health.”
“When did I say that?” Imo grumbled.
“You didn’t, because you’re a lost cause,” Tash continued. “But Rosie isn’t. Not yet.”
“Then why am I doing such a good impression of one?” I muttered, hating the pity-me tone, but unable to shake it.
How could I possibly be missing my ex-boyfriend? Vince had been a massive dick – in every way but a way that might actually be useful. After all, he’d informed me, after I’d cooked us a special meal on Valentine’s Day and even worn the seedy crotchless panties he’d bought me for Christmas, that he wanted more space in our relationship. Which turned out to be code for he wanted to shag the twenty-year-old intern at his architectural practice without fear of reprisals.
Vince hadn’t just been a dick. He’d been a dick with appalling taste in lingerie, and I’d been an idiot to trust him. I hadn’t thought about him in months. But this morning, when I’d woken up without a date on Valentine’s Day, or the prospect of getting one in the foreseeable future, my neat, tidy, microscopic apartment in Highbury had seemed emptier than usual.
And I’d actually become a tiny bit wistful at the memory of Vince’s dirty socks lying by the washing basket, the crumbs he’d always left on the countertop and the gunk he’d never cleaned off the bathroom sink after shaving. And it had been bringing me down all day.
Why had I found it so hard to connect with anyone new in the last year? Was I on the shelf for life already, at twenty-frigging-eight?
I’d gone on a few dates, during my half-hearted spree of Tinder dating a few months ago. But I’d never managed a second date and had eventually deleted my profile, bored with the email flirting that promised much, only to deliver either an interminable half hour of arduous conversation over a caramel latte in the local Starbucks, or a request for a Snapchat of my boobs.
“You’re not a lost cause,” Tash said, interrupting my maudlin thoughts. “But drastic action is called for or you soon will be. We don’t want your lady bits to dry up and desiccate like Imo’s.”
“Piss off, Tash. Just because my lady bits don’t have ADHD,” Imo mumbled.
“Exactly how drastic is drastic?” I asked, because drastic for Tash might be a smidgen outside my comfort zone.
“Drastic as in, we need to get you a fuck buddy to get your sex life fully operational again.”
“My sex life isn’t the Starship Enterprise, you know.”
“Au contraire,” Tash said, grinning. “If we could boldly get Chris Pine’s Captain Kirk to go down on you, your problems would be solved.”
I all but choked on my daiquiri as Imo laughed, but I couldn’t deny the definite spark of something hot and fluid. After all, we’d all had the hots for Chris’ steely blue gaze as teenagers when they’d rebooted Star Trek in the noughties. Enough to declare ourselves born-again Trekkies once upon a time in Hackney, where we’d all grown up.
And while Vince and I hadn’t had a spectacular sex life, I still missed the flesh-to-flesh connection that couldn’t be provided by my top-of-the-range vibrator.
Tash refilled my daiquiri glass to the brim from the pitcher on the table. “But in the absence of Chris, we need to get your sex life back up to warp speed with what’s on offer.” She clinked her glass against mine and took a healthy sip. “Here. Tonight.”
“But I’ve already tried Tinder dating,” I pointed out, not ready to jump back into that shark tank again while I was feeling vulnerable. “It was a lot of time and effort for no return, plus I deleted the app.”
“We don’t need an app for this. We’re going old school. And we’re not talking dating either. That was your first mistake with Vince, thinking you wanted to keep him. What you need right now is Hot-Shag-Against-a-Wall Guy – not Cheating-Asshole-Who-Moves-In-With-You Guy.” She craned her neck, to look past my shoulder. “So, let’s check out the available talent and see if we can find a willing victim.” She coughed, theatrically. “I mean a likely candidate.”
“Good luck with finding any talent in this TGFI hellscape,” Imogen said, but the interested gleam in her panda eyes as she craned her neck too told a different story.
I sipped my daiquiri, not convinced, as Imo and Tash scanned the bar, which was packed on a Friday night with the two-for-one cocktail hour crowd, the penis-wearing hen party and assorted tourists and Valentine’s Day revelers. But as my friends began suggesting and then discarding the few likely victims on offer, the pleasant buzz of too many daiquiris had me actually considering Tash’s outrageous suggestion.
Would it be so bad to cut loose just this once? I’d never had a one-night stand before, always more interested in making an emotional connection first. But there was no law that said you always had to be looking for the long-haul. And if one hot night with a hot guy would ensure I never again got pessimistic about not having shaving gunk in my sink, perhaps it was worth a shot?
My spirits slumped. That said, Imo and Tash would have to find a likely candidate first.
“Oh-My-Fucking-God, over there at twelve o’clock.” Tash yanked my arm hard enough to slosh daiquiri over my hand. “We’ve found him.”
“Shit, Tash, try and at least be a little subtle, or he’ll see us.” Imo hunched, being a bit disingenuous for someone who made themselves up every day to look like a raccoon.
“There! Right behind you,” Tash said, the stage whisper her only concession to subtle, as she pointed over my shoulder. “This end of the bar, wearing the leather jacket and the sexy scowl. He’s abso-fucking-luscious. Check out those shoulders. And those hands. If he doesn’t have a huge willy and know exactly what to do with it, I’ll eat my tits. That guy’s not just smokin’, he’s on fire. As are my lady bits right now.”
“Well spotted,” Imogen agreed, which for her was like erecting a shrine to the guy.
I swung round to take a look, ready to be unimpressed. My standards were a good deal higher than Tash’s. But as my gaze landed on Mr Abso-Fucking-Luscious – because it had to be him – my heartbeat slowed to a crawl and then galloped to light speed.
He certainly had the wow factor. Because even though my lady bits had never been as combustible as Tash’s, they were definitely doing a happy dance.
Day-old stubble covered a chiseled jaw and sculpted cheekbones, complementing the thick dark hair that flowed down to touch the collar of his jacket. I dug my nails into my palms, to contain the urge to run my fingers through the unkempt waves, which looked tactile and sexily disheveled instead of stiff with product. The black jeans and battered jacket completed the rough-around-the-edges look, fitting his muscular body and wide shoulders to perfection.
And every single thing about him screamed: I couldn’t give a shit about Valentine’s Day.
My pulse jumped. Mr. Abso-Fucking-Luscious wasn’t just hot, he looked like a badass. No wonder he stood out from the Soho crowd – who probably thought going to a party in Peckham was a walk on the wild side.
Then again, what single person wouldn’t feel surly after walking into a bar decorated in heart-shaped balloons and packed to the rafters with boozy women sporting sparkly penis-shaped deely boppers?
I smiled, recognizing a fellow hostage to the loved-up party atmosphere and the warm glow of kinship combined with the heady blast of heat, melting my vulva.
The vision of kneeling in front of him to locate the zip tab on his jeans with my teeth blasted into my brain and sent all the blood spiraling south.
James T. Kirk, eat your heart out.
“He’s even hotter than Chris Pine circa two thousand and nine,” I murmured.
Tash did a fist pump. “Excellent, we have a winner. Now let’s figure out how to hook you two up for the evening.”
But then the stranger lifted his fingers to attract the barman’s attention. And the barman instantly detached his gaze from the cleavage he had been chatting up most of the evening as if responding to his master’s voice.
I gulped down another mouthful of daiquiri – with a hefty dose of reality. “I’m not approaching him.” I was a booty call virgin, for fuck’s sake. Running before I could walk would risk me going arse over tit and flattening what was left of my bruised ego for good. I really did not need to feel any more inadequate. Tonight, of all nights.
“Don’t be daft, why not?” Tash asked. “He’s perfect. You said so yourself.”
“No, I didn’t. I said he was hot. But there’s hot, and there’s too hot.” I gave Tash my best ‘duh’ look. “I don’t want to get burned. I should start with someone less intimidating…” I nodded towards a thin bespectacled guy playing on one of the bar’s vintage pinball machines, who Tash and Imo had discarded a minute ago. “How about Mark Zuckerberg over there?”
“Mark is out.” Tash was adamant. “He’s probably more interested in getting onto the leader board than scoring a touchdown with you. And those glasses have definite nurture-me vibes. Too hot is what you want, or you’ll only get hooked into his nerd drama and go into share and discuss mode. That’s how you ended up letting Vince the Prick move in with you, remember? When he told you that sob story about his mother which wasn’t even true.”
Fair point.
My gaze landed back on Mr. Too Hot. “But what if I get hooked into this guy’s drama? He looks sort of lonely don’t you think?” The surly look had to have a cause. I wondered what it could be. Had he been dumped on Valentine’s Day too?
“Rosie, focus.” Tash snapped her fingers in front of my nose. “You won’t get hooked into anything as long as you follow the three golden rules of booty call engagements.” She held up her fingers to count them down, as if instructing the pottery class at the art college where all three of us worked on how to make the perfect throw down. “No surnames. No personal questions and under no circumstances are you to consider keeping him. Remember this is a use-him-then-lose-him deal. No relationship agendas allowed. Or you could end up getting hurt again. And that is not what this is about.” Tash’s gaze locked back on her prey. “But I don’t think you need to worry. I can spot a badass at thirty paces. If that guy ever had a mother, he’s not looking for another.”
“Right,” I said.
Could I crush my curiosity about him? Ignore that blast of kinship? Put my desire to nurture on lockdown? Could one night of anonymous sex really cure my V-Day allergy and re-boot my love life?
I shot back the last of the blood red daiquiri to ease the dryness in my throat and refilled my glass. Then asked myself the toughest question of all.
Could I hook up with a complete stranger to find out?
My pulse raced, as I listened with half an ear to my BFFs composing the ‘perfect chat-up line,’ the hum of excitement surprising me.
An exceptionally hot complete stranger… There was that.
But then I saw the hot stranger’s brows draw down as he spoke to the barman, making the surly frown even hotter. And my anticipation raced straight back into that brick wall called reality.
Forget perfect. This chat-up line was going to have to be super-human if it was going to get a dangerous badass like him to want to hook up with sweet Rosie Smith from Planet Safe and So Not That Sexy.
Cal:
“Give me a glass of whatever beer you’ve got on tap,” I shouted above the collective shrieking of the party of women behind me wearing bouncing pink dicks on their heads. The noise had been drilling into my frontal lobe ever since I’d walked into the bar a minute ago.
“Sorry, mate, the taps are out,” the barman replied. “We’ve got bottles of cherry-flavored lager or strawberry, or pomegranate cocktails left and that’s about it.”
I scowled at the guy, who looked about seventeen. Son of a bitch, who did I have to kill to get a drink tonight that wasn’t fucking pink? “Guinness?”
Baby-face nodded. “Bottled, yeah. Although I can’t guarantee it’s cold.”
“Not a problem, I’ll take one.” I’d worked for six months in a pub in Temple Bar eleven years ago, back when I’d first arrived in Europe, age eighteen, looking for anonymity, adventure and a chance to take my photography to the next level. The pictures I’d taken in Dublin’s tourist mecca had mostly been of gullible tourists and hammered rugby fans, but while I was there, I’d discovered the smooth, rich, restorative qualities of Ireland’s favorite stout. And smooth was what I needed tonight, to blunt the jagged edges after six days spent handling my old man’s affairs and dealing with the ghosts of my childhood, a shock reveal which I still didn’t know what the fuck to do about and twenty-four hours spent traveling back to London from the bum-fuck small town near Buffalo in Upstate New York where I’d grown up.
Drinking alone tonight would be bad, because of all the stuff I didn’t want to think about after burying my father – not to mention the nightmare that had accosted me at the funeral. So, I’d jumped off the subway from Heathrow at Leicester Square and headed into Soho. Forgetting tonight was Valentine’s Day had been my second mistake. But I was stuck in the eye of the storm now until I got hammered enough to be able to face my empty apartment. Drinking anything pink, though, was out, because I did not need another reminder that every guy in this place was more likely to get laid tonight than me.
Hell, probably even Barman Baby Face.
What I wouldn’t give to have a warm body to take home and slide up against tonight. A body which was soft and round in all the right places and smelled of perfume and sin and could help take the emptiness away, no questions asked. But that wasn’t going to happen, because women always had questions, even when it came to one-night hook-ups – especially if you made the mistake of trying to hook up on Valentine’s Day. And anything resembling conversation was off the agenda after a week spent talking to funeral directors and lawyers and IRS bureaucrats… And the fancy lawyer that Grade-A shit Decker had sent along to crematorium.
“We need to talk, Mr. Landry. My client Carlton Decker has asked me to contact you on his behalf to discuss the trust fund he wishes to give you.”
The strained words whispered into my ear echoed in my head from two days before.
Who the hell did that fancy billionaire motherfucker think he was? Trying to dump that crap on me at my old man’s funeral? And sending one of his minions to make contact, because he was either too self-important or too chicken shit to show up himself. Dan Landry had been the only father I wanted, the only father that meant anything. I didn’t want to know what had happened between Decker and my mom the summer before I was born. Not now. Not ever.
My fingers clenched into a fist, all the fury and confusion that had burst out when I was a kid – and I’d seen the suspicious looks, heard the whispered comments, endured the taunts of the other kids – came flooding back. My knuckles throbbed with the familiar urge to hit out instead of holding back.
“Don’t believe a word of it, kid, your mom was a good woman. Whatever they’re saying you’ve got to turn the other cheek, because you’re the only one who’s getting hurt.”
The memory of my father’s weary faith in a woman who had never deserved it had my fingers releasing. I flexed my hand and waited for the urge to pass. The way I’d finally learned to do back then, by using my camera lens to separate myself and my life from the endless gossip and name-calling and small-mindedness of the good people of West Daley – who all seemed to think that someone else’s business was theirs to own.
Shake it off. You don’t have to punch Decker. You just have to ignore him. He can’t buy you off, because you don’t need or want his billions. You’ve got your own money.
I’d torn up the lawyer’s embossed card, with the address of Decker’s fancy bolt hole on Central Park West on it right in front of him. I wasn’t ever going to contact his boss. So that was the end of it. No harm, no foul.
Even so, when the barman returned with my Guinness, I stared into the dark liquid and knew it was going to take a lot more than one bottle to get hammered enough to go home alone tonight. I took a long drag, and let the rich malty taste start to take some of the bitterness away.
But as I threw a ten-pound note on to the bar, slim fingers touched my forearm. I turned and tensed, the sight of the heart-shaped face beaming at me making me feel as if I’d just taken a sucker punch to the gut.
Her apple cheeks glowed in the muted lighting from the bar. The dusky pink of her skin contrasting with the fluorescent cocktail she had in her hand.
I sucked in a careful breath, getting my bearings back.
She wasn’t what you’d call conventionally pretty. Her mouth was a little too wide, the red-brown curls rioting round her face a mess, her eyes slanted at the edges to give them a sleepy quality. But she was striking – the high cheekbones, the delicate line of her throat, the pulse fluttering in her collarbone and those come-to-bed sea-green eyes. My fingers itched again, but this time for the Leica that was packed in the bag at my feet – the desire to take some shots of her instant and unstoppable.
But then her small white teeth dug into her bottom lip and professional interest was obliterated by the swift kick of lust.
Her lush mouth curved up and the crooked half-smile looked so hot, I began to wonder if she was actually real. Was I hammered already? After one sip? I had to be more fucked up than I thought.
“Hello…” She cleared her throat, the single word coming out on a husk of breath and relief spun through my system. She was real all right. And not just a figment of my desperation to get laid. Good to know.
“Hi.” I noticed the sparkle of interest in her eyes and hoped like hell it was the result of her appreciation, and not inebriation.
She lifted her fingers from my arm, and I missed the light pressure through my jacket immediately.
“I have a favor to ask you,” she said, the smoky English accent speaking directly to my cock. And making me totally forget why I wasn’t in the mood for small talk tonight.
“Yeah?” Whatever the favor was, her cheeks were glowing redder than the cocktail now.
“My friends, who are over there…” She pointed across the bar, and I clocked a couple of women in the booth opposite waving. “Have come up with what they think is the perfect chat-up line and dared me to use it on you. So, if you could just pretend I’m doing that for a minute I’d appreciate it or I’ll never hear the end of it.”
She climbed onto the stool beside me and veered to one side.
I grabbed her elbow to stop her toppling any further. She gave a squeak of distress, her skin soft and warm under my fingers, before her fluorescent drink splattered my T-shirt.
“Oh shit. I’m so sorry.” Dumping the glass, she grabbed napkins from the dispenser on the bar. “I knew this would be a disaster.”
“Was that part of the pick-up plan?” I asked, enjoying the feel of her fingers dabbing frantically at my pec. And then feeling kind of pathetic. Exactly how long had it been since a hot woman had touched me?
She met my gaze, those slanted eyes going round with confusion.
“To cover me in cocktail?” I elaborated, wondering why any woman who had that striking face, and eyes that arresting shade of blue green would need a pick-up line.
“Oh no, not at all, that was an accident…”
“Then let’s have it.”
“Have what?” She stopped dabbing, and her teeth sunk back into that pouty bottom lip. She’d chewed off any lipstick, leaving the skin naturally reddened. My crotch twitched at the thought of nipping the plump curve and then licking it better.
“The perfect pick-up line?” I coaxed. “What is it?”
She shook her head, making the red-brown curls bounce on her shoulders. “I’m not telling you. It’s awful.”
My first genuine smile in over a week began to work its way loose from my chest. “That bad, huh?”
“Worse,” she said with feeling. “It’s so bad it could get me arrested. For crimes against flirting. They think they’re being helpful because I have an allergy to Valentine’s Day.”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
Her wide mouth tipped up at the edges, and my head began to spin. Had to be from the jet lag.
“If they don’t, they should have,” she said, her enthusiastic agreement making me wonder what her gripe could be? Because she looked like the type who would usually buy into all the hearts-and-flowers bullshit. Her open face and wide eyes guileless enough to give Bambi a run for his money.
“I promise not to have you arrested,” I said, hoping the line was filthy. Something dirty coming out of that lush mouth would be almost as erotic as watching her chew her lip.
“It’s hopelessly cheesy,” she countered. Then glared at her friends, who were still watching our every move as if they had stakes in this game.
“Pick-up lines usually are.” Not that I had a lot in my arsenal. I generally preferred straight talking when it came to booty calls. But I was intrigued now. As well as being seriously turned on.
She licked her top lip, her tongue touching the dip in the center. I felt the phantom stroke right across the head of my cock.
Damn, that mouth was killing me.
“Do you absolutely promise not to have me arrested?” she said.
I crossed a finger over the sticky patch on my chest. “I swear. Now quit stalling and let’s have it.”
“All right, but remember you asked for it.” She took a deep breath, the top button on her shirt straining just enough to tease. The hint of cleavage was coy — too damn coy — leaving far too much to my sex-starved imagination.
She blew the breath back out. “Okay, so, I’m supposed to tell you, I’m giving out free hugs for Valentine’s Day and that you look like you need one.” Her blush shot back into the red zone. “You see what I mean? So cheesy it hurts.”
And nowhere near as filthy as I’d hoped.
“What makes you think I need a free hug?” I asked, frowning, irritated her dumb line had somehow tapped straight into that hollow spot inside me — the space which had opened up a week ago when I’d gotten the two a.m. call from the Sheriff’s Department in my old home town telling me my father had died from a heart condition I hadn’t even known he had.
“Because you looked so pissed off…” she said, her voice going soft and apologetic.
I tried to dial back the frown. Don’t scare her off, you dick.
“Which is perfectly understandable given all the bouncing plastic penises on display here tonight…” she added quickly. But then she tilted her head to the side, considering. “And because you really do look sort of sad too.”
I stared at her, thrown off, not sure what the hell to say. I didn’t spill my guts to women —especially not ones I’d just met who were feeding me cheesy pick-up lines in a bar. And I wasn’t about to start unloading the crap about my dad’s funeral or the shit storm Decker had tried to dump on me. But her easy understanding? It unsettled me. Was it really that obvious?
Work harder, Landry.
But before I could figure out how to deflect, how to cover the crappy mood I’d brought in here with me, she climbed off the stool.
“All of which is none of my business. I should go.”
“Hey, wait up.” I snagged her wrist before she could disappear. No way I was letting her get away. I could still salvage the seduction here — hell, it had serious potential to give me exactly the distraction I needed tonight. I just had to find that guy I’d been a week ago, before that goddamned phone call.
The guy who could travel the world taking photos of other people’s pain without letting it hit too close to home. The guy who never had to deal with his own drama, because he’d become a master at pretending it didn’t exist. The guy who never had a problem talking a beautiful woman into mutually assured orgasms — and always knew how to deliver.
That guy would have already knocked this potential booty call out of the ballpark – and into the sack.
“I don’t need a free hug,” I said. Just so we were clear.
She nodded, but the look in her sea-green eyes said she didn’t believe me. Worse, it said she still saw more than I wanted her to.
Time to play hardball.
“But a free kiss…” I leaned in and whispered the words against her ear. I felt her shiver and caught a lungful of her scent — fresh and sultry and full of promise. My cock tightened in my jeans, strangled by need. “A free kiss I could sure make use of.”
Her teeth caught her bottom lip again, and just like that, the smile I’d been holding hostage for over a month worked itself loose.
Hell yeah, Cal Landry the player king is back.
