Chapter 1
The only time I went to a bar alone was when a guy dumped me. I didn’t want my roommates, Veronica and Katrine, to find out for as long as possible. I knew they would blame me. “He wasn’t right for you, we told you why you got involved with him,” they’d tell me. I was tired of hearing that shit.
Yes, I chose the bad guys. I realized that in high school when I lost my virginity in the back of Daniel Sparks’ convertible. And the next day he blabbed to everyone that we had slept together. Thank God he didn’t take pictures. Otherwise, the shame would have followed me all the way to graduation. So, my classmates gossiped for a week, and then the high school football team lost in the quarter-finals, and everyone forgot about me.
I sat in the bar and drank a dark beer. That was another sign that things were bad - dark beer. I only drank it when I had bad news, and my boyfriend had cheated on me - the worst news ever.
It was just like in the movies - in our bed, in the studio apartment we had rented a few weeks before, on the sheets I had bought. I really thought things were going to work out with him.
Unfortunately, no. Sadness crept into my throat, but I drank the first bottle and replaced the sadness with anger. I didn’t care.
“Another bottle!” I shouted to the bartender and he quickly opened a second bottle.
Santa Monica was hot and the bars were crowded. The fun here was almost as endless as the summer. The days were sunny and in the evenings the coast came alive: garlands burning in the twilight, lanterns strung along the waterfront, the sound of the ocean and music playing in the bars. People were drunk, happy, and in love. But not me, not tonight.
I had to think about what to do next. I couldn’t go home, because this place couldn’t be my home now. Tomorrow I’d get my things and go back to the girls. And tomorrow I’d listen to the usual speeches from Veronica and Katrine. They hadn’t rented out my room yet. They probably knew in their hearts that it would be relationship as usual. They were right, I’d say from the doorway as I carried my huge suitcase into the apartment. I was going to leave the new sheets at my ex’s place. I couldn’t use them now that I knew he and some whore had slept on them.
“I’m so pissed off about all this!” I said aloud, taking a big gulp of beer.
“I always get dark beer and then complain that it tastes bitter,” someone replied to my words. I turned my head to see a very attractive dark-haired man, a little over thirty, smiling and looking at me, obviously waiting for a drink.
“I’m not complaining about the beer,” I grinned and turned away.
No, I wasn’t going to hang out tonight, especially not with one of those guys. I took another look at him. He was wearing a tight black T-shirt, and both arms were tattooed from shoulder to wrist and fingers. He wore a chain of thick links around his neck and excitement danced in his dark, almost black eyes.
“And what kind of celebration brought you to the bar alone?”
“I broke up with an idiot and now I’m completely free.”
Why the hell did I say that?
“So, you’re free tonight?”
“No, I’ve had enough of one idiot, I don’t need another one.”
It was too rough, but he’d be off my back in no time, as long as he didn’t punch me in the face. You can expect anything from a guy like that. But I’m the kind of woman who knows how to stand up for myself - a bottle of dark beer is a great way to break a hard head. But the guy laughed back, yes, he laughed so hard.
“You’re funny, have a good night,” he picked up his drink and went to the table.
I screwed up and didn’t fully grasp the situation. Lost in my thoughts, I planned exactly what I’m going to do tomorrow. A haircut is a must. A new haircut will not only give me a fresh start, it will also signal to my friends that something’s wrong. Running my fingers through my long hair, I decide on a bob for tomorrow.
But what about tonight, after the second bottle of beer? I consider the easy option - a third bottle. But then what? I can’t go home and visiting my friends is out of the question. Maybe I could go to my brother’s. He’d welcome me anytime, in any condition, but I’d have to put up with more of his lectures. On the plus side, his spacious house has a Jacuzzi and he’d probably let me uncork a bottle of his finest wine at the bar. His luxurious brand name sheets are soft and cozy. Ironically, it’s his fault that I bought the bedding for the new house. I was just imitating my brother, Gregory.
He has always been this way - pedantic, organized, meticulous about every detail, probably the traits that led him to become a cop. And then there’s me - an asshole, as my parents used to say. Despite my alcoholic father and a mother who, divorced, had driven across the continent and settled somewhere in Vermont, only calling once a year.
“Hi,” someone pulled me out of my thoughts again. This time it was a brown haired guy with long bobbed hair who looked about 30 years old. He was wearing a bright Hawaiian shirt and one arm was completely covered in tattoos. And when I say completely, I don’t mean that it had some sort of pattern and symbol on it. No, the shoulder was a solid dark blue blur.
Bad guys were all over me that day. No, don’t think I judge a book by its cover, that a man with tattoos and piercings is automatically bad. It was not about that; it was about energy. Bad guys have a cheeky, I would even say cocky look, coupled with a smirk or half-smirk; they looked seductive and they knew it. There was something alluring about their look. You were drawn to them even though you knew you were going to burn your wings. That’s how it was...
