The Real Deal

A huge grin crosses her face. “Good. That’s what I like to hear. Let’s be friends again. How about that delightful pale ale?”

“Coming right up.” I pour and slide it to her. She takes a thirsty gulp, smacks her lips, and pronounces it “delicious.”

A few minutes later, she tosses some bills my way. “I look forward to you honoring your side of the deal. Then we can put the past behind us. Wouldn’t that be great?”

“Sure would,” I say in the understatement of the year. It would be the best thing ever.

She leaves, and once the door swings shut, I flip her the bird. No one sees me do it, and it does absolutely nothing to change the situation, but it lets me blow off much-needed steam.

Another customer waltzes in, so I say hello, and before he even sits down, I pour a glass for the grizzled old dude who brings his e-reader here every day so he can read and drink, and drink and read. He thanks me, clicks open his book, and begins filling the gas tank.

I drag a hand through my hair, push on the door to the kitchen, and look at the clock. One more hour, and then maybe I’ll be that much closer to getting the past off my back.

*

When I clock out and head for the park, anticipation runs through my veins like a good buzz on a night out. A reunion booking could be my way out of trouble. A five-day gig might bring me very close to the finish line.

Along the way, I stop in front of a dry cleaner, check my reflection in the plateglass shop window, and reckon that I look the part April wants: dark jeans, motorcycle boots, and well-worn T-shirt that shows off the ink on my arms. Tribal bands, a sunburst, and a compass. I haven’t shaved in two days, and my stubble is rough. If she wanted clean-cut and business attire, I’d have covered up the tats with a crisp white shirt and a fine silk tie, then slid a blade across my jaw in the A.M. If she wanted sophisticated, I’d have given her the smooth, James Bond voice to boot. She could have me as a country boy, even, in a pair of steel-toed cowboy boots and with the drawl to match.

But April wants the guy who might have screwed her in the restroom of a bar.

She wants gravel and sandpaper, ink and danger, shades and leather.

The more you give someone what they want, the more you get in return.

When I reach the park, I head to the Terrace Bridge. She’s not here, but I’m early, since I like to get a read on any and every situation. I scan the surrounding area, noting the benches, the nearby tables, the cool placid water gurgling under the bridge. June in New York City can seduce you or it can trick you.

What it has in store today is anyone’s guess. I lean my hip against the stone railing, and I wait.

Two minutes later, I spot a threesome walking in my direction. My heart thumps, and I groan quietly.

Why does the universe do this to me?

Blond curls, lips like a bow, a tight trim waist. Even from several yards away, I can tell she wears little makeup—she has that fresh-faced, rosy glow about her, and something innocent yet knowing in her expression. Like Lily James, whom I developed a wicked crush on when I watched her in her latest movie.

April’s not tiny, but she’s not towering either. Maybe five-three, five-four. A delicious dream. Which translates roughly to “just my type.” She wears tight jeans, a long black shirt that clings to her figure, and a huge silver necklace with a heart charm that dangles between her breasts.

As if I wouldn’t already be checking them out without the pendant between them.

I’ve had many clients. Keeping it platonic has never been an issue since I’ve never been attracted to a customer.

Until now.

Looks like I’ll be getting familiar with how to resist temptation.





Chapter Five

April

Look, I’m keenly aware that if I answered his ad under any other circumstances, I’d be insane.

I might be known to get a little wild, to try crazy things—that hot sauce–eating contest was a doozy, though I swear cliff diving naked was actually quite fun, and I would do any upside-down roller coaster twenty times in a row, thank you very much.

But I don’t have a death wish. If I were simply trawling the web for a used exercise bike or a place to pawn off my collection of Barry Manilow LPs—I won them years ago in a drunken bet in college, and I’ve held on to them because I’m convinced in my heart of hearts that someone will give them a good home someday—I wouldn’t need to bring reinforcements for the transaction.

Actually, on second thought, I would definitely take a friend when handing off my albums. I bet there are horror stories of people getting snuffed for Manilow LPs. That dude can sing.

But this is different because Xavier vouched for Theo. He’s not some random guy I found online. He’s a referral. A recommendation who simply happens to run a business off the somewhat outdated site.

Even so, a woman needs to be careful. As we enter Prospect Park, we make an interesting tableau. Tom is broad and shaped like a backboard of a tennis court. He’s made of concrete, and accessorized with muscle. Claire in her killer boots and midnight-black hair is like a femme fatale superhero. They flank me, the innocent waif between them. We could be in a slow-mo frame of a film right now, as we walk Reservoir Dogs style. Damn, I wish it were winter and I had a trench coat flowing behind me in the breeze.

June in the city is humid as an armpit, and my shirt sticks to me. We head to the bridge, looking for a man with a compass tattoo on his right biceps and a well-worn navy blue shirt. My eyes swing around the park, hunting for my “new boyfriend.”

I spot a silhouette on the bridge, and the movie sequence freezes.

This is the zoom shot.

A man with the most perfect arms I’ve ever seen leans casually against the stone railing, a thumb in his pocket, looking cool, dark, and badass.

He grins. The most deliciously endearing lopsided smile I’ve ever seen. As I get closer, I see his T-shirt: LOVE SUCKS. TRUE LOVE SWALLOWS.

I extend a hand. It’s not tingles at first clasp, but he does have a large hand, and that makes me think about other things. If you know what I mean.

Good thing I’m in a look but don’t touch phase of my twentysomething life. The view is indeed lovely. I quickly introduce Tom and Claire, and after quick nods and hellos, they linger a few steps behind us.

“The shirt is a keeper,” I say to Theo, cutting straight to the chase. No need for formalities or how was your days?

“It’s perfect for us, isn’t it, cupcake?” he says, already whipping out a term of endearment. “I can’t think of a better way to signify our true and deep connection at your family reunion.”

Whoa.

Xavier does not lie. I’m buying him the new bath and body wash he’s been coveting. I’m buying him a whole crate.

Because … that voice.

It’s deep and gravelly and sexy as hell. His voice might get me pregnant. I better take birth control so I don’t conceive aurally.

“It was instant, wasn’t it?” I let go of his hand as I pick up the thread. “The night I met you at the bar.”

He segues without missing a beat. “When you ordered the Slippery Nipple, you gave me that smoldering, sexy look. The one in your eyes right now.”

“I have a smoldering look in my eyes?” I think my voice might have just squeaked.

He raises his hand, and nearly touches my cheek. It’s like he leaves the imprint of his fingers on the air. He gazes into my eyes. I might be tipsy from the way he looks at me. “Yeah, that one. Those eyes across the bar. It was fucking irresistible.”

“Was it?” I suddenly feel wobbly. I feel like this made-up tale could be true.

“I never get it on with patrons. It’s a rule. But then you walked into the bar. What could I do?” The man doesn’t look away. He’s so damn good, I’m convinced this is how we met.