Two months ago…
‘It’s official, you guys fucking smashed it!’ I yell, raising up my glass of champagne, and the guys of Shadow Phoenix and their wives lift theirs to clink them together. I don’t give two fucks about this place being classy and upscale as hell. Despite being the manager for one of the biggest bands in the world for more than a goddamn decade—yes, that makes me feel old as fuck, by the way—I’m still not used to all the glitz and glamour of Hollywood.
So, I’ll rock the hell out of my sparkly green gown that hugs every curve and shows off way more leg than is decent, but even my attention-grabbing dress can’t make up for my mouth. Ah, well. I consider it one of my many positive attributes. You know, the ones you’re sure someone will love you for someday, if you can just find the right person.
Who wouldn’t love a wife who tells her phone to fuck off regularly when it rings at inopportune times? Or who likes to occasionally drink her beer through a Twizzler like a straw? Hey, don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it, Judgy McJudgerson.
My eyes flick across the room to my own personal fantasy—all six feet two of him in his black-on-black suit. I know he’s got a sleeve of tattoos underneath the pressed jacket that’s straining against his biceps. If I let my imagination run away with me, I’d guess others were hidden away in less obvious places I’d like to hunt down with my tongue.
His dark hair is swept neatly to the side, but I’ve seen him often enough to know it’s usually sticking up messy, in that way that the hot as fuck guys do that makes it look like they don’t give a shit about how they look, when you know it probably took them longer to get ready than you. I let my eyes drop and look my fill, not caring even a little if he catches me eye-fucking him.
Maybe if he does, I’ll get laid.
And with that thought, I give myself the mental smackdown. Not only is Ronin Desai someone I have to work with regularly, but I am so beyond the point of casual hookups it’s not even funny. Sure, there are probably cobwebs in the dark corners of my vagina at this point, but I’m determined, damn it.
If I have to suffer another weekly phone call with my mom vomiting all the ways my married-with-a-baby-on-the-way brother is making all her dreams come true, I’ll slit my wrists.
I finally tear my eyes off Ronin, disappointed his dark eyes didn’t find me across the room despite my newfound self-control, and tune back into my clients. They’re what matters tonight, making sure everything is perfect for their newest album debut.
They’re so much more than clients, though, and their wives are my besties. I’d be lost without them, but I’m also jealous as hell. They’re all married, or on their way to that, with kids of their own. Sometimes it fucking sucks to be the single one of the group.
Honestly, I never thought I’d be the girl who even wanted that shit. In the past, if someone handed me a baby, I wanted to throw it across the room to get it away from me lest I catch some baby-making dust somehow. Obviously, I would never throw a baby. What am I, a complete moron?
Still, somewhere along the way, what I wanted changed. Maybe it’s that stupid biological clock bullshit you always hear about, but this sudden push I’m feeling probably has more to do with my brother Damon and how he’s always been the perfect one, and for once—just once—it’d be great if I wasn’t a disappointment.
Whatever it is, my five-year plan has suddenly become a one-year plan, and this girl has no time for guys who won’t commit.
I do a quick spin to see if anyone needs anything—drinks, food, drugs, hookers, whatever. Okay, so my job isn’t exactly a nine-to-five behind a desk, but to be fair, hookers need to eat, too, and drugs aren’t gonna do themselves. Everyone appears to be occupied and happy, and with the new Shadow Phoenix album blasting over the speakers and the chatter over top of it, my ears are at that point after a concert where they’re simultaneously buzzing and sort of feel like they’re bleeding. I figure it’s a good time to head to the bathroom.
Champagne goes right through me, so I’m practically dancing my way back to the bathroom. Even though this is technically a work function, it’s also my most favorite clients and best friends, so I say fuck doing the stuffy thing I should do and barely sip one drink. I’m well on my way to drunk. I can’t even remember the last time I let my hair down and partied at a work function, and I forgot how much fun it can be. At least I’m not the only one dancing, so I don’t look like a schmuck, though I’m the only one doing a pee-pee dance on my way to the bathroom.
After I do my business and shimmy my dress back into place—seriously, who makes floor-length formal gowns without some sort of plan for when a girl has to pee?—I decide to check my lipstick in the mirror.
Okay, so tonight, I might’ve gone all out knowing that Connor and his security guys would be here as guests instead of security for once. Ronin’s been my secret crush for way too long, even though he’s totally off-limits. It would be wildly unprofessional to bang someone I work with. My career is the one thing I’ve got going for me, so I’m not about to risk making things awkward for my best clients by letting the literal man of my dreams possess my body in ways I can only imagine.
I know he would, too. Ronin has spent many a night in my head painstakingly memorizing every single inch of my flesh. Too bad in this case fantasy is all I’ll ever have. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to make a lasting impression and maybe leave him wanting more. A girl can plot and plan, right?
The security team is more important than my libido, and Ronin’s one of the best. Shadow Phoenix can’t lose him watching their backs.
Damn, my lipstick looks like I just finished blowing the entire Seattle Coyotes football team. Like, how the fuck does that even happen? I was just drinking my champagne, and yet there’s red smeared all over the place. Jesus.
I grab a paper towel—no wait, that’s cloth, fancy bathroom having motherfuckers—and wipe off the mess, grabbing my lipstick out of my bra to reapply.
Yes, my bra is basically the female equivalent of a tool belt, but since my dress doesn’t have pockets, I resort to this bullshit whenever I’m forced to forgo my usual badass boss bitch wear—a.k.a. the trifecta of Alexander McQueen, Prada, and Armani—and class it up.
The door creaks open, but I don’t bother looking at whoever’s coming into the bathroom. That’s not exactly a comfortable thing when you need to pee, and every chick in the place turns to look at you squeezing your legs together and hurrying toward the stall.
My lips are sufficiently repainted in red, and I grin, checking my teeth for rogue lipstick. Once I’m sure I don’t look like a clown, I pop the lid on and slip it back into the side of my bra, wiggling the girls a bit to make sure everything’s even in there and my cleavage is on point.
A statuesque brunette saunters up beside me in that way that screams old money—you know, like she’s actually floating across the ground rather than daring to step foot down onto the floor like some fucking peasant—and looks down her nose at me, sneering like she’s smelled something bad.
Though, maybe that’s just her face. Her admittedly stunningly gorgeous face.
Bitch.
‘Can I help you with something?’ I ask in my sweetest voice that’s also super snotty. I really hope it’s coming through how much I want to tell her to go ram her vibrator up her desert-dry cooch and relax. Hopefully, it’s the kind that has the rabbit ears because I’m not a heathen and even bitchy girls deserve clit stimulation sometimes.
‘Yeah, you can stop staring at my date.’ Her voice is nice and icy, and I almost want to high-five her for how well she’s pulling off this whole Cruella de Ville vibe right now.
I make a whole show of looking around the entire bathroom, noting we’re the only two in here. ‘Did you happen to take yourself to this little soiree or…?’
She rolls her eyes like I’m dense, and I’m seriously tempted to kick her shin with my Louboutin’s. That four-inch heel is quite the weapon when pissed off enough to wield it. ‘I came here with Ronin. I saw you practically undressing him with your eyes.’
Oh, honey. If she only knew I was also imagining using my tongue to explore all the uncharted territory of his muscular physique, and that he and I have a regular standing date in my dreams every night, her head might actually fly off her body.
‘Yeah, and?’ I tap my fingernails on the marble counter, beyond over this conversation.
She grits her teeth, the perfect pearly white expanse of them showing too much, so her smile comes off just a touch psychotic. Really, it fits her perfectly. ‘Considering he’s my boyfriend, I’m going to go ahead and say he’s not interested. Leave him alone.’
Without giving me a chance to claw her eyes out or anything, she spins, and I curse as I have to duck out of the way of her epic hair flip as she exits the room. I’m not going to acknowledge the way my stomach dropped so hard it splatted on the fancy marble floor at her words, or the way I want to punch the wall or, you know, her stupid face.
Nope. I’m not going to admit that shit is disappointing, even though I’m definitely not looking for a hookup and also definitely not trying to get underneath—or on top of—a guy I have to regularly see at work. Doesn’t matter that he’s perfect and sinfully hot, the kind that has me drenched and panting the second I’m in his presence.
Does. Not. Matter.
Because it’s gotta be easy to find more than one of those, right? They say there’s one person out there for everyone, but who are they to be in charge of something like that? Whoever they are, fuck them, and I refuse to buy into that because if it’s true…
What am I supposed to do now?
Suddenly, I’m so ready to be done with this night and get the hell out of here. Between my mom’s patronizing voice floating around in my head, my stupid jealousy over my friends and their happy lives, and now this, I’m out. The last thing I want to do is watch Little Miss Hair Flip all over my crush, so instead, I push my chin up higher and strut out of the bathroom with the fakest smile in the history of smiles plastered on my face, like my stomach isn’t in my throat and there’s not a claustrophobic tightness in my chest.
The sparkle of the night has worn off, and now everything seems to have a tarnished light about it as I rejoin my friends—or maybe I’m just being a dramatic bitch. It’s been known to happen.
‘You okay?’ Kennedy, one of my BFFs and the wife of Shadow Phoenix’s lead singer, looks me over with concern.
I nod, grabbing another glass of champagne off the tray of a waiter passing by and tossing it back in one. Her eyebrows lift toward her hairline, but she doesn’t say anything. ‘I’m great. Fantastic, even. Also, I need to go. Are you guys good here?’ I ask Kennedy, even though she’s not my client or a member of the band. Still, she’ll know if they need anything since she’s taken on the role of mother hen of the group.
She studies me longer since it’s not like me to leave early, and I squirm under her observant gaze. Finally, she blows out a breath. ‘Yeah, go. I’ll text you in the morning.’
I hurry through my goodbyes, checking out with the guys in the band. This right here is insanely amateurish, leaving my clients to fend for themselves at an event not only important to their career but that I put together.
But, my skin feels like it’s too small, and the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I feel eyes on me. I spin, searching the crowd for who might be watching, and I find a set of dark, hypnotic eyes locked on me. My breath catches in my throat, and damn if my knees don’t get weak enough that I stumble.
I’m blaming my lack of grace on the alcohol and definitely not on the walking sex on a stick across the room. Figures he’d notice me on my way out, with the brunette plastered to his side glaring at me like I shit in her Fendi bag or something. Her glare is a potent mix of disgust and hate that makes me wonder if she’s a psychopath. Maybe I should be flattered he’s never shown any interest if this chick is the kind of girl he’s into.
Breaking away from the clusterfuck to my right and cursing that travesty of women’s empowerment in the form of the willowy leech attached to Ronin’s arm, I get the hell out of there.
Instead of going straight home, I Uber to the bar down the block from my apartment. I might’ve had a few drinks at the party, but I’m at the hoping-to-drink-until-I-can’t-think-anymore-and-pass-out level of unsettled about everything that happened tonight with Ronin and the girl in the bathroom. Oh, and Damon’s incredible news. Like it’s so fucking hard to have a baby. You have sex. Bam. People do that shit on accident all the damn time. My brother is a goddamn mechanic—not that there’s anything wrong with that—but I’m at the top of my field and make seven figures a year.
What more does a girl have to do to get an I’m proud of you out of her own mother?
Jesus, listen to me. I never considered myself one of those pathetically emotional drunks, so maybe I’m hitting a new low.
Shoving aside my deep-rooted childhood issues, my mind flips back to Ronin. I still haven’t figured out why his having a girlfriend bothers me so much. It’s not like I have any claim to him, and even if I did, I’m not sure we’re at the same places in our lives.
My current wish list includes a smokeshow of a husband who worships me, that I can spend lazy Sundays with while we eat breakfast in bed, and who wants to put a couple of kids in me and support my career, too.
If I have to, I’ll forgo the husband. I’ve only got a year, after all. My five-year plan is now shot to hell thanks to my dickhead of a brother.
It really doesn’t feel like too much to ask. You’d think my standards are too high or something, considering how if I even breathe the slightest hint at wanting the C-word, any prospects I’ve found run for the Hollywood hills.
And by C-word, I mean commitment, obviously.
My favorite bartender Simon’s bright blue eyes light up when he sees me before he lifts his hand to wave as I walk through the door. The train of my way-too-fancy-for-this-place gown drags on the ground behind me. I look him over—from his wavy brown hair to the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles to the dimple that pops out in his left cheek—and wish for a few seconds that I felt the magnetic pull to him that I do with Ronin. It would make my life so much easier.
Sliding onto the barstool, I let out a massive sigh that borders on obnoxious, but I can’t help it. I’m fully embracing this pity party. ‘That bad, huh?’ Simon says with humor in his eyes as he slides a dark and stormy across the bar and into my waiting hand. It’s times like these I love having a bartender for a friend.
The rum burns pleasantly on the way down, and I lower my head to the bar top because I’m just so done with this night, and maybe with life in general right now. I can’t life anymore. ‘Why is it that every guy I ever want is unavailable? How hard should it be to find someone who realizes I’m the fucking best and wants to let me love them forever and ever? And for that someone to not have a girlfriend, be a commitment-phobe, or be gay? Oh, and also want a baby, like, yesterday?’ The words are a little mumbled, but I figure he gets the gist. He’s been at this job a while and hears sob stories every night.
Simon doesn’t say anything, so I lift my head, realizing there’s a good chance he got distracted by another customer and hasn’t even heard about how my love life is going all Chernobyl at the moment, and the weight of my failure to beat Damon in the grandkids race has me breaking out into an actual sweat. Seriously, it’s running down my cleavage. But there he is, leaning his elbow on the bar and watching me like I’m a specimen at the local zoo.
‘What?’ I ask defensively, wondering if my makeup has gone all fucked up again on account of the perspiration, but he just shakes his head like I’m being ridiculous and gives me a crooked grin.
‘What are you doing to find these douchebags?’
‘Well, I’ve met a few right here in your bar,’ I say, meeting his gaze steadily and daring him to say anything in defense of this place. He doesn’t, though, and instead, he rolls his eyes, motioning for me to go on. ‘And there’ve been a few from work functions.’ Not that I’ve been really trying to find someone long-term up until now. I thought I had more time. Fucking Damon.
Okay, yes. I might be a sucker for a fit guy who’s more on the gym rat side of things than not and who has the kind of confidence that says he has a big dick and also knows how to use it. Maybe in my early twenties, I didn’t know how to spot a guy like that and let me tell you, there were far too many nights spent finishing the job with some battery-operated assistance after a disappointing hookup.
Once I hit thirty, I lost all patience for that shit, and now I know how to spot someone who’ll be up to the task of multiple orgasms. Unfortunately, now I’m edging closer to thirty-five than thirty, and if I want to settle down and pop out a couple of kids before I hit forty, I have to draw a line in the sand and stop fucking around with guys who aren’t ready to give me what I want. Hence, the five-year-plan-turned-one-year-plan.
It’s how I got to where I am in my career, and I know my standards and willpower will work for this part of my life the same way, as long as I’m resolute and don’t give in when a guy with tattoos, muscles, and a dirty smirk tries to buy me a drink.
‘Okay,’ Simon says, dragging the word out, and I jump a little because I honestly forgot we were even talking. Drunk me is kind of an introspective asshole. ‘But what else? What about a co-worker or something?’
I wrinkle my nose as I sip my drink and think about the guys I work with. They’re all either way too old or that super douche kinda guy who uses fake tanner and way too much hair gel and thinks his small penis is the answer to every girl’s prayers. ‘All the money in the world wouldn’t tempt me to go there. Not only that, but it’s unprofessional as hell and I can’t have anything tainting my reputation,’ I finally say, slurping the last bit of my drink through the straw. My perfectionism and ambition got me to the top of my field, and my vagina’s not going to ruin it for me.
An image of Ronin in his suit pops unhelpfully into my head, but I shove it down and throw it a mental middle finger to get my point across. I’m refusing to dwell on what I can’t have and trying to look toward how I’m going to make my goals a reality. It’s what I do in business, and it’s how I need to approach this problem, too.
‘Clearly, I need a new plan, Simon, or I wouldn’t be here whining to my favorite bartender about how pathetic and baby-less I am. I might as well stop on the way home and adopt a couple of cats, maybe take up cross-stitch and make a sign for my wall that says happiness is just two batteries away.‘ I snort. My mom would love that. I can see her now, bragging to her friends about my brother’s many accomplishments and when someone asks about me, she’ll pretend I died young and revel in the sympathy.
Simon rolls his eyes for the second time in five minutes. ‘Someone’s awfully dramatic tonight. Why not try a dating app?’
‘Because I’m not that desperate yet.’
He lifts his eyebrow as if to say, really? And I glare at him because, okay, he might have a point.
‘I thought those were for people far younger than I am who are looking to hook up.’
‘Some are,’ he admits and then pulls his phone out and slides it across the bar while he gets to work mixing me another drink. I appreciate his dedication to the job, and I’m not sure if I’ve ever been more in need of alcohol than I am right now. ‘I’ve had a couple of good dates from this one.’
He drops my drink off and points to an app called Mixer. ‘Yeah, but you don’t have a girlfriend, so you’re not exactly selling it for me.’
‘Maybe not, but it’s only because the right girl hasn’t come along yet. It’s not just for hookups. C’mon, why not give it a try? Can you honestly say you think you’re doing better on your own?’ He eyes me up and down, and I don’t appreciate how his gaze turns knowing like he really sees me.
‘Fine,’ I huff, digging around in my bra for my phone. Simon averts his eyes like a gentleman as my tit almost falls out, and it’s then that I realize I’m a little drunker than I originally thought. At least my apartment is only three doors down.
Once my phone is free, I adjust my dress and unlock it, handing it over. Simon gets this wrinkle of concentration between his eyebrows as he taps away at the screen of my phone before holding it up and telling me to smile. I’m tempted to flip him off, but he sort of has a point about me trying something new, so instead, I grin and hope I don’t look deranged.
As long as my lipstick is still on point, I should be fine; otherwise, I might give off Joker vibes, and no guy wants that.
He’s still got my phone when I’m distracted by one of those guys I talked about earlier—the ones with perfect hair, a great smile, and all the big dick energy a girl could want—who left his group of equally hot friends to slip into the space between my barstool and the one next to it so I can feel the heat of his body and the brush of his rock hard thigh against mine while he asks me if he can buy me a drink.
‘Sorry, Sexykins, but I’m all done with hookups. Any chance you’d be into being my baby daddy?” I look up at him hopefully as a horrified expression crosses his face.
I sigh dramatically. “I totally appreciate the ego boost, and can I just say you’re the kind of hot that would’ve dropped me to my knees in thirty seconds if this were the old Montana? Sadly, I’ve turned a new leaf and my love tunnel is only open to serious offers. But I wish you luck in your future endeavors.’
Simon’s shoulders are shaking with silent laughter, and I give him an innocent, wide-eyed look like I don’t know what he could possibly find so funny.
I’m also distantly sure I called the guy standing too close Sexykins, but I’m trying not to dwell in the past.
“I’ve gotta say that’s a new one,” the hottie says with a crooked smile as he looks me over with obvious interest despite his initial freak out. “I think I prefer Luke, though.”
He holds out his hand for me to shake and I do, with a small smile. “Montana, but I’m still not the girl who’s gonna be in your bed tonight, Luke. Sorry to have to disappoint—because let’s face it, I’m probably the best you’ll never have. Like I said, I’m done with the whole casual thing and I’m also one-hundred-percent sure you’re not ready for what I want. Don’t worry, you’ll bounce back.”
I pat him on the shoulder and then sigh as he turns away.
The sexy stranger—Luke—chuckles as he walks away, even turning to look back at me one more time like he wants to take another run at convincing me I should leave with him, but his friends catch his attention, and he continues on his way.
I’m the only girl in this place, so I don’t know how flattering it is that he’s attempting to pick me up, but I’ve decided I’m done with casual, and I mean that shit. I’m on a mission to have a baby and nothing’s going to change my mind—even if it means hitting up the sperm buffet for a sample or two to get the job done.
My attention drifts to the TVs on either side of the bar showing the local news—another sad story about a woman who’s gone missing. I frown, realizing this isn’t the first story like this I’ve heard in the past couple of weeks.
‘There, all set up,’ Simon says, sliding my phone back across the shiny bar top. I’m way too drunk to attempt to make sense of whatever he did on that app tonight, so I’m going to trust that he didn’t mess with me by posting something unflattering or giving away too much personal info.
I’m vaguely aware in the back of my mind that I’m not being very smart handing my phone over—the phone I use for my clients, and if someone got ahold of it, it could be very, very bad.
Don’t judge. I never claimed to make smart decisions when I’ve been drinking, but now I have a shiny new profile on a dating app, and hopefully, I can find what I’m looking for. Simon’s not the kind of guy who’s ever been even remotely sketchy, and he’s poured me drinks while listening to my problems for months, ever since I discovered this place. I’m not worried about it.
‘Now that that’s out of the way, I should probably go home and sleep this off,’ I tell him, noting the room tips a bit when I slide off the stool, and my words are hardly slurring at all. Of course, that could totally be my alcohol-saturated brain not hearing things clearly, but I’m not gonna look too deep under that rock.
‘You want me to walk you? I can get Ember to watch the bar,’ Simon offers and I briefly think about the missing girls, but I wave him off. The cocktail waitress is off in the corner talking to that sexy group of guys from earlier, and I don’t want to ruin her fun. Besides, I’m only three doors down.
‘Nah, I’m good. I’ll be home in two seconds. Thanks for being a kick-ass friend, Simon. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
He chuckles. ‘Probably spend a lot more on your bar tab.’
I giggle in a very un-Montana way before I spin and strut out of the bar feeling better than I have in hours.
As I fall into my bed five minutes later, my dress in a puddle on the floor and my makeup still on my face, I feel content, like this is all going to work out even if I have to do it by sheer willpower alone.
The universe doesn’t get to determine how my life goes, and fuck it if it thinks it can. I’m the only one in charge of me, and I say I’m going to find a baby daddy or at the very least a sperm donor. I’m still ranting to myself about the power of intention as I fall into a coma-like sleep.
The next morning, when I roll over, my eyes are practically glued shut. My eyelashes are sticking together with last night’s mascara, and I vow for maybe the hundredth time to take off my fucking makeup before I fall into bed next time.
I’m not twenty anymore.
My phone buzzing relentlessly woke me up, and, yep, it’s still in my bra. I dig it out and glare down at it. Forty-four unread messages in that stupid dating app I forgot Simon set up for me.
Forty. Four.
My brain is throbbing in my skull, and I’m in desperate need of both a shower and a chai tea latte, but despite how much I feel like absolute trash right now, a smile spreads across my face.
This is going to work. I can feel it.
