“Wouldn’t it be amazing if that existed in real life? An eight-foot tall blue alien with two huge cocks who’s totally obsessed with me? Yes, please!” Angel laughs and takes another sip of her margarita.
“Only if he’s also a billionaire,” says Chelsea, giggling into her martini.
Jen shakes her head in disbelief. “You guys and your monster smut books. I just don’t get the appeal.”
Angel snorts. “Excuse me, Judgy McJudgerson, but you’re not in a position to be snobbish about other people’s choices in literature. May I remind you that your favorite TV show is a cartoon?”
Jen rolls her eyes. “First of all, monster smut isn’t literature. Secondly, BoJack Horseman is one of the most brilliant—”
“Dark comedies ever written, blah, blah, blah, yes you’ve told us a thousand times,”
Angel cuts in. “It’s still a cartoon.”
The argument continues, but I’ve already tuned out.
The four of us are sitting at a round table in the middle of the room. We’re surrounded by beautiful people on every side. The couple at the table behind me bickers over Tahoe or Tulum for their next vacation spot. A pair of young female models prowls past, taking selfies as they walk. Patrons jostle for position at the bar, trying to get the attention of the handsome bartender who I recognize as an extra from the television series Succession.
And sitting in the lone booth beside the bar, the dark-haired stranger is still staring at me.
It’s strange how such a good-looking man can give off such an unpleasant vibe. He’s a black hole over there, extinguishing all the light around him. He looks like he’d refuse to smile even if someone put a loaded gun to his head and ordered him to.
He’s probably thinking the same thing about me.
Chelsea sighs. “Shay, seriously! Stop scowling. It’s scaring all the hot guys away.”
“Not all of them,” notes Angel, glancing in the direction of Mr. Dark and Stormy.
Chelsea turns around in her chair and squints. “Who, that guy in the booth?”
“Yeah. He’s been eye fucking Shay since we got here.”
I scold, “Chelsea, for God’s sake, don’t look at him.”
“Why the hell not? He’s fine.” She sends him a broad smile.
The glare he sends her in return is so freezing, it could crack stone.
With a low whistle, she turns back to us. “Wow. Ten for the face, zero for the personality.”
“Maybe his dog died,” Angel says.
Chelsea looks at me and suggests playfully, “Maybe you should go over there and cheer him up.”
“Very funny.”
“It wasn’t a joke.”
“Give me one good reason why I’d want to talk to that man.”
“Because it’s my birthday, and I want you to.” She smiles and takes another sip of her drink.
My heart sinks. She always smiles like that when she’s about to dig in her heels. The last thing I want right now is to be on the wrong side of her stubborn streak.
“He doesn’t want to talk to me.”
“I bet his dick does.”
“If his dick has the same personality as its owner, I’m not interested.”
“Give me a break, girl. Nobody’s asking you to marry him. Just go over there and chat him up!”
“So I can be publicly humiliated when he throws his drink in my face and tells me to fuck off? No thanks.”
“I’ll bet you a hundred bucks he doesn’t throw his drink in your face.”
“No.”
“Please?”
“No.”
“Pretty please?”
“No.”
“C’mon. If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for me.”
“That’s blackmail.”
She widens her eyes innocently. “Remind me again whose birthday it is?”
When I make a sour face but don’t reply, she goes in for the kill.
Leaning forward, she grins. “If you go talk to that guy, I promise I’ll stop calling Chet the twatwaffle. In fact, I won’t say a mean thing about him ever again.”
I pause to examine her expression. She appears earnest, but Chelsea’s a slippery one. She’ll conveniently forget this conversation by morning if it suits her.
“Okay, you’re on. But you have to record yourself saying that and send it to the group text.”
“Why?”
“Permanent evidence. If you renege on the deal, you have to buy me, Jen, and Angel new iPhones.”
Jen and Angel scream with laughter, but Chelsea’s eyes bulge in horror. “What?”
My smile is ruthless. “Deal or no deal, birthday girl?”
“That’s like three grand!”
Knowing she’ll agree eventually, and sooner if I act like I don’t care, I shrug and take a sip of my whiskey.
Disgruntled, she huffs. “Okay, fine. You’re on. But you have to stay over there and talk to him for at least ten minutes.”
I glance in his direction. He stares back at me, his gaze intense and unwavering. Thunderclouds churn over his head.
The thought of approaching all that negative energy and trying to start a conversation is daunting, but if it will get Chelsea to stop her smear campaign against my ex, it’s worth it. I’ve been enduring it for three months now, and I’m tired.
“I’ll try, but I can’t guarantee anything. He looks like he bites.”
Angel snickers. “If you’re lucky, he does.”
“Okay, you win. Here goes nothing.”
I sigh heavily, then chug the rest of my whiskey. Rising from the chair, I smooth my skirt with damp palms, then cross the room with my chin lifted and my shoulders squared, pretending a confidence I don’t feel.
Dark and Stormy watches me approach with the all the warmth of a contract killer.
By the time I stop at his tableside, I’ve decided to go with the truth rather than some cutesy opening line. In my present state of mind, I doubt I could come up with one, anyway.
“Hello. I don’t want to be here.”
He looks me up and down, his gaze traveling slowly over my figure. After a beat, he says in an unfriendly tone, “Yet here you are.”
We stare at each other in an oddly tense silence, as if both of us are waiting for the other to say something next and think whatever it is, it will be awful.
Finally, I say, “It’s my girlfriend’s birthday.”
A crease forms between his dark brows. “I don’t understand the connection between that and you standing there.”
“She promised me she’d stop trash-talking my ex if I came over and talked to you.”
He thinks about that for a moment. “That’s blackmail.”
“When it comes to Chelsea getting what she wants, all means of coercion are on the table.”
He glances past me. “Which one’s Chelsea?”
“The blonde.”
“She looks harmless.”
“All the most dangerous creatures do.”
He leans back against the booth and tilts his head, showcasing his beautiful jawline. His gaze grows assessing. “Were there any other terms of this blackmail of hers?”
“I have to stay for at least ten minutes.”
“And it’s important to you that she stop trash-talking your ex?”
“Yes.”
I can tell something about that pleases him, but can’t imagine why. He says, “All right. Sit down.”
He gestures to the empty space beside him in the booth. Somehow it doesn’t look like an invitation. Though his mouth is saying I should sit, his expression says he’d prefer I take a hike in a distant, snake-infested wilderness.
Apparently, he only likes to stare at women, not speak to them.
Too bad for him I’m not intimidated by cranky men with bad manners.
I sit beside him and smile politely. “I’d apologize for the inconvenience, but I think I’m going to enjoy annoying you for the next ten minutes.”
“Why would you want to annoy me?”
“You look like a lot of women’s biggest regret.”
We stare at each other in another tense silence. Only this time, I can smell his cologne. Spice, musk, something woodsy. Sexy and expensive. I can also see the color of his eyes, a fathomless dark blue that could be beautiful if it wasn’t for their hardness.
His tone low and his gaze piercing, he finally says, “And you look like a diamond some clown discarded so he could play with dirt. How long were you and this clown together?”
Startled, I blink. “Hang on. I’m trying to pick myself up off the floor.”
“What do you mean?”
“Is it really so obvious I’ve been dumped? How awful.”
“It’s your whole vibe. You’re like one of those shelter dogs.”
“Pardon?”
“You know. Barks real loud and acts tough, but only because it’s scared it’s about to get kicked again. And your man didn’t dump you. He freed you. He did you a favor. Take all that energy back that you’re wasting mourning the relationship and focus it on yourself. A queen doesn’t need the love of the village idiot.”
A breathless laugh of disbelief escapes me. I can’t decide if this guy is a mind reader, a genius, or a just a jerk.
I also can’t decide if he’s complimenting me or not. In the same breath he called me a queen, he compared me to an abused animal. Also, his entire demeanor suggests he thinks I’m a hopeless case who shouldn’t be allowed to vote.
“And here I thought Chelsea was the trash talker. We’re not even two minutes into the conversation, and you’ve already called my ex a clown and an idiot.”
“That’s being generous. Because any man who’d let a woman like you go is nothing but a little bitch.”
Captivated by this strange person and his even stranger manner of speech, I angle my body toward his and focus my attention on him more fully. “You don’t know me. I could be the bitch. Maybe I drove him away by being too needy.”
He shakes his head, a sharp motion that makes a lock of dark hair fall out of place. It settles onto his forehead, boyishly charming.
“There’s no such thing as too needy. The wrong person will never be able to meet your needs. Stop giving people grace who make you feel like you’re the problem. And stop holding on to who he pretended to be. He lied.”
Our gazes clash but hold. A frisson of electricity passes between us, supercharging the air.
Despite his prickly personality, the man is undeniably attractive.
After a moment, he looks away. He takes a swig of his drink and sets the glass on the table. A muscle flexes in his angular jaw. When he speaks again, his voice is gruff.
“I recently went through a breakup too.”
The pain fueling that statement is stunning. He put an entire saga of lost love into it. He sounds even more devastated than I am.
I find that—and him—fascinating.
“May I ask what happened?”
He closes his eyes and exhales. “I surrendered to the reality that I wasn’t her hero. I was the villain. So our story could never have a happy ending.”
My heart beats so fast. Too fast. I resist the urge to reach out and touch him.
Shockingly, this unhappy stranger with angry eyes and heartbreak running through his veins is someone who might be able to understand what I’ve been going through.
God knows my girlfriends haven’t shown me any sympathy. If I hear, “Just move on already!” one more time, I’ll scream.
I lower my voice. “And so you broke it off?”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t want to.”
“No.”
“You were still in love with her when you ended it?”
He nods. Then he opens his eyes and looks at me with such naked longing, I’m momentarily speechless.
“What’s your name?”
It takes me a second to remember. “Shayna. But call me Shay.”
“I’m Coleton. Call me Cole.”
“Hello, Cole.”
“Hello, Shay. How much time do you think it’s been since you sat down?”
His edginess makes me smile. “Maybe ninety seconds.”
“Feels like longer. Another eight minutes of this will make me want to jump off the nearest cliff.”
“Out of curiosity, are you this way all the time?”
“Which way?”
I take a moment to search for the right words. “Aggressively ambivalent.”
He arches his brows. “What is it you think I’m ambivalent about?”
I don’t respond, instead reaching across to pick up his glass. I take a sip, holding his gaze over the rim. He drinks whiskey too. Interesting.
I set the glass back down in front of him without saying anything, but he understands my meaning.
“You think I’m attracted to you?”
“I think you’ll be relieved when I leave.”
“Maybe that’s because you’re boring.”
“Is it?”
His glare could melt steel. He doesn’t like being challenged. I get the impression he so rarely is that it’s an unwelcome novelty for him.
He says flatly, “No.”
“Thank you for not lying.”
“Don’t thank me yet. It’s because you’re irritating.”
That makes me laugh. It startles both of us. We sit with the echoes of the sound dying in the air until another uncomfortable silence falls.
Yet neither of us breaks eye contact.
Emboldened by the alcohol and his unexpected authenticity, I say, “So you do find me attractive.”
His glare is deadly. “Out of curiosity, are you this way all the time?”
Enjoying how he’s throwing my words back at me, I smile again. “Which way?”
“Aggressively aggravating.”
“Depends on who you ask.”
“What did your ex have to say on the matter?”
A pang of heartache tightens my chest. I moisten my lips and look away. “I never aggravated him. I was too busy accommodating all his needs.”
He studies my profile. I know he wants to ask more, but he doesn’t. But his silence is active. He’s paying very close attention to me, to my expression and body language. After being with a self-obsessed narcissist for so long, this kind of engrossment feels decadent.
Chet always made me feel like a thirsty little house plant who’d been left to bake in the desert sun.
Looking out over the elegant room, I say quietly, “It’s funny. I know I’m an intelligent person, but when it came to my ex, I threw my brain out the window. I saw all the red flags. There were so many, he might as well have been a circus.”
“But he was just so charming.”
I return my focus to Cole, who’s nodding.
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Narcissists are always charming.”
“Wow.”
“What?”
“I was literally just thinking that he was a narcissist.”
“The only kind of man who would leave a woman like you has a personality disorder.”
When I look into his eyes, what I find is a reflection of myself, all ache and want and loneliness.
I’m not sure I like him. But I do trust him. Courtesy of my ex, I know all the ways a liar can hide. This man isn’t hiding anything.
He doesn’t seem capable of it.
Which is maybe why he sits alone in a crowded room, glaring at the rest of humanity, and looks at me as if he’d like to make me his supper but would rather let himself go hungry than eat.
I say, “I changed my mind.”
“About what?”
“About wanting to be here. I’m glad I came over. Thank you for letting me stay.”
“You’re not welcome.”
Another smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. I’ve probably smiled more since I sat down with him than I have in the past three months. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re strange?”
He shrugs. “Only everybody.”
“It doesn’t bother you?”
“You ever watch one of those documentaries on serial killers? Ted Bundy, Jeffrey Dahmer, those kind of guys?”
“Yes. Why?”
“The first thing the neighbors always say when they find out they’ve been living next to a guy who chops people up and eats them is, ‘He seemed so normal.’”
“So you’re telling me you’re not going to dismember me for your weekend barbeque?”
“I’m telling you that the more normal someone seems, the more skeletons they’ve got buried in their backyard. Which you already know.”
“How so?”
“I’d bet my house your clown of an ex seemed like the most well-adjusted man you’d ever met…at first. Then eventually the mask fell off, and you saw the monster underneath.”
It’s like he read a script of my entire relationship with Chet. The accuracy of all his assumptions is unnerving. But only because it makes me feel so naked. So seen.
A feeling I haven’t enjoyed in a very long time.
“Yes. But he never regarded himself like that. It takes a man with a good heart to recognize when he’s the monster in someone else’s story. The courage it takes to break his own heart to save another’s proves he’s not really a monster. He’s a hero. He just wants to think of himself as the bad guy so he never gets hurt again.”
The silence stretches until it’s taut and thrumming. Now we’re not even trying to pretend the eye contact is anything but sexually charged.
When the waiter arrives at our tableside and asks if we need something, we both say “Yes” at the same time without looking away from each other.
Many months later, after both our hearts are battered and bloodied, after all our tears have been shed and we’re strangers once again, I’ll look back on this moment and realize I was already lost.
