The concept of freedom isn’t nearly as grand as freedom itself. It’s difficult to describe what exactly it feels like, but the moment I’m out of the confines my family place on me, it’s like I’m another person. I’m someone other than the baby of the Saint James family.
Over the years, I’ve perfected the art of losing my security detail. Everyone my brothers hire underestimates me because, in their eyes, I’m the weak little Mafia princess. There’s a balance of power they expect, but it’s never the way they think it will be.
They, just like most people, make their minds up about me long before I say my first word to them. Ditzy. Dramatic. Spoiled. Socialite. They think because all I manage at Frost Industries is public relations, that I’m the most useless member of the family. And hey, that may be true, but when your brother is CEO, your sister is CFO, and your other brother is the enforcer of the largest criminal organization in the country, you have to expect you’re probably going to be the disappointment of the family.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, telling me my idiot security team has finally realized I’m missing. I’ve already been out of the house for an hour. How it’s taken them this long is beyond me. I am, however, looking forward to watching Storm fire them. There’s this vein in his neck that pops out and pulses when he has to deal with the chaos I’ve caused him, and I get this sick satisfaction watching his barely contained rage.
I ignore my phone and take another sip of my cosmo. If they really want to find me, there’s a tracker on my phone and in my bag, both of which do a better job at protecting me than any security my brothers have ever hired. One call to Everett, and they know my exact location to send the cavalry to save me like some kind of damsel in distress.
“Another?” the bartender asks, his long brown hair falling around his face and his green eyes dancing with mischief.
I’ve played this game before. Pretty girl walks into bar. Pretty girl orders a drink. Bartender likes the look of pretty girl and thinks he may be able to rail her if he plays his cards right. It’s a tale as old as time and a game I like to play from time to time.
I nod, the corners of my lips quirking up in a coy smile. With my fire engine red lips and mess of blonde locks, I look anything but innocent sitting in a bar at three in the afternoon, but playing a part is half the fun. The man watches me for another moment, assessing me as I take another sip of my cocktail before tilting my head to the side. Men don’t like when I hold their gaze. Men like submissive women and that’s never been me, even in the bedroom. I’m not going to let a man walk all over me just because he has an extra appendage the world views as making him better than a weak little woman.
He turns and starts pouring alcohol into shakers, his hands shaking slightly as he does. I’ve been in here a few times and seen this same bartender, but he’s never seemed anything but cocky.
I brush off the thought and glance around the mostly well-lit bar. It’s early, so there are only a few people sitting at tables and one other man sitting at the other end of the bar. His face is shadowed by the dim lights in the corner, but it’s the art on his arms that draws me in. The intricate lines, the gray wash coloring that stretches across his impressive forearms. There’s something deep inside me begging to move closer, like a moth to the flame that will inevitably end them. I don’t have the best track record with men, always running headfirst into toxic relationships whenever I feel this pull.
Even though I can only see the black shirt stretched across his hard chest and the ink on his arms, there’s something familiar about the man. I’ve definitely never seen the tattoos before because I would remember them, but there’s something eerily familiar I can’t quite put my finger on.
A fresh martini glass appears on the bar in front of me, drawing my attention away from the mysterious stranger and back to the flirty bartender. His eyes linger on my mouth as I bring the fresh glass to my lips and take a healthy sip. The best part about hitting on the bartender is the more you flirt, the stronger your drinks get, and the drunker you become.
“Thanks.” I smile up at him, my eyes dragging down his neck and across his wide chest. He may not be the inked mystery man, but he’ll do.
