Bad Judgment (2 page)

I choke on the sip of water I’m taking and lower the cup to the table quickly enough to have it sloshing over the sides.

“Really? Take one for the team? Pun much?”

Merica’s smile is quick and bright. “You know you want it. How long has it been anyway? I mean, your va-jay-jay is probably waving a distress flag because it thinks you’ve forgotten about it.”

She’s not wrong, but I’m also not going there.

“Ryker and me? Never going to happen.”

“Famous last words.” Merica stands and tosses me a cheesy wink.

Justine

Two weeks later

“Can I get you another?” The bartender at Ziggy’s leans forward as I take up space on a bar stool, playing with my straw and my empty drink.

I scan the room for Merica, wondering how she can possibly take seven years to go to the bathroom, before I jerk my gaze back to his face. His shoulders stretch his tight black T-shirt as he stares at me.

I’ve been watching him for the last five minutes as he’s been reaching, leaning, pouring, and doing other bartender-y things. I know, there are actual verbs for those things, but right now I’m running on a strong mixture of vanilla vodka and root beer, and I used up all my actual smart words on my finals. Which are finally done.
Thank God.

And now the bartender is staring at me, waiting for an answer.

Crap. I have to respond. Get with it, Justine
. Do I really need another drink? What would it hurt? I’m celebrating, after all. Second year of law school, in the books.

“Sure. One more. That’d be good.” My words don’t sound slurred, thankfully.
Winning
.

“Root beer and vanilla vodka, right?”

He remembers my drink?

I nod, ignoring the fact that I probably look like a bobblehead. “That’s right. Thanks.”

“I haven’t seen you around much,” he says as he turns to grab the liquor and then reaches for the soda gun. “You here by yourself or with friends?”

“Friends.” I clear my throat as if to dislodge the words. “We’re celebrating our last finals being over.”

I scan the packed barroom again for Merica, but don’t see her blond head through the crowd of students. I’m a failure when it comes to flirting and making small talk, and I can always count on her to rescue me from my own awkwardness.

The bartender slides the glass across the bar on a cocktail napkin. “This one’s on me then. Congratulations on knocking out your exams.”

Wait, what?

Fumbling for the cash I shoved into my pocket, I fish out a few bills. “You really don’t need to do that.”

He holds up a hand. “I insist. You deserve it.” His lips curve up into the kind of smile that would ensure he wouldn’t have to leave the bar alone any night of the week. Messy blond hair falls over his forehead and curls around his ears.

I open my mouth to thank him for the gesture when an arm slides around my shoulder and a bill is slapped down on the bar in front of me.

“I got this one. It’s a rare day when my girl goes anywhere but the library or class. You sure you don’t want something more festive, baby? This deserves its own celebration.”

Heat burns across my cheeks as the bartender narrows his eyes on Ryker’s possessive touch. The bartender lifts his chin at Ryker.

“Grant. Where’s your flavor of the week?”

I want to thank the bartender for not automatically assuming I’m Ryker Grant’s flavor of the week, but Ryker pulls me closer into his side. Now it’s not just my cheeks heating, but every point of contact between us.
Bad Justine.
This is why I avoid him
.
Stupid hot
, I remind myself.

“You should watch how you talk about women, Caruthers. They don’t like to be called flavor of the week.”

I’m surprised Ryker knows the bartender, but then again, I’m sure he spends way more time here than I do.

“They probably prefer to be treated better than you treat them,” Caruthers says, pushing Ryker’s money back across the bar. “Her drink is on the house. I don’t want your money.”

As I duck out from under Ryker’s arm, I block out how amazing he smells under those layers of entitlement.
So freaking good.
It’s just because I’m drunk. That’s the only reason. I need to find Merica and get out of here before I do something stupid.

I grab my drink and step away from the danger zone surrounding Ryker.

“I’ll just get out of here so you guys can whip ’em out and measure them.” Forcing myself not to drop my gaze to Ryker’s crotch to gauge the truthfulness of the dick-print rumor for myself, I drop a ten on the bar. My pride won’t let either of them buy me a drink.

“I need to get back to my friends,” I toss out as I walk away, impressed at how steady I am on the heels Merica forced me to wear with my short black skirt and borrowed black low-cut top. Not my normal outfit choice at all, but how often do you get to celebrate finishing your second year of law school?

Cocky about how well I’m doing on my balance, I sip my drink—and catch a toe on the lip of the stairs. My entire body pitches forward and a vision of the drink flying everywhere as I land on my face flashes before my eyes.
At least Merica won’t judge.

Before even a drop spills over the side, an arm wraps around me and a hand plucks the drink from my grip.

“Are you in such a hurry to get away from me that you’d rather cause a scene?”

Ryker.
His deep voice and scent of
all man
mixed with
off-limits for a good reason
identify him immediately. He maneuvers us over to an empty booth as my heart hammers, and I plop down onto the maroon vinyl cushion.

Wrapping both hands around the edge of the table, I suck in a breath. Obviously, I don’t need any more to drink, but I unclench one hand to reach for my cocktail anyway and chug a few gulps to steady my nerves. It’s not until I put the glass down that I notice the crumpled ten on the table next to it.

“You okay?”

My gaze darts up to his brilliantly blue eyes as he towers over me. “What is that for?”

“You shouldn’t be buying your own drinks.” He says it like this is some obvious piece of information of which I should be well aware.

“I’m not letting you buy them.” Needing to extricate myself from this situation, I scoot out to the edge of the booth and stand.

But Ryker doesn’t step back like I expect him to, and my boobs press against his chest as soon as I’m vertical.

My nipples peak with interest at the contact.
Traitors.
I have to force myself not to lean into him.
He’s solid. Hard. Man.
I freeze for a beat, hoping he’ll step back, but he doesn’t.

“Excuse me.” My words are a hushed whisper. I need to step back. Move. Something. I have to stop touching him.

Ryker’s gaze drops to my cleavage, and I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t do anything but stare at his lowered eyes and wonder if he’s feeling what I’m feeling.

It doesn’t matter. No distractions allowed.

Several agonizingly long seconds pass before his gaze travels up to meet mine.

“You’re not going back to that bartender. Your money is no good with him. He wouldn’t even let me pay for the drink. So quit worrying about it.”

An odd sense of relief washes over me that Ryker didn’t pay for my drink, and I sit back down, desperate to remove all points of contact between us before I do something stupid like press against him harder and let my hands roam.

Why have I gone so long without any physical contact?
I will my nipples to stand down.
Bad nipples
. Without any padding in my bra, I’m putting on way too much of a show.
At least I’m not thinking about the dick print anymore
. Crap. I’m eye level with his crotch since he’s still standing, so of course my gaze lands right on it.

Oh. Holy. Hell.
I can see it. The outline against his jeans. The bulge. Does he not wear underwear? Is it getting
bigger
? Oh my God, is that because of me?

Ryker’s chest lifts and lowers with a deep breath, and I snap my eyes up to his.

Mortification sweeps in as Ryker stares down at me, those icy blue eyes blazing with heat. He knows exactly what I was looking at.

“So, what’s it going to take, Justine?”

I ignore the question and wrap my hand around my drink. Sucking down the last of it, I buy time to figure out how to get myself out of this situation.
This is why I avoid him.

Once my glass holds nothing but ice, Ryker plucks it from my grip and sets it on the table.

“What’s it going to take?” he asks again.

“Wh—what are you talking about?” My stutter is smoothed by the liquor I’ve consumed.

“You. What’s it going to take for you to say yes to me? You’re hell on my ego, but I don’t give a shit about that. I want my shot. What’s it going to take?”

Oh no. This isn’t happening.
I cobble together an excuse.

“I can’t. I’m busy. I have to keep up my grades.”

“School’s out, babe. Try again.”

I shake my head, which is already fuzzy from more alcohol than I’ve had in months.

“I’m leaving tomorrow. I’ve got a job up north for the summer at Legal Aid.”

He studies me for a beat as if deciding whether I’m feeding him a line of bull. I must pass, because he nods. “When you come back, we’re going out.”

Persistence. Ryker has it in spades, and the combination of the alcohol and my body’s traitorous reactions are wearing me down. But nothing can change the fact that I don’t have time for the distraction. Not now, not next year.

“It’s not a good idea. School is my only focus.”

He lowers himself down on the bench beside me, and instinctively I slide over to put some space between us. I don’t need more contact to melt away the last of my resistance.

“I need to go find my friend. She’s probably waiting for me to leave.”

“Give me five minutes, and I’ll convince you.”

That’s exactly what I’m afraid of
. The words float in my head as I scoot around the U-shaped booth to slide out the other side. With that determined look in his blue eyes and my guard down, there’s no telling what he could talk me into in thirty seconds, let alone five minutes.

“I have to go.” I keep my tone firm.

Ryker leans back in the booth and crosses both arms over his broad chest. “I think you’re scared of me.”

Pushing to my feet, I grab the edge of the table to steady myself on Merica’s heels. “Excuse me?”

“You’re scared. Afraid you might actually want what I want, and that’s why you keep shooting me down.”

A forced laugh escapes my lips, and something—probably the alcohol—flips my filter to the
off
position. “Are you serious? Come on, we both know that you just haven’t given up yet because I’m the only girl who’s ever said no to you.” I gesture to the empty glass on the table. “I might be a few drinks in, but even I get you’re all about the chase. If I said yes, you’d lose interest within days.”

“Bullshit.”

“Doesn’t matter. The answer is still no.” And with that I stride away, making an exit that doesn’t include me falling on my face.
Win
.

I find Merica at a tall table near the door, and her face is even whiter than her normal Irish-American shade of pale.

“What’s wrong? Did something happen?” Taking in the other similarly horrified expressions on the faces around the table, dread curls in my stomach.

Merica turns and grabs me, fingers locking tight around my forearm. “Chad and Chris left the bar and there was an accident. We don’t know what happened, except that someone apparently hit them. Rachel just texted to tell me that Chad was in handcuffs and there was an ambulance.”

Oh my God. No
.

“Chad France? My Chad?” Panic rises in my chest, stealing my breath.

Chad and I have been friends since we were eleven and he taught me how to play marbles in the dirty alley behind Gramps’s house. He lived with his grandma because his mom took off, and his dad died in prison for a crime Chad swears to this day he didn’t commit. That’s why he’s here—to become a kick-ass criminal defense attorney.

Merica nods.

“Is he okay? Is he hurt? If Rachel saw him in handcuffs, then he couldn’t have been in the ambulance, right?”