DEFIANT (A WESTERN BAD BOY ROMANCE) (3 page)

B
ullet holes
. Two of them. Right next to each other in the mirrored wall. I brush my fingers over them, wondering what their story is.

The stairs I'm standing on are dark, wooden and creaky, kind of like the feeling in my gut. My interview is in five minutes. I can't mess this up—there’s way too much on the line.

The consequences of my actions a week earlier in San Francisco are finally sinking in. I'd cut ties with my last gig because I needed to make more money.
Lots more money.
Plus, I also needed a change of scenery—going back to my dark, empty apartment every night was slowly killing me.

Hey, I wanted a clean break. Can’t say I didn’t get it.

My phone buzzes. It's a text from Susan wishing me good luck. She and I exchanged contact information. She said she had a job for me back in San Francisco if this one didn’t work out.

Aww, how sweet. I text her back with:
I'm going to murder this interview!

Then, a second later, I go back to feeling sick.

Ugh, it feels selfish coming here, leaving my father to fend for himself. But it's only for six weeks, and the money I could potentially make will pay off the doctors. I know, deep down, it's the right thing to do.

I can't screw up this interview. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. It's all on the line. "You can do this, Katie," I say quietly to myself. I'm a ball-buster. I know I can handle it.

I stare in the tarnished mirror and try to tame my hair while I take a few calming, soothing deep breaths. I know I can do this. Thanks to me, several startups are now multinational corporations. I know I can pull off the same thing with this irrelevant little outfit. After all, my results are practically the best in the business.

I take a deep breath and walk upstairs.

At the top of the dim landing a darkly stained wooden door stands wide open. The words, “Seven Group,” decorates it, along with an odd, dark green logo.

‘What a stupid name, and even stupider logo,’ I think. I ponder the name’s origin, and the logo’s, neither of which is flashy or catching in any way. Perhaps something to discuss later.

I poke my head in and quietly say, “Hello?” An empty receptionist’s desk sits to the very left of the door, tidy and well kept.

“C’mon in, Ms. Fischer,” a man’s voice calls out from a joyless, narrow hallway. A soft glow of light coming from the office is the only illumination.

I cautiously make my way down the eerie hallway, step through the threshold and into a dark mahogany office. I feel as if I’ve been transported through a time warp a hundred years into the past.

"Jesse James," rumbles the dark-suited man behind the big, scuffed desk, turning around to face me. "That's the story behind the bullet holes." Then he stands up, smiles, and extends a hand across his desk.

I find it somewhat hard to believe that Jesse James made the holes. Nevertheless, I make sure not to roll my eyes. I'm already in earnest, positive employee mode. Vince Cullen needs to know I'm here to bring every ounce of energy and talent to his business, and that I'll make him a ton of money, guaranteed.

"Oh my," I exclaim. "That's fascinating."

"Not really. It’s late. Let's get down to business.” He promptly sits.

I try to get a read on Vince. He looks cold. And smart. Someone who likes all the control at his fingertips. If he is in fact the most hated bachelor in Wyoming, then he must be some kind of S&M freak because he sure doesn’t catch me as the womanizing playboy-type.

"Okay, Ms. Fischer. This here's the deal. My moron cousin is like a real-life Jesse James, just dumber, and he's got us in hot water in Colorado. If he doesn't convince a Las Vegas mobster to loan us several million dollars tomorrow morning, our little venture is fucked. And if that incredibly stupid gamble pays off, we still have one more tiny problem. I'm sure you’ve read all about it."

Vince raises his eyebrows.

"Yes, I know all about the opposition to Caddis Flats, your housing project in Coal Butte."

Mobsters? A real-life Jesse James? Is it still the Wild West out here? And what the hell am I getting myself into? I make sure I'm still smiling.

"Supposedly, my cousin does too. But somehow he forgot to hire a consultant to guide his barely competent ass through the town meeting next week, or the newspaper interview the day after that. If I bring you on, we'll all fly down there one week from today. We'll be back and forth, between Wyoming and Colorado. Do you think you can handle this, Ms. Fischer? This is the future of a company I spent my life building—it's all on the line."

He's staring like he's sizing up every cell in my body. Christ, talk about a hard ass. I thought things were stressful back in the Bay.

I meet his gaze evenly. It's my future, too. All on the line. I guess we’re on the same page then.

I play it dead cool. "Of course. I understand perfectly. Believe me, I realize how important it is to win the game of public opinion. It's not like we don't have these sorts of issues elsewhere. I'm assuming you are the one who looked at my resume—is that correct?”

He nods.

“Good. So I won't waste your time describing my perfect track record, or listing all the companies I've helped grow. It’s all in my application. I'm sure you're aware I didn't just work in tech. I’ve worked for one of your closest competitors, Vail Amenities, when they ran into the exact same situation with their ski resort in Tahoe. You
can't
hire anyone better. I can deliver online, at a city council meeting, or on the stump. That's a promise."

An hour later I'm walking down the stairs, not one hundred percent sure I got the job, but pretty certain I knocked it out of the park.

In any event, there's nothing I can do now but wait. So...I guess I'll drink a glass of wine at the bar next door before taking in the sights. Unwind, then call it a night.

Ugh. I could really use a nice glass of wine.

"
D
id
you hear about that party a couple of weeks ago? At the Moore House? Someone saw Clif Jackson walking out with
five
different chicks!"

"Damn! Really? I wonder if it’s on Instagram. You ever seen his Instagram? Fucking ridiculous!"

“Oh I know! I know!”

The two guys sitting a few stools away from me laugh.

"I know. It's sad, but he's my hero. It's so hard to get laid in this town."

I flip up the collar of my jacket and turn a little in my barstool to better hide my face. I'm still a bit hungover from that party. And that was days and days ago!

It didn't help that the women were just so open-minded. I couldn't help myself from sampling every part of their delectable bodies...even if it kept me up way past my bedtime.

Thankfully the darkest, most private stool at the bar was open in a poorly lit corner. I usually don't drink at the Labrador as it’s too close to the resorts and the tourists, but on a night like this, when I just want a quick drink to myself and not to bump into anyone I know, it's perfect.

Sadly, other locals have the same idea sometimes.

I tune out their banal conversation and travel back to that night. I barely ever think about pussy during the day---my reputation as a sex-crazed lunatic notwithstanding. Still, that night has got me reminiscing. I mean, a sixsome is pretty damn crazy. Even in my book.

When
was
the last time?

Oh yeah, last spring. A group of Midwestern sorority girls on spring break: three blondes, a brunette, and a redhead. Fuck me if that wasn’t one of my better nights.

Then there was that one time with that hot, rich gymnast girl and her coach. I had a great time, but I couldn't stop thinking about how toxic their relationship must be. But those women...damn! Flexibility has its perks!

Oh yeah—the flight attendant who I invited over mid-fuck when I was doing another girl in a Vegas suite. I almost forgot about that classic lay! I told her we'd be having company, and her response came back not to worry, she was into girls too. Guess that traveling life gets lonely. Or maybe Brits are just hornier. The flight attendant was from London and the showgirl from the dance floor was Latina. I loved every minute; no one ever said you couldn’t mix flavors.

And long before that, when I was nineteen and newly arrived in California, I worked as the maintenance man in a luxury apartment complex. Some rich stoner girl and her quiet friend were hanging out in mom's apartment. Evidently hippy-girl wasn't supposed to use the condo while Mom was vacationing in Europe because there had been issues before. Management had me investigate, and quite naturally I ended up staying the night smoking Pineapple Chunk and sampling one 18-year-old ass after the other.

Ah, to be young again. I lost my job, but it didn't matter. I throw back the rest of my drink, set it on the bar, and gape absentmindedly at the bottom of my glass.

I really should write a book. I’ve said it before, my outlandish memoirs would most definitely be a hit. On the New York Times Best Sellers list for sure.

It's still early and not too crowded. I settle in with my back against the wall so I can watch the patrons come and go, chat and enjoy their drinks. One beer becomes another and soon enough I’m settled in, alone with my thoughts as I spy on the crowd.

Just the usual scrum of tourists. A loud group of guys who are on vacation. A few old-timers who want to be left alone. The bar itself is empty except for a woman far at the other end; she's fortyish, with peroxide-blond hair and fake boobs, sitting alone and nursing her third cocktail.

Ah yes. Ski town life.

"One more of those, Clif?" Rocky the bartender asks.

I think for a second. “Sure. Why not? One more drink, then I'm out.”

“Coming right up.”

Rocky used to work at one of our hotels; a really cool guy, as far as seasonal help goes. I open my mouth to answer him when something suddenly catches the corner of my eye.

Damn.

A dead sexy girl just walked in. And I mean
dead sexy.

Just my type, too. Blonde, curvy, professionally attired, and stunning, but in an unfriendly, don’t-touch-me kind of way. Her eyebrows rise up stirringly, accentuating her exquisite, almond-shaped eyes. Her lips are painted a mild red. She looks all business, all the time. But I can easily break that bad little habit.

She takes off her coat and sits down.

Well fuck, that got my attention. I can't help staring at her chest. Her dress plunges down in a V, and...well damn. She's perfect.

I continue to stare, unable to stop. Talk about the right amount of voluptuous. She's cute, has a slender face...I wonder what she's like in bed. This time around, I can't tell just by looking.

I'm gaping hard, like a Texan on a powder day. She's wearing a tight, wine-red dress that clings to her full hips as she floats, alone, to the other end of the bar, a couple seats down from the cougar. Her hair, dirty-blond dyed platinum, is pulled up off her neck.

I'd
kill
to see how she looks with that dress off.

I’m hard as a rock.
Good thing I'm sitting at the bar
, I think sheepishly. And all she did was take her coat off and sit down. I'm never like this; she's different for some reason, and for the life of me I can't put a finger on what it is.

The group of vacationers all stop and stare. At the chick, not at my hard on. But they'd probably stare at that too, if I put it on Instagram.

She doesn't notice.

Mystery Girl is just sitting at the bar, staring off into space like there's something on her mind. I try to get a read on her. Where the hell is she from? She looks too sophisticated for a Texan. An East Coaster?

Damn, she has
no
idea how hot she is. Zero. It's obvious, the way she sits. The way she looks at Rocky and smiles warmly but vacantly, preoccupied by something. She pulls out her phone, puts it away, and tucks a stray blond strand behind her ear.

Damn. Just the way she moves.

I look at Rocky and raise my brows.

He leans in close, forearms crossed and resting on the bar next to me. "Never seen her before, Clif," he murmurs like we're plotting a burglary. "She's cute, huh?"

Cute? Hell.

"Done got me all worked up." I slide Rocky a twenty. "Let me buy her a drink."

"
I
'll have a vodka tonic
. Can you make it stiff?"

A glass of wine isn’t going to cut it tonight.

This bar doesn't appear to be the hottest place in town. That's just as well; I need some quiet time after the grilling by Vince. I just wish I knew if I got the job or not.

The bartender, a forty-something-year-old man with thinning brown hair, who wears an apron, pressed white shirt, and a bowtie like a bartender in a movie, nods crisply. A minute later he’s back with my order.

I throw down a ten-dollar bill, but he waves it off.

"Compliments of the gentleman." He points with his thumb and throws his head towards the end of the bar. I look over, wondering who on earth would buy me a drink. I just got here.

Oh. Wow.

The first, and only, thing I see is a big, muscular body filling up a dress shirt. After taking that in I see sexy, stormy eyes, barely visible under the brim of a cowboy hat, staring back at me. For whatever reason the stranger is hanging out in the darkest area of the bar with his back against the wall.

Ridiculous.

Okay, I have to admit, this was sort of my fantasy on the plane. But still. I roll my eyes before taking another sip of my drink. This guy's clearly ripped and hot, but is this
really
what it takes to get laid around here? Just hang out in a dark corner and buy every average-looking girl who walks in a drink?

I guess it's
slightly
less dumb
than San Francisco, where everyone sits around swiping their iPhones for potential dates, and the lack of attractive men who aren't gay
totally
tilts the field in favor of the rest: techies with more money than social graces. My girlfriends all say they hate hooking up, but it's the best they can do, the only option they have. Half the time, they say their hookup is back on Tinder the minute they roll out of bed. That's just gross.

I had always been so thankful having Noah since college. It meant I didn't have to deal with the dating scene. Although…having a picture of a penis pop up on your phone every ten minutes
does
sound kind of kinky and fun.

But all of that means I've never actually hung around a bar to meet somebody, then go home with them at closing time. Or however that works.

Should I look at him again? No, I don't want to invite him over. Damn, I bet I could get laid if I wanted to though. My belly clenches. I want that. And I really do want another look.

But I'm not that kind of girl. Despite my daytime persona as an independent chick and corporate hard-charger, I'm not the kind of girl who just goes to a bar by herself, looking for...uh, something.

I hate to admit it, but I'm not sure
who
I am now without Noah. Without our shared future.

Just then the door bursts open and a loud group of guys, all of them still wearing brightly colored ski outfits, rushes in.

"Fuck yeah, bro! We ripped so hard today. Let's make this night
epic
!"

"NC State
owns
this mountain! It's going to be an epic shit show tonight, brah."

They all mob the bar, settling in around me and making apelike noises.

I cringe.
Oh brother!

The barkeep gives me a sympathetic look. Yeah, just my luck to be surrounded by douchebags on a night when all I wanted was a quiet drink—alone.

"How's your night going?" one of the frat boys sitting next to me asks, clearly ready to flirt my dress off me. He's got ski goggles pushed up on his forehead.

"It's fine. I'm already drunk enough to be a rape target, so I think I'll just walk back to my hotel unaccompanied, see what happens."

He stares blankly. Ookaayy—guess he's too dumb even for sarcasm.

And now he's staring at my tits with creeper eyes. I want to ask, ‘
What's the deal, bro?
’

Instead I ignore him and look at the back bar. The doofus on the other side of Doofus#1 is gawking, too. Jesus Christ, you'd think I was surrounded by cave men. Even techies of San Francisco aren’t this bad—at least they’re smart, even if they’re nerdy, shy, awkward and badly dressed. What's wrong with these guys?

Time to go. Maybe the hotel has a quiet bar.

I down my drink, slip off the stool, and smile at the barkeep. The crowd is thicker now, so I shoot one last glance at the stranger in the corner before bundling up to leave. He's talking to a scruffy ski bum in Carhartts.

Oh what the hell. Might as well thank him for the drink. I am flattered—it’s not everyday a handsome man buys me a drink. I squeeze through the bodies and noise until I'm standing right next to him. Cologne hits my nostrils. Mmm! He smells like a man! My heart's going, too fast.

"Hey. Thanks for the drink," I practically have to shout over the raucous clamor.

"Sure thing. I always buy the hottest girl at the bar a drink," he winks. He's tall and has to lean in to talk to me.

I roll my eyes involuntarily. Yeah right. That's a cheesy line if I ever heard one. "Thanks. How chivalrous."

He grins, then something wicked lights his eyes. I'm not nervous anymore because the stranger is somehow funny looking. I can’t determine why, he just is. Maybe it’s his over-confidence. Ripped or not, he wouldn't last two seconds in the city. Who does he think he is, slouched against the wall on his barstool, with a couldn't-give-a-shit expression plastered across his face and a giant bulge in his jeans?

"It ain't chivalry. It's strategy."

"I'm sorry. But buying bar skanks drinks until they go home with you isn't
strategy
. That's called being hot enough that you don't have to try. Have a good night."

Dumbass. I turn to leave.

He gently grabs my arm. "No, that's not what it is, not at all. It's just that after one hot woman is seen hanging on me, all the other women want me next. Like I said, strategy. Minimum effort, maximum reward."

“Uh huh," I deadpan. God, this guy is unbelievably cocky. And cute. But totally unbelievable.

"I'm for real."

"Why don't you just keep fucking the hot girl then?" I push my hair back, feeling a little warm. God, I'm discussing casual sex with a complete stranger. "I know that guys like a little variety, but still..."

"Haven’t met one that can handle me yet."

What a playboy!
I glare at him

I'm sitting on the barstool next to him now. How did I get here? His boot settles between mine on the footrest of my barstool, invading my space. "I bet you're really lonely."

What do you say to that, cowboy?

He scoffs. "Oh I’m far from lonely! What brings you in here? I think
you're
the lonely one." His knee pushes mine apart two inches—my heart jumps in my throat. For a second I think he's going to take me,
do me,
right against the bar!

"Well, maybe I’m seeing someone," I blurt out.

Oh shit.

I meant to sound bitchy, not...scared and turned on at the same time. His eyes are burning. His rough jeans press against my inner thigh, above my knees, and I imagine in a flash what it's like to have sex with him.

"Real sorry about that. I'd hate to be him."

His legs brazenly push mine open another inch while I stare into his gorgeous eyes and try to look offended.

Shit. How can I pretend I don't want it when it's practically what I came here for?

"Does this really ever work?” I raise my brows questioningly. “I'm not that kind of girl."

What am I saying??

The stranger gets up, and right away I'm disappointed. I was having fun, even if I wasn’t planning to take it any farther.

"Meet me outside. I'd escort you out, but I’m not one to ruin reputations." And just like that, he's up and out the door.

Doesn't want to ruin my reputation? Who does this guy think he is? Who the hell gets off being that ridiculously arrogant?

I sit on my barstool and mull over the situation.

Just one night. No strings. I've only ever had sex with Noah and one other boy in college, so the idea is flat-out crazy. And with everything that's happened in the last month I shouldn't even be considering it. I'm not in my right mind, and I know it.

But maybe that's why I
should
consider it. Maybe I need something to take it all off my mind. Something to take away the anguish of what Noah did to me. Some kind of release, something to clear my head, help me reset. And after it's all said and done, maybe everything will make more sense. Or at least begin to make sense.

And besides, don't I deserve it?

A minute later and I still don't have my mind made up. Then suddenly a flash of memory bursts to the forefront—I remember when Noah said he needed a break to move forward and onward with his life.

Fine, Noah! You need to move on? Well then here’s me moving on too!

I pluck my jacket off the bar and rush out.