Scarlett Red: A Billionaire SEAL Story, Part 2 (In the Shadows) (5 page)

Bash shrugs and sits down in the vacated seat to address the lanky guy who’d spun the bottle before Mr. Phillips. “I was able to fit your round-trip flight into my schedule tomorrow, Mr. Hammond.”

While they’re quietly discussing departure and arrival times, Cynthia rubs her nails against her palms, eagerness in her vivid blue eyes. As soon as she grabs the bottle to spin it, her cell phone rings.

With a heavy sigh, she slides the bottle over to me. “Here, take my turn. I’ll be right back.”

Why not?
Biting my lip, I spin the bottle. It seems to take forever to slow down, but when it finally does, of course it lands on Bash.

My face instantly heats. Thankful he’s too busy talking to the guy to notice, I start to reach for the bottle to re-spin it, when several people say, “Ah, ah!” And a couple of girls share their thoughts out loud.

“Are you crazy?”

“Can I have your turn?”

Bash stops talking and glances up to see the bottle aimed on him. He smirks and raises a dark eyebrow, challenge in his bright blue eyes.

The last thing I should do is kiss the man. I’m already strangely attracted to him. All because he reminds me of
someone
else. How screwed up is that? A meaningless fling is not what I want or need right now, despite what my aunt thinks.

So I grab the shot glass and toss back the liquid courage, amid the girls’ gasps of shock and extreme disappointment.

Cynthia’s reappearance in the chair next to me saves me from having to meet Bash’s gaze as I set the empty glass down.

Just when I slide the bottle back to her, saying, “It’s your turn now,” Bash leaves the room as quietly as he entered.

“T
hanks for agreeing to take me to Bayside,” I say, sliding into the passenger seat of a black, low-slung Porsche.

“You’re welcome, girlfriend.” Cynthia adjusts the stick, shifting into gear. She grins as she revs the engine, then we take off with a squeal of wheels.

“So what happened after eight years?” I ask as we head toward the waterfront.

“With my guy?”

“Yes, why did you break up with him?”

Her gaze narrows slightly. “He left me to fend for myself one time too many. I realized that if I was ever going to be happy, I needed to take control of my life and become who I wanted to be on my own, without his shadow hanging over me.”

I smile. “I’m sure that realization was very freeing.”

Her eyes sparkle as they shift back to me briefly. “You have no idea. Going after what I want has been very liberating. It hasn’t been easy. I’ve learned to plan more, to be meticulous in the details. It even brought me here for the ‘find a new guy’ part of my plan. I never in a million years thought I’d be attending a singles event, yet here I am, a bit nervous but having fun.”

My brow furrows slightly. I can’t help but think about the bumpy road my life has taken. I graduated from Columbia, full of hopes and dreams, never thinking that my career at the Tribune would be over just as it was getting started. There I was, only a year-and-a-half into my investigative reporter role at the Tribune newspaper, and my fast ride on the corporate bullet train got abruptly derailed. All because a credible informant for the biggest story of my career—a human trafficking operation run out of a strip club—turned out to be a complete fraud. The head editor quashed my story, and before I could find another person to come forward, the whole illegal operation moved on.

Unfortunately, the most influential article I’d produced prior to working for the Tribune was for my college paper, but I’d written it anonymously. So even though I did have some well-received smaller articles under my belt, as far as the Tribune knew, I didn’t have any other “big story” credentials to offset my complete and utter screw up at the Tribune.

I would never regret writing that piece anonymously though. In college, I’d been instrumental in closing down a drug dealing and blackmail ring on campus—a win that was equally personal and professional to me. I’d written my article without credit to assure protection of my source, a girl named Mina Blake, an heiress to the Blake empire. Only Mina and my editor knew I was the author behind the article.

Sure I miss helping expose cover-ups and illegal happenings—getting demoted at the Tribune was akin to being blackballed in the journalistic world—but writing novels still lets me solve mysteries. It’s just in a different way. Eventually people’s memories will fade, but as much as I hope investigative reporting will be an option for me one day, there aren’t any guarantees. I mentally sigh and glance Cynthia’s way. “But what if, even with all your careful planning, things don’t work out the way you want?”

She presses her lips together, then shrugs. “I’ll adapt. I’ve done it before. I can again.”

“Flexibility is good,” I say, nodding.

“Being versatile is
key
.” Pulling her car alongside the curb a short walk from the docks, she cuts the engine. “That’s another thing I learned in my gazillion therapy sessions. A plan is only as good as the variables you can control. Multiple plans assure you’re prepared for the ones you can’t.”

As Cynthia gets out of the car and smiles at me with a confidence worth envying, I climb out too. She’s not really pretty per se, but she exudes vibrancy and has a shimmering light in her eyes that tells me she won’t give up until she succeeds. And isn’t that really half the battle in the pursuit of happiness? Accepting who we are and going for what we want?

What do I want?
My aunt is right that finishing this last book means I’ll have to face the fork in the road that is my future, and I’m not sure which path I want to take. Not a single story idea worthy of writing down has come to me lately. Yet the other path back to helping others through journalism has been effectively shut down for now. Why am I in such a rut?

“Come on slow poke,” Cynthia says, waving me forward.

I put one foot in front of the other and lift my head higher.
Screw the non-forkness of my path. I’ll plow a new road if I have to!

“I don’t know if this is such a good idea, Cynthia.” I eye the stream of men heading into the bar next to Bayside’s restaurant with reluctance. Granted, they look harmless enough. Just a bunch of hardworking men stopping by for a beer after work. A few guys close to our age, who were also waiting on Bayside to open in an hour, had stepped into the bar. When the door closes behind the last guy, she grabs my arm.

“Come on, T! It’s called Spurred. How fun is that? Did you hear that honky-tonk music? Half the guys who went in were wearing boots. I’ll bet some are even dancing. I’ve always wanted to learn the two-step.”

As much as I don’t want it to, Bash’s comment about the bars around the restaurant bleed into my thoughts. I grip the bottom of my purse, feeling for the stun gun deep in its depths at the same time a Jeep pulls up. While I’m debating, two college-aged girls hop out of the vehicle. Laughing and chatting, they stroll up the wooden steps and past the wicker chairs on the bar’s porch, then walk inside as if it’s their regular hangout spot.

Straightening my spine, I push my hair over my shoulder and hook my arm in Cynthia’s. “Let’s go!”

With an old-style saloon feel of rough-hewn wooden tables, chairs and a scuffed-up dance floor, the place is packed with people at the bar vying for drinks. Beer bottles in hand, many have already spilled onto the dance floor, one big mass of moving bodies.

“Looks like you won’t be doing any two-stepping tonight,” I tease Cynthia.

She shrugs, scoping out all the guys. “The night is young. Let’s get a drink.”

We make our way through the crowd and approach the bar where I order a beer and she orders a glass of white wine.

“Really?” I look at her and sweep my hand silently to the crowd around us.

She shrugs while we wait for the bartender to make our drinks, calling out over the loud din. “You can take the girl out of the city, but you can’t take the city out of the girl.”

Just as the bartender puts our drinks down, an arm encircles my waist and some guy behind me nuzzles his scruffy-bearded chin along my neck. “Hello there, Gingersnap.”

I turn and push against his chest, disentangling him from my waist. “Back off or this Ginger
will
snap.”

He puts his hands up, eyes filled with amusement. “Ooh, she’s a feisty one. I’ll see you on the dance floor.”

I roll my eyes and turn to pay for my drink, muttering, “Dream on.”

Cynthia snickers in my ear. “Gingersnap. You have to give him points for originality.”

“I don’t have to give him anything.” I grab my beer and take a couple of swigs. “No one touches me without my permission.”

“So prickly. I’ve touched you many times.” She giggles and takes a sip of her wine.

“That’s different.” I roll my eyes at her as we maneuver out of the bar crowd. Standing along the edge of the dance floor, we enjoy our drinks while watching people dance. Or try to dance in some cases.

“This really is very entertaining,” Cynthia says later after we’ve people-watched for a bit. She’s laughing at the obnoxious bearded guy, who just tried the same move on another girl only to get an elbow in the gut.

“See.” I point my bottle toward them. “She didn’t like being touched either. I’m not prickly.”

Cynthia pats my shoulder and we move out of the way as more people crowd onto the dance floor. “You don’t understand what it’s like to be tall. Guys try to cuddle up to you because you’re small.”

“I’m five-seven. That’s not short for a woman,” I say, finishing off my beer. Setting the bottle on a nearby table, I look up at her. “How tall are you? You can’t be more than five-ten.”

She nods. “Yeah, but that’s tall for a woman. It limits the pool of men who’ll give me the time of day.”

“Care to dance, Blondie?” A guy with two-day’s scruff on his face touches his cowboy hat as he clasps Cynthia’s elbow and leans in closer. “Let me show you what good ‘ole boys can do on the dance floor.”

Laughing, she hands me her empty glass and takes his hand. “Show me what you’ve got, Cowboy.”

I snicker when they get out there and she convinces him to show her how to do the two-step. She glances my way, all smiles, a mischievous look in her eyes.

Setting her glass down, I wave to her to have fun and head for the bathroom. Two shots and a bottle of beer are finally hitting me.