Hitting on the Hooker

Copyright
2013
Mina Carter

Cover Art by Mina
Carter

Published by Blue
Hedgehog Press: Oct 2013.

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She’d been
stood up. Unbelievable.

Fern Morgan
checked her watch, a thin gold affair that always ended up with the
face on the underside of her wrist, and wrinkled her nose. Yup,
forty minutes late and no message. Greg had stood her up. Great. No
doubt he’d had a better offer. Story of her life. Her love life
wasn’t just DOA, it had been MIA for at least the last couple of
years.

Checking out
the level in her glass, she abandoned any pretence of being a lady
and downed the drink in one swallow. She grimaced. Wine had never
been her favorite. Since it seemed her date wasn’t going to show
his face, the next round would be whatever the hell she wanted.

“Vodka and
lime,” she ordered when she had the bartender’s attention, ignoring
his pitying look at the fact that she was still alone. He’d
probably seen it all, so there was no point bluffing. A woman
didn’t sit at a bar—on her own—for almost an hour for kicks and
giggles, not a high class one like this. No, this was date
territory, a venue classy enough to make that all-important first
impression. Which meant the décor was first class, as were the
prices of the drinks.

Greg had picked
it. Bastard.

“Vodka for the
lady.” The bartender slid the glass in front of her, the ice inside
clinking together as it stopped. “Can I get you anything else?”

Sensing he
wanted to hang around and chat, she shook her head. After a long
week at work, and the disappointed anticipation of a not-date with
Greg from Acquisitions, she wasn’t in the mood. All she wanted to
do was commune with her drink, get happily buzzed, and head on home
to seek consolation in the tub of ice-cream she kept on reserve at
the back of the freezer.

Looking up
after the bartender moved off, she caught sight of herself in the
mirror behind the bar. The wrong side of thirty, her shift-dress
covered a figure with a few more curves than she would have liked.
Whatever she did, no amount of sweating it out in the gym or
starving herself would get those last few stubborn pounds to move,
so she’d given up.

Her hair was
short and sleek, a neat bob that framed her face, the dark color
natural. Thank God. She couldn’t do the whole once a month ordeal
some women at the office went through to stay blonde, or black, or
whatever color they’d decided they wanted to be.

Her face was
made up, but in the subtle style she preferred. A slick of lippy, a
quick flick of eyeliner a la Audrey Hepburn, some mascara, and she
was done. No false lashes here, thank you very much. She’d tried
them once, and ended up with the bloody things stuck to her cheek
like damn caterpillars. Never again.

Bored with her
reflection—after all, it was nothing new—she took a healthy sip of
her drink and savoured the burn as it went down. Damn, that was
good vodka. No watering down here, that was for sure, which was a
bloody good job with these prices. She cast a baleful look at the
wine list by her elbow. She earned good money, but these prices
were ludicrous.

The door at the
front of the bar crashed open, and loud male voices announced the
arrival of a large group. The bar staff froze for a second before
the one nearest to her, the one who had tried to engage her in
conversation, groaned.

“Great, the
Sharks. Molly, I’m heading out on my break.” And with that he was
gone, leaving the girl at the other end of the bar shooting a glare
full of daggers after him.

Fern studied
the chaos at the front of the bar through the mirror. The
Strathstow Sharks were famous for their abilities on the pitch, the
favoured sons of the town when they’d stormed to victory in the
premiership and won the cup, and infamous for their somewhat
exuberant nights out in the local bars. They were loud, brash, and
could be a pain in the backside when celebrating.

If she’d know
they were playing today, she might have thought twice about coming
out tonight—date with Greg or not. A night in might have worked a
lot better. Couple of vodkas and a chance to scratch the itch that
had been bugging her for months… Christ, she couldn’t remember the
last time she’d had sex. Long days at work and exhaustion had
limited her options for meeting prospective partners. Thank God for
vibrators. Without them, she’d have gone nuts.

The crowd moved
closer to the bar, filling the empty space next to her as they all
tried shouting their orders to the poor, harassed-looking Molly all
at the same time. Fern huffed and shook her head, burying her nose
back into her glass. When would they learn that they’d get their
drinks quicker if they organised themselves, and one person
ordered?

“
SHUT THE
HELL UP!
”

A voice roared
above the melee, and silence fell. Interested, she looked over as a
man fought his way to the front of the group. Like the rest, he was
suited and booted, but in his case, the smart jacket barely
contained a powerful physique. Shorter than the rest, he had a set
of shoulders on him as big as a barn, and a vicious bruise
decorated one cheekbone.

Despite that,
it was obvious he was the man in charge. Quickly, he collected
orders and relayed them to Molly behind the bar in a low voice Fern
couldn’t make out over the baying of the others as they pushed and
jostled.

Shaking her
head, she took another swallow from her drink and tried to ignore
them. As soon as she was done, she was out of here in search of a
tub of Ben & Jerry’s and a DVD. Something with explosions and
car chases should do it…

*

Tom Sexton took
his drink with a sigh of relief and turned to check that the rest
of the lads were settled. He loved nights out with the squad,
especially after a tough game like today, but it could be bloody
hard work at times. On the pitch, they worked like a well-oiled
machine, chewing up and spitting out any team that dared oppose
them, but off it and out on the town, it was like herding
ferrets—ones with ADHD and Tourette’s.

But miracle of
miracles, now that they all had a pint or other libation of choice
in hand, they appeared to be behaving. Casting an experienced eye
over the known trouble-makers to ensure they were all well apart,
Tom allowed himself to relax a little and took a drink.

The aged
bourbon left a trail of fire as it slid down to his stomach. He
sucked a breath in around it. Good stuff. Proper whiskey, just as
he liked it, which was the reason that he’d insisted they come
here. Some of the lads picked right dives, which was alright if you
were into cheap beer and cheaper women.

Talking of
women, his gaze slid past the two blondes Carson was trying to chat
up, and to the brunette at the end of the bar. Petite, the figure
under the black dress full of the sort of curves he preferred. Even
now, he itched to run his hands along her waist and out over the
cello curve of her hips. A shudder of heat rolled through him as he
surveyed her over the rim of his glass, plotting his approach.

Despite his
appearance, and he was the first to admit that stuffed into this
bloody jacket, his broad shoulders and heavy chest gave him the
appearance of a thug, he was a thinker. The first to spot and call
plays on the pitch, he directed the front row with the ruthlessness
of a war-general, smashing the opposition's defence and creating
opportunities for the back row to storm to victory. And any
victory, on or off the pitch, depended on the right approach.

His quarry
turned on the stool, the turn of a slender ankle captivating him
for a heartbeat before he realised she’d gathered her bag and was
preparing to leave.

Oh, no
sweetheart, we’re not having any of that. I haven’t gotten to know
you yet. And I intend to get to know you a
lot
better
. Like the Shark he wore on his shirt, he slid
through the group around him and cut off her retreat before she’d
taken a step away from the stool.

“Hey.”

She stumbled
mid-step and trod on his toe, obviously not expecting anyone to be
so close. “Oh! Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

A hint of
perfume reached his nose, delicate and haunting. He’d thought she’d
be pretty. He was wrong.

She was
stunning.

Dark eyes
tilted up at the corners, cat-like, set over a button nose and a
pair of bee-stung lips that looked kissable soft. Unlike the
hanger-ons crowding the bar, she wasn’t plastered in makeup, her
natural beauty drawing him like a moth to the flame. A cap of dark
hair framed her face. His fingers itched to reach out, touch it to
see if it was as silky as it looked, and to run through it,
gripping it as he angled her head so he could claim her lips.

Her hair fell
forward, covering her face as she looked down at his foot, and
bouncing back as she glanced back up at him.

“I’m so sorry.
I didn’t mean to trample you. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

If she hadn’t
looked so worried, he might have laughed at the idea a little thing
like her could have hurt him. Hell, she could run over him in full
studs, and it wouldn’t bother him, not after the rest of the
elephants on the team tried it in training regularly. With her, it
would just be kinky.

He smiled. His
best, panty-remover, charming smile. “Well, that depends.”

The delicate
arch of her eyebrow rose, her lips pursing a little in a way that
fascinated him. “Depends? On what?”

Her questions
were blunt and direct, without a hint of a giggle or other coyness
he was used to when dealing with women on a night out. As he’d
thought as soon as he saw her, she was cut from a different cloth
to the normal class of women who pursued the Sharks. Then again,
that might be because she wasn’t chasing him, he was chasing her.
And with every second, he was growing more determined to catch
her.

“On whether or
not you let me get you another.” He flicked a glance to the empty
glass behind her and dropped his voice, risking a small move
closer. “You’d be doing me a big favor. Half this lot wants to talk
about cars, and the other half just wants to chat up women. I’m
dying
for some intelligent conversation here.”

Triumph hit him
when she smiled and nodded. “Hmm, okay. I guess I have time for one
more drink.”