Chapter 1

The bell screams five sharp. Friday. God’s gift to working stiffs. Spreadsheets, e-mails, Janet’s half-assed jokes… all dead for the weekend. Janet. Fifty, flirty, thinks she’s funny. She’s not, but I laugh anyway. Nine-to-five survival instinct.

Bar time. The boys. Stan from accounting, midlife crisis in a cheap tie. Divorced, drowning in debt, still won’t shut up about his Camaro. Sid, the intern. College punk. Gets more ass than a toilet seat. Smirks like he invented sex. And me. Poor bastard me. Thirty in a month. No prospects. No ring. A cat named Cleo who’d rather piss on the rug than look me in the eye.

Clock out, coat on, and out the door. Same bar. Same drinks. Same sad stories. But tonight? Tonight’s gonna be different. I can feel it.

Or maybe I’m just desperate.

Sid? Late, as usual. Probably lining up his next conquest. Stan? Who the hell knows. Brown-nosing the boss, maybe. Clinging to his corporate ladder with both sweaty hands.

Me? I’m here to drink myself stupid. Forget the week that felt like a slow-motion car crash. The merger with Dyson? Total disaster. Files didn’t convert. Tech blamed me. A lady on the phone screamed bloody murder for hours. Like I personally hacked the files.

“I just work here, ma’am,” I told her. Over and over. Sixteen hundred times. She didn’t care. Nobody does.

Sip. Gulp. Order another. It’s that kind of night.

One and a half drinks deep. Door swings open. I’m running the odds. Sid or Stan? The intern or the has-been?

Wrong on both counts.

It’s her. Late twenties, maybe my age. Hard to tell when you’re staring at someone that good-looking. Thin. Tall. Long brown hair that says trouble. Black dress, black overcoat. Slick, slinky, out of place. She doesn’t belong in this dump. Not even close.

She scans the bar like a predator. Sees the slim pickings. Couple of drunk regulars. A guy mumbling to his beer. And me. Two open seats to my left. She takes the one Sid usually grabs, one chair of polite distance.

Her perfume cuts through the bar stink. Sharp, floral, expensive. Definitely not a Hooligan’s regular. She doesn’t even glance at me. That’s fine. I glance at her. Sip my drink, play it cool. Wonder what kind of mistake landed her here. And if I’m lucky enough to be a part of it.

“What you having?” Paul asks. Bartender. Fixture. Been pouring drinks here since the Reagan era, or so he claims.

“Something fruity,” she says. Quiet. Almost a mumble. Then she turns to me. Looks me dead in the eye.

“Hi.”

Paul slides her a fruit punch and vodka. The fruitiest thing he’s got. She takes it, sips, doesn’t even flinch. Classy.

I sip my whiskey, pretend I don’t notice her looking. Inside, I’m screaming at myself: Say something, idiot. But what’s a guy like me gonna say to a woman like her?

“The chicken wings are really good,” I mutter. Lie of the century. Hooligan’s wings taste like regret and freezer burn. Even Paul wouldn’t touch them.

She looks at me again. Really looks. I can feel her doing the math. Adding up the coffee stain, the wrinkled khakis, the sad drink in my hand. Subtracting points by the second.

She’s not here for me. She’s here for someone better. Someone taller, sharper, richer. I’m just the placeholder. The warm-up act while she waits for her real company to show.

“Thanks for the tip,” she says, lips curving into a polite almost-smile. “But I’m a vegan.”

Vegan. Of course she is. What did I expect?

“Well,” I stammer, already regretting the words spilling out of my mouth, “there’s always salad.”

Smooth. Real smooth. I might as well have told her the gum under the table was fresh.

She doesn’t respond right away. Just sips her fruit punch vodka. Eyes doing that thing where they flick past me. Looking for the exit. Or an upgrade. I take a long sip of whiskey. Maybe I should’ve led with the truth: “The wings are garbage, but the alcohol’s strong, and Paul’s good at pretending to hear your sob stories.”

Instead, she slides over. Closer. One stool. The space between us collapses.

She extends a hand. Slender, manicured. “Jenny,” she says. Cool. Casual. Like this happens every day.

I’m stunned. Stuck. I’ve been haunting Hooligan’s for years. No woman, no one like her, has ever done more than glance in my direction.

“Derrick,” I manage, shaking her hand. It’s clammy. Of course. Perfect. “Pleased to meet you.”

She gives me the once-over. Top to bottom. The coffee stain gets a second glance.

“Long day at work?” she asks. Tone’s soft, like she might actually care.

“They’re all long,” I tell her. Straight truth. No embellishment. Life’s a grind, start to finish.

She nods. Doesn’t disagree. She sips her fruit punch vodka like it’s top-shelf champagne. For once, I don’t feel invisible. And I don’t know if that’s a good thing.

“Derrick,” she says, rolling my name around like it’s something worth tasting. “Cute name.”

“Jenny,” I reply, leaning in just enough. “Even cuter.” It’s a lazy line. The kind I’d usually cringe at. But it works. Her eyes light up. Just a flicker. But enough to keep me in the game.

“Here alone?” she asks.

“For now,” I say. “Waiting on some work pals. But with those guys, it’s always a coin flip. Could just be me and Paul all night.” I gesture at the bartender, who’s busy ignoring us.

She nods, like she understands what it’s like to gamble on no-shows.

“What about you?” I ask, trying not to sound too curious. “Surely you’re just biding your time, waiting for someone better than poor old Derrick to sweep in.”

That gets her. She laughs. Short, sharp, and real.

“Honestly?” she says, voice dropping. “I’m avoiding some people. Thought they might’ve seen me, so I ducked in here.”

“And lucky for you,” I say, smirking, “Hooligan’s just happened to be the perfect escape route.”

“Now you’re catching on,” she says. Snaps her fingers. Trying to flag down Paul. He’s there in an instant. Can’t blame him. She’s a lighthouse in a fog of losers.

“Need something?” he asks, trying to sound helpful.

“My new friend Derrick and I would like some shots,” she announces, all business. “What’s your poison?” she asks, turning those sharp eyes on me.

“Whiskey,” I tell her. “Any kind.”

“Then it’s settled. Two of your finest top-shelf whiskey, please.”

Paul snorts. “Top shelf? Lady, this is Hooligan’s. We’ve got Jack Daniels. Take it or leave it.”

She glances at me. I shrug. “We’ll take it.”

Paul nods and starts pouring. Jenny leans in just enough to invade my personal space. I can feel her eyes on me, but my brain’s somewhere else. Running the numbers. Last time I got this close to a woman? Vegas. A hazy weekend. And even then, I paid for it.

She snaps me back to the present. “What are we drinking to?”

Hell if I know. “Surprises,” I say.

She smiles. “I’ll drink to that.”

Paul sets down two glasses. Filled to the brim. He gives me a look. A sly grin that says, Don’t screw this up. Wingman mode engaged.

“Salud,” Jenny says, raising her glass. A toast to God-knows-what. I raise mine, matching her energy.

I down it fast. The whiskey hits like a freight train, burning all the way down, but I keep my face steady. No wincing. No coughing. She’s watching, and I’m not about to look weak.

She throws hers back just as quick. Doesn’t flinch. A pro, clearly.

“Another?” she asks, her voice light, but there’s a glint in her eye.

I shrug, playing it cool. “Sure. Why not? I got nothing to lose.”

“Neither do I,” she says, her smile sharper now. Like she knows something I don’t. She slides her empty glass toward Paul. “Another, please.”

Paul’s watching us like a proud father. Or maybe a bartender bored out of his mind. There’s entertainment in this trainwreck-in-the-making. He pours with a flourish. Lines up round two.

Jenny leans in again. I catch another hit of her perfume.

“Here’s to nothing to lose,” she says, raising her fresh glass. And for some reason, I believe her.

The second shot hits harder. Burns like hellfire. I try to swallow it down, but my throat revolts. A half-cough, half-choke escapes before I can stop it.

“You alright?” she asks. Her face softens. Eyebrows pinched with concern.

“Yeah,” I rasp. Force a smile. “I’ll be fine. Just a little too much, too fast.”

“Sorry,” she says, laughing lightly. “Typical Jenny.” Like this is just another night in a long line of nights. And maybe it is. She looks like she’s been here before, drinking guys under the table without breaking a sweat.

She tilts her head, studying me for a moment. “We’ll take a break for now.”

“For now,” I echo, trying to reclaim some dignity. I sit up straighter. Try to pretend I haven’t just been bested by Jack Daniels in front of a stunning woman.

She smiles. She knows I’m bluffing, but she doesn’t call me on it. That’s mercy in my book. I grip the empty glass and nod at Paul. He smirks and moves away from us. Wingmen can only do so much.

Jenny’s eyes linger on me. Curious and amused. I feel like I’m being tested. And maybe, just maybe, I’m passing.

“You have nice eyes,” she says, out of nowhere. “Bright and blue.”

I blink, caught off guard. Before I can thank her, her hand’s in my hair. Fingers combing through the mess. It’s overgrown, I know. Long enough to say, this guy’s too tired or too lazy to care.

“Could use a haircut, though,” she says, her voice teasing. It’s like she’s scolding a kid for skipping chores.

“It’s hard to find time,” I mumble, trying not to notice how close she is. “Work, you know. And weekends? Forget it. I’m glued to the couch.”

She smiles, that kind of smile that’s both amused and pitying. “So, no hobbies? No wild nightlife?”

I shrug. “If you count binging bad TV and arguing with my cat, sure.”

Her laugh comes quick, easy. “Sounds thrilling.”

“It’s a life,” I say, grinning, feeling almost, not quite, like I’m holding my own here.

“So,” she says, all flirty gestures and half a smirk. “The guys. Your work crew. Will they miss you if they show and you’re not here?”

I shrug. Honest answer? No clue. Sid, Stan, and me, it’s always been the three of us. Or some lazy variation. “I guess they’d worry if I wasn’t here. Maybe.”

Her brow arches. “Maybe?”

“Alright, probably not,” I say, grinning. “Stan would gripe about the tab. Sid would forget I exist the second a blonde walks by.”

She laughs, soft but sharp. “Sounds like a dream team.”

“Yeah,” I mutter. Then raise my glass. “A real Hall of Fame lineup.”

Her laugh lingers. Light. Easy. I could get used to it.

“You live alone?” she asks, casual, like she’s ordering another drink.

I blink. Can’t believe the words coming out of her mouth. “Yeah,” I say. “Unless you count my cat.”

“Purr-fect,” she says. She claws at the air like the Batman villain. “How about one more shot, then we take a little trip to your place?”

My brain short-circuits. I nod. Words? Gone. Thoughts? Gone. Just me, her, and the question: Is this real life, or am I about to get mugged?

“Sure,” I stammer. Too quick, too eager. My brain’s already sprinting ahead. Wondering if I left dirty dishes in the sink? Or if Cleo decided to redecorate the couch with fur? Odds are against me.

She smirks, reading me like a book. “Relax,” she hums. “I’m not judging your housekeeping.”

Yet, I think, but I keep my mouth shut. Play it cool, Derrick. Don’t blow it now.

I signal Paul for another round. Quick, sharp motion. Then I tap the bar for the check.

Paul catches it. Smirks. Gives me that I know what’s up look. The kind bartenders save for suckers like me.

He pours the drinks slow, like he’s savoring the moment. I don’t blame him. Hooligan’s doesn’t see action like this every night. Or ever.

“What you have in mind?” I ask. Trying to keep it cool. But my brain’s racing. Hoping she’s hinting at what I’m hinting.

Sex. Raw, unhinged, can’t-believe-it’s-happening sex. The kind I haven’t had in months. Years. Maybe ever. Guys like me don’t get that. We get bad Tinder dates, awkward small talk, and goodnight kisses at best. Maybe a pity handjob if the stars align.

She leans in close. Her hand slides up my thigh. Enough to send a jolt through me. “Oh,” she says. Her voice is like a velvet touch. “I think you know.”

I freeze. Glance around. Is this a setup? Sid and Stan hiding somewhere, laughing their asses off?

But they’re nowhere. Just me and Jenny. The real deal. Or the start of something I’m not ready for.

“Two cars or one?” I ask, fumbling like an idiot.

“One,” she says. “I walked.”

City girl, I think. Desperate enough to pick me over whoever she’s dodging. That’s gotta sting for them. “I’m about thirty minutes out. You need a ride home later?”

Train station? “Heading somewhere?”

She doesn’t answer. Just grabs the last two shots from Paul as I slide him some cash.

“Last one’s on me,” he says, sliding a few bucks back. Wingman of the year. I nod, pocket the cash, and down the shot. Burns like hell, but this time I don’t care. Confidence kicks in. Whiskey magic.

We step away from the bar, heading to my car. She’s light on her feet, graceful, but her head’s on a swivel. Looking over her shoulder every few steps.

An ex? A boyfriend? A husband?

Should I care? Probably. Do I care? Not even a little. I’m a man on a mission, and she’s my target. Horny doesn’t wait for details.