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  “Took off? Like, how?”

  “Grabbed my purse and ran out the front door. I may or may not have been screaming.”

  “Seriously? That’s ridiculous. Even for you.”

  I looked away. It really was ridiculous. Embarrassed by my drunken departure, I met her gaze and offered an apologetic response. “Yeah.”

  She slid off the edge of the chair and shot me a long look of contempt. After folding her arms over her chest, she shook her head lightly. “And you wonder why you’re single.”

  “I’ve got an overactive imagination,” I said. “It’s Netflix. I’ve got to stop binging on the cop shows. I’m drawn to detectives. They fascinate me.”

  “It’s that one you watch with that FBI profiler. It’s gross. Stuff like that doesn’t happen.”

  “I think it does.”

  “It doesn’t.” She lowered herself into her chair. “Was he there when I was there?”

  “I really don’t remember you leaving. What time was it?”

  “You don’t remember? Seriously?”

  “That Cindy bitch wanted a gray balayage, and she’s got black hair. I told her when she came in that it would take two or three sessions. After five hours, she decided to go back to black. Left me a ten-dollar tip. I was so mad. So yeah. I got trashed, sorry.”

  “I’m glad you ended up with her. Joselyn used to do her hair. She bitches about everything. Always complains, but always comes back. People like that suck.”

  The thought of upsetting anyone troubled me. I was a people pleaser to a point of fault. I’d accepted Cindy as a client, even knowing her inability to be satisfied.

  “I want to make everyone happy. But, yeah. I was upset, so I got hammered. When did you leave?”

  “It was 1:00-ish.”

  “Yeah. He would have been there. He was the guy with the dark wash jeans, gray tee shirt, and short hair standing by the back door. Just kind of looking around. He said something when I went to the bathroom.”

  She leaped from her chair. “Tattoo on his right arm?”

  I didn’t have to think about it. He did have a tattoo on his right arm. One of a pitchfork, an anchor, and an eagle.

  My response shot from my mouth. “Yeah. A pitchfork, anchor, and eagle.”

  “Holy crap. His name is uhhm. Marcellus, or Marcus or something. He’s--”

  “Marc. He said his name was Marc.”

  “Oh. My. God.” Her eyes shot wide. “That’s him.”

  “Him who him?” I asked excitedly.

  “Remember Kate?”

  I drew a blank. “No.”

  “She was tall. Blond. Really quiet? Had a tattoo of a bunch of flowers that covered her left arm?”

  Instantly, I remembered her. She was a very private and rather mysterious coworker that worked odd hours for an eccentric client base. Rumors were that she made ten-fold what the other stylists made due to her long list of wealthy clients.

  “Oh. Yeah,” I said. “The girl who never really talked. Six-foot-tall and skinny.”

  “That’s her. She went out with him for a while. He’s uhhm. Different. He makes that Christian Grey guy look like a preacher.”

  An excited little bird began to flutter around in my chest. “What?”

  “Seriously. She said he’s into all kinds of kinky stuff. I guess he’s nice. Really nice. Pretty demanding when it comes to sex, though.”

  “What did she say about it? Was it crazy?”

  “They never did it. They just talked about it. A lot. He got in her head and it really messed her up. She fell for him pretty hard. Then, he decided she wasn’t what he wanted. From what she said, I guess that’s why she moved to Monterrey.”

  Being tied up, flogged, and then fucked stupid wasn’t something I’d ever participated in. I’d spent my fair share of time rubbing my clit while thinking about it, thanks to E.L. James.

  “I feel like an idiot.” I kicked at a blond lock I’d left behind and then met her gaze. “Do you know if he goes in there all the time?”

  “I’ve seen him in there a lot,” she said. “He comes in really late, stays for a while, and leaves. It’s like he’s looking for someone. Maybe to replace her, I don’t know. I’m not into that crap, but God, he’s hot, huh?”

  “Hot? Yeah.” I pressed my knees together and let out a sigh. “Looks like I’m going to be hanging out in Mort’s for a while.”

  Chapter 4

  Marc

  With a contemptuous look etched on my face, I watched as she walked through the bar. The closer she came to where I was standing, the more I realized how breathtakingly beautiful she was. Her hair, which she normally wore curly and blond, now hung from her head like sheets of wine-colored silk.

  Her athletic arms swung back and forth with each meaningful step. Upon seeing me, her chin raised slightly. With her eyes fixed on mine, she maneuvered through the crowd of inebriated youth with a natural grace.

  The first time I’d seen her was six months prior. It was her walk that initially captured my interest, but her hand gestures and incessant need to smile kept it throughout the evening. When she and her friends walked away at the end of the night, any hope I had of seeing her again left right along with her.

  Now, it was her flowing hair – and the smirk she wore like a jeweled crown – that commanded my attention.

  She walked right up to me. After clutching her purse to her chest, her lips parted slightly. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  I raised my glass and gave a slight nod. “I’m doing rather well, thank you.”

  “Can I apologize?”

  I dropped my gaze to her feet, and then slowly took in every inch of her athletic frame. A hint of her perfume edged its way between us. As the scent filled my nostrils, the memory of the first night I saw her came to the forefront of my mind. I locked eyes with her and took a shallow drink of my tonic and lime.

  I lowered the glass. “If you tell me the complete truth, we can start over.”

  “Can we?” she asked excitedly.

  “If you tell me the truth,” I said, my tone flat and firm.

  She looked away for a moment as she gathered the courage.

  I could never be certain, but my experience with people told me she was exactly what I sought in a woman. At least I’d convinced myself so. Eager to determine if I was correct in my assumptions, I hoped she had the capacity to come clean on her ridiculous departure.

  Her eyes met mine. “You don’t have any pictures on your walls. None. Anywhere. Where I grew up, the house was covered in family photos, pictures of parents, kids, everything. And, your place was so, I don’t know, spotless. It was just. Extremely clean. I had way too much to drink, and when I’m drunk, my mind gets really creative. I was afraid you were a mass murderer. Then, when you wouldn’t drink the other drink, I was convinced of it. So, when you went to mix another, I took off.”

  It was one of the most ridiculous stories I had ever heard, and I’d heard many. I struggled to remain stoic.

  “Mass murderer, huh?” I asked, my voice as indifferent as the expression on my face.

  She nodded eagerly. “That’s what I was thinking.”

  “You have quite an imagination.”

  “I told you. When I’m shit-faced, I get creative.”

  When I invited her over, I had no idea she was drunk. I’d watched her consume a few drinks over the course of the night, but she certainly didn’t appear drunk. I felt foolish for missing what I suspected were tell-tale signs. In my overeager attempt to get to know her better, I wondered what else had slipped past me.

  “I didn’t realize you were inebriated,” I said.

  “I wear it well. I have a lot of practice.”

  “Maybe you should refrain.”

  “Maybe I should.” She lowered her arms to her side and twisted her hips back and forth. “Can we start over?”

  I extended my hand. “Pleasure to meet you, my name is Marc.”

  She shook my hand and smiled. “Taryn.”
/>
  A high-top table behind the bar was empty. Although not a place I would typically choose to sit alone, it was suitable for the two of us. I motioned toward it. “Care to sit?”

  “I’d love to.”

  We sat across from one another.

  “I’m really sorry,” she said.

  “Don’t be. My apologies for not realizing you were drunk. I would have never invited you over if I had known.”

  “It’s not your fault.” She set her purse in the chair beside her. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Go right ahead.”

  “Why didn’t you drink the other drink?”

  I could see where my reluctance to drink the drink may have alarmed her, especially in her state of mind. My motives, however, were innocent.

  “You didn’t take a drink of yours, did you?” I asked. “The one you took from me, not the one I offered.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  “I don’t drink alcohol. Yours had alcohol in it. Mine did not. You took mine, leaving me with no choice but to fix another.”

  Her eyes searched the table. Upon seeing my ‘mixed drink’, she nodded toward it. “What’s that?”

  “Tonic and lime.”

  “Oh.” Her brow wrinkled. “I feel like an idiot.”

  “For asking what it was?”

  “No. For thinking you were a serial killer.”

  “Nothing wrong with following one’s instinct.”

  “I suppose not.” Her gaze fell to the table. After a short pause, she looked up. “What’s your instinct tell you?”

  “About?”

  “Me?”

  “You told me the truth earlier,” I said flatly.

  “No,” she said, her tone thick with sass. “Big picture. Why did you invite me into a home you’re in the middle of redecorating? What did your instinct tell you about me? What were you after?”

  It was the second time I’d been asked the same question is as many days. My response to Charlee was simple when compared to what I could tell Taryn.

  “I’m done decorating. My days are filled with clutter, I prefer that my home isn’t. In respect to what I’m after? I hoped to get to know you better.”

  “We could have talked here.” She waved her arms over the top of the table. “Just like this.”

  She was right. We could have. It would have been far less effective, though.

  “I prefer privacy. I’m more comfortable with fewer distractions.”

  “I’m the opposite,” she said.

  It didn’t surprise me. When she had the opportunity to think, her mind obviously went astray.

  Both her eyebrows raised. “You still didn’t answer the question.”

  “Maybe you weren’t listening. To get to know you better.”

  She chuckled. “I was listening. What did your instincts tell you about me? Tell me who you think I am. Out of all the women in the bar, why did you invite me to your sparsely decorated mansion on the beach?”

  I slid my drink to the side, rested my forearms on the edge of the table, and met her inquisitive gaze.

  Instinctively, she leaned away.

  Her eyes were blue, but describing them as such would be an injustice. The iris was flecked with translucent silver, leaving the color a mystery until one took the time to study them. A closer inspection revealed the smallest specks of a curious green. The colors merged together and formed a sea of trepidation.

  Her body language told me she was apprehensive.

  The eyes confirmed it.

  She was exactly who I hoped she’d be.

  “You want to know who I think you are?” I fixed my eyes on hers and relaxed against the back of my chair. “You dance. Or you’ve studied it. I make you nervous, and you joke around in hope of hiding it. In fact, you hide a lot with your laughter. At least you try to. You don’t have children, and I doubt you’ve ever been married. I suspect you moved here from the South. My guess? Oklahoma or northern Texas. You work as a hairstylist, but came here with dreams of being an actress.”

  A bewildered look washed over her. She crossed her legs, and then quickly uncrossed them. “How…I don’t…”

  “Right now, you’re uncomfortable,” I said. “Not enough to get up and leave. You’re curious. Intrigued.”

  “But…how,” she stammered.

  I locked eyes with her and leaned toward the center of the table. “Come here,” I said, my tone low, yet demanding.

  She blinked owlishly.

  I curled my index finger into my palm. “Come. Here.”

  She inched her way toward me. With her nose a foot from mine, she paused.

  Using my index finger, I draped her hair over her left ear. A trembling breath shuddered past her lips.

  I pressed my lips to her ear and breathed into it lightly. “How’d I do?”

  “Uhhm. Good,” she murmured.

  “Good?” I whispered. “Or great?”

  “Great,” she squeaked.

  Emotionally, she was right where I wanted her. I leaned away, but only enough to see her eyes. As I gazed into them, I traced my finger around the outline of her ear, tucking a few loose strands of hair against the others.

  “Would you like to continue this conversation here, or at my place? I asked.

  She rubbed her palm against her bicep feverishly. “Tell me how you know what you know about me, and then I’ll answer.”

  “I’m very attentive,” I said. “I pay attention to details. You’re not very good at hiding the past. Or the present, for that matter.”

  “Oh really?” she asked, her tone thick with sarcasm. “What details?”

  “A wedding ring causes a callous to form beneath it, on the upper portion of the palm,” I pressed my thumb against my palm at the base of my ring finger. “You don’t have one. Your skin is smooth. You don’t wear a watch, and you rarely check your phone. If you had children, you would constantly be checking for text messages from the sitter, or at least checking the time.”

  I cocked an eyebrow. “Shall I continue?”

  “Please,” she muttered.

  “Your voice has a hint of a southern drawl, but not much. Too much to be from the Midwest, but not enough to be from the deep south. Oklahoma or northern Texas are all that’s left.”

  Glassy-eyed, she stared back at me. Her mouth was slightly open. When I paused, her lips touched, and she swallowed heavily.

  “Your manner of walking is visceral,” I said. “I suspect it is a result of a life of dance lessons. The creases in the skin of your hands is often stained from the hair color you’ve used. If it were once, it could easily be dismissed as a home experiment. But it’s every time I see you. It leads me to believe you’re a hair stylist. One that isn’t quite making enough money to be comfortable.”

  Her eyes shifted from distant to focused. “Why do you say that? The money part?”

  “You don’t wear gloves. In your eyes, it takes too much time, and it’s an added cost. One that isn’t necessary. You tell yourself you’ll simply scrub your hands at the end of the day. If you were a hairstylist in Beverly Hills, you’d take the time to wear them. Not because it was expected of you. Because you’d be making considerably more money, and deep down inside, the discoloration of your hands bothers you. In fact.” I nodded toward her hands. “You’re trying to hide it now.”

  “What about the actress part?”

  I chuckled. “The easiest one of them all. Every twenty-something that comes here comes with the hope of being an actress.”

  “Jesus.” She stopped wringing her hands and lowered them to her lap. “You’re good.”

  “I’ll ask again,” I said. “Shall we continue this conversation here, or go to my place?

  “I uhhm.” She reached for her purse, and then stood. “I think we should go to your place.”

  Chapter 5

  Taryn

  I didn’t find the home as creepy as the first time I’d seen it. It seemed nothing was the same wh
en I was sober. When drunk, McDonald’s served a gourmet meal. Sober, I couldn’t choke it down if forced.

  Convinced I needed to take his advice and refrain from getting drunk, I sat down on the end of the armless loveseat. “It seems less creepy in here.”

  He looked around the room. “I’ve never seen it as creepy. I find it calming.”

  “Grow some ovaries, start producing estrogen, and get shit-faced. I bet you’d see it differently.”

  He chuckled and then sat across from me. “You’re probably right.”

  “It’s just.” I glanced into the kitchen, scanned the length of the windowed wall, and then met his gaze. “It’s really minimalistic. I mean, as far as decorating goes. It’s not creepy, it’s just really tidy.”

  “There are many things in life I’m incapable of changing. Therefore, I’m forced to accept them. It isn’t always easy, believe me. Your hair for instance. I liked it blonde. Now, it’s wine-colored. I must accept it, and I will. As soon as I do, you’ll no doubt change it to some other color. The things in life I cannot control used to cause me tremendous grief. A tree not centered in a yard. Vehicles parked crookedly. Placement of items in the grocery store where they clearly don’t belong. A picture hanging on a wall that’s tilted ever so slightly. Life’s clutter, if you will. When I was younger, it drove me crazy that I couldn’t fix everything. I can, however, control this.” He waved his hands toward the open room. “I keep it neat, and without clutter, because as much as I want to do that with the world, I can’t. I find this place therapeutic.”

  After his explanation, the clutter free home made perfect sense. I took one last look at my surroundings, and realized just how vast the interior space of the home was.

  “That makes sense. The crooked car thing drives me crazy, too.”

  He smiled.

  By my best estimate, he was in his mid-thirties. I wasn’t a real estate agent, but I knew enough about beachfront property to know his home had to be worth millions. I couldn’t help but wonder what he did to afford such a nice piece of real estate.

  “So, what do you do?” I asked.

  “That’s an open-ended question. I do a lot of things.”