Chapter One
Liam
My head hurts. I squeeze my eyes tightly to stave off the morning light, turn over in bed, and breathe deeply, hoping my hangover won’t be bad. My eyes open abruptly when I smell perfume. Staring at the pillow next to me, I realize I’m not in my own bed.
Motherfucker. I did it again.
I sit up too quickly and rub my eyes. My skull pounds to the beat of my heart. I glance around the room for clues but don’t find any. Expensive-looking art adorns the walls. I peer through an archway into the bathroom, raising a brow at the size of it. My clothes have been stacked in a pile on the dresser. Whoever lives here is very neat. And well off.
On the nightstand I don’t find Advil, which is usually the first thing I reach for in the morning. Instead, I see what’s left of a bottle of whiskey, and next to that is the flyer from Mom’s funeral. I really have hit an all-time-low, going home with a stranger on the day I buried my mother.
She’s better off.
That’s what I keep telling myself anyway. For the past thirteen years, she’s been living in her own hell. I tried to tell her what happened wasn’t her fault, but it fell on deaf ears. At least she didn’t feel any pain. That’s what the doctor told me. He said she was most likely knocked unconscious the minute her head hit the shower floor. There wasn’t even any blood. By the time the housekeeper found her the next morning, the running water had washed it all away.
Kind of ironic that I tied one on shortly after she died as a result of being too drunk to take a fucking shower.
Like mother, like son. I twist off the lid to the bottle and take a swig.
I grab my jeans off the dresser, jamming first one foot in and then the other, then throw on my shirt and leave the room. I stop when I see whose back is turned to me as she cooks at the stove. Dark-as-night hair falls to the middle of her back. A short robe barely covers her ass. I must make a sound because she turns.
“Eggs?” she asks.
“Sure. Whatever.” I sit on the couch in the living room and put on my shoes, wondering what the hell happened last night that would have me hooking up with one of the people I despise most in this world: Veronica Collins.
She raises the spatula. “How about a thank you?”
I snort. Even half-naked, she’s still a raging bitch.
I must have been particularly shit-faced to have gone home with her. I don’t remember a damn thing. I search my memory but come up blank. The last thing I recall is leaving my uncle’s place after the reception. If I remember correctly, I required help to navigate the steps outside the front door.
A few minutes later, Ronni puts breakfast on the table. I get up slowly, so I don’t jar my throbbing head, and join her.
“What happened last night?” I ask, then shovel a forkful of scrambled eggs into my mouth.
“Wow. I knew you were wasted, but you really don’t remember?” She laughs. “Don’t worry, it was nothing to write home about.”
I cringe. I’ve wondered if I’m a better lover when I’m piss drunk. Guess not. “So we…?”
“You woke up in my bed, didn’t you?”
I rub a hand across my jaw. “I hope you don’t expect—”
“Let me stop you right there, Liam.” Her lips curve into a nasty smile. “I don’t expect anything from you. I don’t want anything from you. And I certainly don’t need anything from you. It was sex. That’s all.”
I finish what’s on my plate. “As long as we’re clear on that.”
She studies me. “You’re a lot more fucked up than I gave you credit for.”
“Yeah? Well, we can agree on that too.”
She shakes her head. “Not to sound too cliché, but you’re reckless. You didn’t even offer to use a condom.”
My eyes snap to hers. I always use condoms. I thought.
“We did,” she says. “But only because I mentioned it. Listen, I’m about to make you and the rest of Reckless Alibi rich and famous, and the last thing we need are a dozen paternity suits. If you can’t keep it zipped, then at least find someone who won’t trap you.”
“You mean someone like you?”
“I told you, I don’t need or want anything from you. But, yeah, if you need to get your rocks off, you