Bad Boy (An Indecent Proposal) - J.C. Reed Page 0,13

I don’t trust him. Until I have more information, please don’t cause me more trouble. Jude, repeat after me: I won’t talk with Chase.”

“Fine. I won’t talk with Chase.” I could hear the defiance in her tone. “What’s your plan, then?”

“I don’t know,” I said and shrugged. “Honestly, I’m not sure what to do anymore. I don’t know what I want. This thing with Chase…it threw me back in more ways than I could ever have imagined.”

“You should consult a lawyer.”

“I know, and I will, just not now. I couldn’t handle it.” Least of all talk about him or pour out all the details to a stranger. My mood plummeted at the thought. Time to change the subject. “On the bright side, I have a date today.”

“Yeah?” Jude said. “With whom?”

“Some guy who helped me with my bags. He’s staying at the same hotel.”

“Is he hot?”

“Does it matter?” I tried to recall his face and his dark hair. Was he? I couldn’t tell for sure because his image had already become a blur of a memory. “He’s kind. Something Chase will never be. This time I’ll do it all differently. I want to take it as things come. I’m going out with him and see where that might lead us. I won’t make the mistake of hoping for more. I won’t expect anything.”

“Will you be careful?” she asked, her worry palpable in her tone.

“Of course,” I said. “After Chase’s betrayal, I doubt any other man could be worse. I doubt anything could be worse.”

We talked some more, then I finished the call. My own words kept circling in my head for a while longer.

I wished I hadn’t said that, because as bad as Chase was, at least I knew where we were standing and how to deal with him.

Chapter 6

By the time I was done unpacking and had taken a shower, it was already early evening. I locked my few valuable possessions in the safe, squeezed into a black dress, and then gave myself a critical look.

Did I look hot for today’s date?

Did it matter?

It was just a date—one of many I was going to have. Chase was a bad boy, so I’d turn into a bad girl. If being a jerk was all that it took to get someone’s attention and make them fall in love hard and fast, then it wouldn’t be so difficult for me to do the same.

At least that was what I thought as I headed out in search of the restaurant.

I found it just around the corner. What gave away the food’s price tag were the cheap “open” neon light in the window, the well-populated bar area in the corner and the music playing in the background. I sat down at one of the empty tables, my back turned to the door. After all, I didn’t want to look desperate. You know, the kind of desperate that ended with me in Chase’s bed, moaning his name.

At least five minutes passed.

Fifteen.

My date didn’t show up.

From my table, I couldn’t overlook the entrance area, so I changed to one facing the door, my whole ‘not desperate’ resolve flying right out the window.

Another fifteen minutes passed. I began to scan the menu, my feet tapping the floor impatiently.

Had he forgotten about our date? Or had he been too much of a coward to decline my invitation? I mean, how hard could it be to say, “Sorry, but I’m not interested.”

“Can I get you something?” the waiter asked me again—for the umpteenth time. He didn’t look older than twenty.

“Yeah, scotch on the rocks, please.”

Sighing, I scanned the menu again, which I was sure I could recite by heart.

The waiter brought me my drink, which I nursed for all of five minutes before dawning it in one gulp.

I had enough—of men, of dates, of anything that involved romance and sex and everything else that tended to mess with my life.

I ordered the restaurant’s ‘special’ and a glass of red wine. I had just finished my dinner and was halfway through my glass of wine when the door swung open and in walked three guys. The moment the door closed I could feel their gaze on me, scrutinizing the fact that I was in a bar restaurant sitting at a table alone.

“The curse of the single woman,” I muttered under my breath and slumped deeper into my seat in the hope I’d magically develop the ability of turning invisible.

“Hola, señorita.”

I turned sharply to regard the uniformed guy in his mid-thirties.