Wrong Number, Right Guy

  ALSO BY ELLE CASEY

  NEW ADULT ROMANCE

  By Degrees

  Rebel (3-book series)

  CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE

  Shine Not Burn (2-book series)

  Don’t Make Me Beautiful

  Full Measure (written as Kat Lee)

  Just One Night (romantic serial)

  Just One Week (romantic serial)

  Love in New York (3-book series)

  Mismatched (with Amanda McKeon)

  YA PARANORMAL

  Duality (2-book series)

  Pocket Full of Sunshine (short story & screenplay)

  YA URBAN FANTASY

  War of the Fae (7-book series)

  My Vampire Summer

  Aces High (with Jason Brant)

  YA DYSTOPIAN

  Apocalypsis (4-book series)

  YA ACTION ADVENTURE

  Wrecked (2-book series)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2015 Elle Casey

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 978-1503947450

  ISBN-10: 1503947459

  Cover design by Sarah Hansen

  For my momma, my biggest fan

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  My sister is at her wit’s end, but that’s nothing new. Her three kids are always making her crazy. I pick up my phone to take a look at her latest text.

  Sis: I need a frign break. Taking the butt strings to the arcade.

  I frown. Since when are we calling her kids butt strings? I mean, they are up her butt all the time, but still . . .

  Me: Butt strings?

  A few seconds later her response comes in.

  Sis: I meant to say breast sling. Effing autocorrect.

  Then two seconds later this comes in:

  Sis: Argh! Not breast sling! I’m going to kill the dick who shit on my ass because it’s going all jello.

  I’m laughing too hard to stop at this point.

  Sis (again): Shit storm! Epic shit storm of autocorrect madness! I’m taking the butt HEADS to the arcade and I’m going to kill the dog who shit on my grass because it’s going all yellow. Please just shit me cow.

  Sis (once more): SHOOT ME NOW, NOT SHIT ME COW. WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU AUTOCORRECT??? WHY ARE YOU SO FILTHY???

  I can barely press the right keys, I’m laughing so hard.

  Me: Call their daddy and take a pill. I’ll be over later.

  Sis: I need a new phone. I’m going to the slut to buy one.

  Me: That should be an interesting transaction. Does she take credit cards?

  Sis: STORE NOT SLUT. And I’m going to go ride off the autocorrect too.

  Me: lol. Ride that mother, big sis. Ride it hard.

  Sis: Shut up. I’m going to get rid of it, not ride it. Frigging automobiles.

  She must have given up, because that’s the last I hear from her or her out-of-control automobile . . . errr, autocorrect.

  I chuckle my way back to my home screen, clicking away from the text messages as I lie down on my couch, reveling in my single, childless adulthood.

  My sister Jenny started early in life; like me she was in a rush to leave home, anxious to leave the unhappy mess our father had created with his lies and unfaithfulness to our mother. Jenny had her first kid at twenty-two and finished with the third one by the time she was twenty-eight. Now, at thirty-two, she’s divorced and mostly insane, trying to play the role of both parents while holding down a full-time job, all while her ex pretends to be eighteen again with women way too young to be doing anything but going to college. It’s pitiful.

  No way in a million years am I going down that path. I’ve seen the mess it leaves behind. Whoo-hoo, no thank you. Commitment’s great when it’s with the right guy; I’ve seen that with friends. Some people get lucky. But so far I’m not even sure there’s a guy out there for me. When I get a hint of a lie or even just a shaded truth, I’m outta there. Good-bye, so long, don’t let the door hit you on the butt on the way out. Liar, liar, I will set your pants on fire.

  I’m single and loving it, twenty-nine, working as a freelance wedding and portrait photographer, and absolutely not in the market for a relationship. I just ended a long-term affair that should have been a short-term one and have sworn off dating for a while. As far as I’m concerned, it’s better to have not loved at all than to have loved and been lied to. I need a little me-time, and since my schedule is pretty much empty, it’s going to work out perfectly. My plan consists of being in the studio or on location whenever I can book some work, napping, gardening, going to the river in the evenings for glorious, relaxing walks, and drinking copious amounts of wine in between all those things. Nothing is going to get in the way of me enjoying the last year of my twenties. Nothing, not even the little butt strings and their crazy momma.

  I’ve been planning this self-imposed get-back-to-the-real-May-Wexler program for a while. Ever since I graduated from NYU with a major in photography, I’ve been focusing on getting past the things that drove me away from my family and across the country to get my degree. But even though it’s been over five years, I’m still really no closer to reaching that elusive goal.

  Heck, I knew I needed to exorcise my demons just a couple years after graduating, which is why I moved back South and took up residence a few miles from my older sister in New Orleans, the place she landed after
college.

  Jenny’s my rock. The shoulder I can always lean on. But making the move of coming here to be near her didn’t magically send the baggage I’ve been carrying around up to the attic. The specters of my family’s past still follow me, still haunt me, still influence the way I feel about myself, my life, and every single guy I come into contact with in a romantic way. It’s really pretty pitiful, actually.

  Jenny’s doing much better than I am in the self-help department. After dealing with her own failed relationship, destroyed by a lack of faithfulness on her ex’s part, she’s come to a place where she can be honest with herself about what happened and take responsibility for her own happiness without making excuses when she fails. Me, I’m still working on that part of it. I blame my father for everything; I’m not ready to forgive and let go.

  So, yeah. I’m going to figure me out. This is my grand plan. Forget the fact that I have absolutely no idea how to do this for myself. I’m hoping several bottles of wine will help kick-start the process.

  I’m going to decide once and for all who I want to be when I grow up, and then I’m somehow going to become that person, even if it means I’m not going to be taking pictures of happily married couples and families wearing matching white shirts and denim pants anymore. It’s not like that was my life goal when I left college anyway; it’s just what I fell into when I couldn’t find a job doing anything else. I shouldn’t complain, though. Until the economy fell into the dump a couple years ago, I was doing really well.

  Another text comes in and lights up my screen. I blink a few times to clear the sleep from my eyes. I must have dozed off, because my clock says it’s an hour later.

  Unknown number: You’re going down.

  Me: Oh really?

  I smile to myself. My sister is going to blame me for something that happened while I was sleeping. Apparently she has her new phone and a temporary number until her old one switches over, and her first text is to bitch at me. Excellent.

  Me: Says who?

  I take a moment to save her number.

  Jen: Says me, that’s who. You need to get out here.

  Me: No. I’m sleeping. Can’t you hear me snoring? Zzzzzzzz

  Jen: Screw that. Come here or I’m coming there and I won’t be alone. You’re my backup, remember?

  I picture the little monsters running all over my freshly cleaned floors, putting sticky goo on everything, and smile at her empty threat. I’ll forgive those little beasts pretty much anything. They might be wild, but they sure are cute. I can say that because I only have them for a few hours at a time.

  Me: Bring it. I can handle whatever your butt strings throw at me.

  Jen: Are you serious? Butt strings? Get your ass out here! I mean it, dick!

  Me: Did you just call me a penis? That’s harsh.

  I’m laughing all over again.

  Jen: I call it like I see it. Get here yesterday.

  I sit up on the couch and sigh. She sounds like she really needs a break. It’s tempting to send her another text, but I decide against it. No more messing around. She’s about to blow a gasket, and the last time that happened, I was stuck with the kids for a whole week while she went to our family cabin to find herself again. I need to head this one off at the pass.

  Me: Fine. Where are you exactly?

  Jen: Frankie’s Pub. Downtown at Lexington.

  I pull my phone in closer to see if I’m reading that right. Sure enough, it says Frankie’s.

  Me: Isn’t that a biker bar? Are you sure you should be bringing the kids in there?

  Jen: If you call them my kids again I will shoot you.

  I stare at the screen for a while and then decide against a smart-ass answer. If my sister has reached the point of disowning her kids, Auntie May needs to swoop in and save the day, once again.

  I stand up and sigh over the terrible burden of being so awesome, typing out my response as I make my way across the room to the front door.

  Me: Fine. See you in 20.

  Jen: Bring the Phoenix.

  I pause with my fingers on the door handle. Phoenix?

  As if he can sense it, my half-Chihuahua/half-Pomeranian furball perks up and rouses himself from his doggy bed to join me in the foyer. His tiny claws click across the tile floor. Felix is good for keeping the kids occupied so Jenny and I can talk. She often requests his presence when she needs to let off steam and doesn’t want the kids listening in.

  “I think she wants me to bring you, Felix.” I grab my bigger purse off the rack at the door and throw my wallet, keys, and Taser into it. Even if I weren’t going to a biker bar, I’d add that last item to my bag; I was mugged once in college, and I’m never going down easy again. And if I do go down, I’m electrocuting a bad guy on the way. “Come on, little guy—up you go.”

  He waits patiently for me to scoop him up and put him in the bag, back legs in first. Once settled, he pokes his head out of the top, and his tongue comes out to do a happy pant.

  “Do not pee in my bag, Felix. I’m not kidding this time.”

  As I slide my feet into my pink espadrilles, I check my look in the window’s reflection, smoothing down my shoulder-length brown hair, making sure it’s tucked neatly behind the light blue plastic hair-band that had gone slightly askew as I slept. My tailored, blue-striped blouse and beige pants are still crisp and clean, no worse for the wear after my little nap and a day’s work. Today was a studio job, so there was no need to wear a suit or dress, but I never wear jeans to work. I don’t want my clients thinking I’m a hack. I take my work seriously, even if it’s as boring as watching paint dry sometimes, so I need to look the part. I don’t need any more makeup than I’m already wearing; a little lip gloss and some eyeliner and mascara to outline my light blue eyes, and I’m ready to go. I’ll make sure nothing smeared during my nap out in the car, before anyone besides Felix sees me.

  We walk out the door and get into my adorable cherry-red Chevy Sonic, heading downtown to a bar I’m absolutely sure my sister should not have gone into with her kids. Hopefully, I won’t stand out too much in my casual uptown outfit. I’ve never been to Frankie’s, but I have to assume it’s not the type of place I’d go to regularly. It gets mentioned in the news from time to time, and never because there’s something good happening there.

  Me: We’re on our way. Hold tight. Don’t kill anyone until I get there.

  Jen: No promises.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I’m parked in a lot mostly filled with old-school motorcycles and big sedans that probably should have been junked long ago. There are two pickup trucks, one of them new. Besides my car, it’s the only vehicle here I’d be caught dead in, and it’s a truck, for God’s sake. I hate trucks. They’re so . . . big and rednecky.

  This has got to be the worst parenting decision my sister has ever made. What happened to her? It can’t just be the autocorrect on her phone. Her ex-husband Miles must have pushed her too far this time.

  Felix and I enter the bar and stop just inside the doorway, getting the lay of the land. I’m trying to talk myself out of being nervous—after all, I’m a grown woman who’s been to plenty of bars, and I have no reason to fear anyone here—but it’s not working. My palms are getting sweatier by the second. My gaze roams the room, searching for the figure of a desperate woman with her hair mostly pulled out and her three young children swinging from light fixtures.

  Instead, I see barstools with large male butts on them, their wallets chained to their pockets; pool tables with groups of men standing around holding cue sticks, all of them wearing leather vests and chaps; and a couple of women who I’m pretty sure get paid by the hour to practice the oldest profession in the world, straddling barstools in the corner.

  I wonder for the briefest of moments if any of them need a wedding photographer. That’s my desperation talking, the part of me that is always thinking about my bank account and how little money I have in there. Then my rational brain takes over again, and I realize that if any of t
hese people were to get married, they would more than likely do it in a city hall, followed by shots of whiskey to seal the deal. People who celebrate life events that way normally do not book photo sessions that involve clothed individuals.

  Talk about being out of one’s element. I look down at my feet. Maybe the pink espadrilles were a bad idea. The narrow-eyed looks I’m getting from the people in leather are not helping my sweaty-palm issue one bit.

  There’s an archway across the room from me that leads into another public space whose specifics I can’t make out from here. Since I don’t see my family members in this main room, I assume that must be where they are. I can only imagine what’s back there. Probably drugs. Probably more leather and more chained wallets. Now my armpits have joined the sweat party. Fantastic.

  What was my sister thinking? She came into this bar and went into the back room? Nothing good could possibly be happening back there. Best-case scenario? Poker game. Her ex would have a field day over that one. He’s always more than happy to point out her failings as a mother. Adding gambler to the list would be bad. Now I feel terrible that I was messing with her on the phone. She was clearly walking a fine line between stressed momma and bat-poo crazy momma, and now I know she’s crossed over that line into a very dark place. My poor sister. Her poor kids!

  I’ve never had to confront Jenny over questionable parenting choices before. She’s gotten stressed, sure, but she’s never gone completely off the range like this. When it got really bad with her divorce, she took a time out, but she arranged everything with me and the kids ahead of time and made sure we were all good before she took off for a week.

  I’m not sure, but I think I can stage a one-woman intervention without letting everyone in the place know that I think they’re not the best of company for my sister—my poor, older but misguided sister who is so going to pay for dragging me into this place.

  My feet are literally sticking to the floor. In order to move forward, I have to peel them off the . . . what is it . . .? Carpet? Linoleum? It’s impossible to tell. I shudder with the thought of how much bacteria I’m collecting on my person right now. I’m totally leaving my shoes outside my front door after this trip. I should probably just burn them to stop the spread of contagions. That makes me sad because I love my pink espadrilles.