Five Ways to Fall, Page 3

  At least, that’s what I want to see.

  “Sir. Excuse me, sir.” A glance over my shoulder finds Angelo, the short Mexican waiter who’s been serving us all week, standing there with a tray of beers for my friends and me. We didn’t even have to ask. Hell, I love Cancún. I could live here forever.

  “Angelo! Why the fuck are you calling me ‘sir’?”

  “Uh . . .” He licks his lips as his eyes dart to the tile floor. “Please. Management requests that you wear proper attire in the lounge area. Please.”

  “No worries, pal.” Poor Angelo is probably ready to shit his pants, as afraid as he is to offend me, the guy who has lined his pockets with a month’s worth of rent in tips. Snagging a beer off his tray, I take my time sucking back a few mouthfuls, feeling Angry Girl’s eyes riveted to my throat.

  Yeah, I’ve got this one in the bag.

  With an easy smile, I place the bottle down on the table and pull the shirt back over my head. “Though you may have to deal with Angry Girl in front of me, now. She hates my shirt.”

  Angelo casts a polite smile her way as he hands out beers to my friends, and I know exactly what he’s thinking. He’s seen me walk out of here with a few different women this week.

  What else can I say but . . . I’m on vacation.

  I was planning on just hanging low tonight, going to bed solo. Now, though, getting this purple-haired chick naked sounds like more fun.

  “Angry Girl will try to restrain herself, Angelo,” she purrs, draining the last of her drink and placing it on his tray before scooping up a fresh one. She still has a full one sitting on the table, too. “But only if you come back with another one of these in under five minutes. Otherwise, there’s no telling what she’ll do.” Narrowed eyes glimmer with secret amusement.

  “Sí, señorita.”

  I smoothly tuck a twenty into his shirt pocket and pat his shoulder. “For causing you any trouble with management.” Angelo nods and quickly heads off as I stick my hand out. “I’m Ben. And you are . . .”

  Angry Girl accepts it, the skin of her hand soft and cool within mine. “Jill.” Thumbing to her left, she adds, “Sabrina. And that’s Kelly over there. She’s Korean.”

  What? My brow furrows as I regard the cute girl-next-door blond sitting across from us, trying to make sense of that strange introduction. A skillful distraction, it would seem, because it gives Jill a chance to slither into her seat, her back to me once again. She props her feet up to rest on the only vacant chair at the table, her long, shapely legs all the more visible thanks to the tiny shorts she’s wearing.

  “Travis, Kent, Murdock,” I toss out with a lazy gesture toward the guys, three of my roommates from Miami. They can take care of themselves. I’m on a mission. I waste no time seizing an empty lounge chair from the table next to us. Flashing a big smile at the cougar eyeing me, a redhead who is definitely hot enough to fuck should this thing with Jill go sideways, I swing the chair around and take a seat so close that my knee—the one that cost me a guaranteed NFL career and still throbs in damp weather—rests against Jill’s bare leg. She doesn’t shift away. “First night in Cancún?”

  One of her perfectly shaped brows arches. “You’re persistent.”

  “A persistent fool,” I correct her with a grin, earning the non-Korean girl’s laughter. “First night in Cancún?” I repeat.

  “How can you tell?”

  Finally. An open door for a conversation. I jump through it like a circus dog. “Because you’re way too tense, you’re downing those drinks like you’re on a mission to wake up naked on the beach, and you have no tan lines.”

  “Huh . . .” She ponders that for a moment while I inhale her perfume. She smells like strawberries and cream. I wonder if she tastes like strawberries and cream. “What are you, a detective?”

  “Bouncer at a strip club.”

  Her head falls back and she starts laughing, a deep, throaty laugh that I want to record and play back again at a later date. “Of course you are.”

  I shrug. “It pays the bills.” I could kill whatever assumptions she’s making about me by telling her why I’m really here in Cancún: to celebrate finishing law school and taking the bar exam.

  But I don’t.

  I simply watch her tongue curl around the salty rim of her glass. Dirty thoughts flash through my head and I’m forced to discreetly adjust myself. If she notices, she doesn’t comment. Hell, she probably knows exactly what she’s doing to me. There are no innocent vibes coming off this chick.

  “And what do you do?” I ask.

  She purses her lips. “I’m a marine biologist. From Seattle.”

  “A Doogie Howser marine biologist?” The girl could pass for twenty-three. Twenty-four, tops.

  “I’m twenty-nine.”

  “Sure you are.” I jut my chin in her friend’s direction. “And she’s Korean, right?”

  In response, her friend spews off a string of something that sounds a hell of a lot like Korean, followed by a smug smile, and I’m left with my mouth gaping wide.

  Okay. Still . . . “Marine biologist? Really?”

  She takes another long draw of her drink and licks her lips before she announces, “I love me some big fish.” Yeah . . . lying. Fine. I’ll play along. “How long are you here for?” she asks, feigning disinterest, as the guys find chairs and pull her friends’ attention away.

  I let my eyes skate over her features again, silently counting seven piercings—two in her nose and five in her ear—and wondering how many more she has hidden under those tight little shorts and that tank top of hers. And I suddenly find myself wishing I were just starting my vacation today. “This is my last night.”

  “Really . . .” An unreadable look passes through her eyes as they quickly flitter over my features, landing on my mouth. “The exorcism needs more time,” she mumbles under her breath.

  What the fuck? Wouldn’t that just be my luck to land a nut job for my last night. Not that that couldn’t be fun. I’m always up for something different. “Maybe we should start right away then?”

  The heated look she shoots me with—like she’s deciding between jumping onto my lap and filleting me—makes me give this a moment’s pause. Maybe I should be more careful about who I bring back to my room. I take another look at her frame—she’s probably too small to cause any real damage without weapons—and notice the giant name inked into her arm. As much as I want to trace the letters, I keep my hands to myself. It’s like petting a strange dog; you don’t even reach out until you know it’s not going to lunge at you. So I point at the tattoo instead. “That would suck if it were an ex.”

  “Yeah, it would.” The bite in her tone is suddenly back, and this time it comes with a sheen just barely glistening in her eyes. She quickly blinks it away, trying to keep the tough act going. Dammit. I groan inwardly as disappointment settles in. She’s not just scorned. She’s still raw. She’s going to be one of those drunk chicks who suddenly erupts in tears. Probably during sex.

  Nothing worse than a girl crying halfway through sex. A definite limp dick maker.

  She clears her throat. “I didn’t see any tattoos on you.”

  Okay, at least she’s trying to steer the conversation away from her and her current situation. I can roll with that. “You haven’t seen all of me yet.” I know I sound like a cocky bastard, but it somehow works for me.

  A tiny sly grin curves her mouth for just a moment before she stifles it, as if she didn’t mean to let it slip out. “Any hidden ones?”

  “Nope. Hate needles,” I answer truthfully.

  “Wuss.”

  I shrug. “You obviously don’t mind them. Any tats or piercings besides the ones I see?”

  All I get is a taunting smile in return. Fuck.

  A sudden burst of Rihanna pumps out over the speakers as the regular lights dim down and the dance-floor lights kick in, indicating that the hotel lounge is turning into a club as it does every night at this time. Jill’s cringe tells me s
he’s not impressed.

  “Not your kind of music?” My gaze immediately drops to her tank top, a faded Pearl Jam album cover printed on the front of it.

  She shakes her head. “I’m more into classic rock and nineties alternative.”

  Seriously? “Were you even alive for that?”

  “I can play every single Aerosmith song ever recorded on the guitar,” she says, as if that answers my question.

  Sweet Jesus. Stretching my legs out as I try to picture her rocking out with a guitar strung over her shoulder—naked—I offer, “You know, girls who play the guitar are fucking hot. You any good?”

  Another cunning smile behind her drink answers me. Yeah, she’s good. And, damn it, so sexy. In a loose cannon kind of way. The only kind that snags me like a trout on a shark hook. Just like Kacey, one of my best friends, did. That girl had a self-destruct button affixed to her chest for the longest time. I saw it a mile away and I still fell for her hard.

  Angelo chooses that moment to swoop in and place a drink in her hand and a shot of tequila on the table for everyone. Jill doesn’t even wait. She lifts the glass to her lips and downs it. No salt, no lime.

  “Am I going to have to carry you home tonight?” I offer with a wide grin.

  She smacks her lips as she drops the glass onto the table rather loudly. “I think I’m going to aim for waking up naked on the beach.”

  “I have some experience with that. I can give you a few pointers.”

  Her hawkish eyes roll over my body slowly before landing on my face, fixing a hard gaze on my mouth. “You’re not my type.”

  I’ve heard this before and I don’t believe her. Hell, I’m everyone’s type! Eventually. “And what is it exactly about me that you don’t like?”

  A wicked gleam in her eyes tells me she thinks I’m going to regret asking. Little does she know, I don’t give a shit. I have a thick skin and an easy sense of humor. This should actually be amusing.

  “The womanizing mama’s-boy football-player part who spreads the charm on like peanut butter and has had a different girl in his hotel room every night this week.”

  “Not every night.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Oh, and you’re blond. I’m not into blonds.”

  “You’re completely wrong about me.” She’s pretty much nailed it, actually.

  “Really?” As if to prove her point, she taps the ring on my finger. The one I earned taking my team to the state championships.

  “I don’t play anymore.”

  “Not good enough?”

  I chuckle. She’s good at the hits to the ego. “Too good, apparently, because some guy felt the need to wreck my knee.” Between the dislocated joint, the torn ligaments, and the nerve damage, I’m surprised I can even run anymore.

  Those caramel eyes soften for just a flash, so fast I almost miss it. “I’m still not sleeping with you.”

  “Well, I don’t know what you had planned, but I’m just here to hang out and make some new friends,” I offer, feigning innocence.

  This one’s going to be a bit more challenging than I thought.

  But she’ll change her tune eventually.

  Chapter 3

  REESE

  “You know they rob you blind when you rent a room to yourself at these places,” I announce, as I stumble into Ben’s hotel room. It’s the cookie-cutter design—two queen-sized beds covered in tropical floral bedspreads and adorned with swan towel creations, the walls plastered with tacky mass-production artwork.

  I hear the door lock click behind me. “Yeah, but it’s worth it on nights like this. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “You’ve got this all figured out, don’t you, Don Juan.” I half-fall, half-lean against the wall to balance myself as I kick off my flip-flops. Once I got past the whole red shirt issue—I hold a special kind of grudge against that color—I realized that Nicki may have called forth the perfect exorcism candidate after all. As if his dazzling blue eyes and deep dimples weren’t enough to win me over, the second Ben pulled his shirt off in the middle of the lounge and stood there like an arrogant bastard, that incredibly ripped body of his on proud display, I knew there would be no pretenses with this guy. No confusion. No false promises of a life together. Or even a phone call.

  But what makes Ben the most compelling candidate is the fact that he has effectively distracted me from all thoughts Jared. I mean, he’s about as opposite as you can get. Ben is rugged and blond, whereas Jared is “pretty” and dark. Jared’s chest and arms are covered in tats, while Ben’s body boasts a naked—and appealing—canvas. And where Jared is quiet and introverted, Ben is as outgoing and obnoxious as you can get.

  An interesting bonus? He’s had me laughing all night long. Granted, I was usually laughing at him, but still.

  Thanks to Ben, I’ve had several hours’ respite from excruciating thoughts of my ex-husband and his elaborate wedding to her in Savannah, Georgia, happening at this very moment. I only know about the wedding because I stalk Jared’s Facebook profile daily. While he has never been good at posting status updates, Caroline could join an Olympic Facebook team the way she plasters pictures and wedding plans and “I love you’s” on his wall like unsightly graffiti.

  Unfortunately, even a guy like Ben couldn’t cure me of all thoughts completely and the second they crept out from the dark recesses—the moment I felt the drunk-girl tears about to erupt—I told Ben that he was bringing me to his hotel room.

  Wandering farther in, I throw an arm toward the bed not covered in his clothing and suitcase. “You sleep in this one?”

  Heavy footsteps approach behind me. “Yep.”

  “Okay then.” I lean forward to shove everything from the unused bed.

  “What are you doing?” Ben asks with a chuckle.

  “I’m assuming you’ve had your other conquests over there,” I mutter, his suitcase making a loud thud as it hits the ground, the contents spilling out. “I want an untainted bed.”

  “Hey, you’re the one who grabbed me by my belt and demanded that I bring you here. I was just as happy hanging out by the bar.”

  I snort. “Yeah. I don’t think I’ve ever seen as bad a case of eyeball static cling as tonight.” If his eyes weren’t on my boobs or my legs, they were glued to my face. I’ll admit, his undivided attention on me felt damn good. A real ego booster when I needed it most.

  Strong hands grasp my hips and pull me back toward him. Even in my drunken state, it’s impossible not to notice Ben’s prominent erection digging into my ass. “How long have you had that problem?” I joke as heat rushes to my thighs. Am I actually going to go through with this? I’ve had only one other one-night stand before and I don’t even classify that as such because I knew the guy. I just didn’t particularly want to date him. He was arrogant. Just like this one.

  He chuckles softly. “Since I watched you fall off your chair. And I don’t consider it a problem as long as it’s dealt with before the morning.” A large hand curls around to my abdomen and starts sliding up along my rib cage, guiding my body upright. “I don’t fly out until eleven, so we’ve got lots of time.” Spinning me around to face him, he lifts my arms to settle on his shoulders before his hands fall down the length of my arms and farther, his thumbs running over the contour of my breasts on their way to wrap around my waist. His eyes rest on my mouth. “So . . . invertebrate zoology? Biotechnology?”

  “Your dirty talk is going to make me lose control.” What the hell is he talking about?

  “Why’d you lie, Miss Marine Biologist from Seattle?” I can tell by his smile that he’s not angry, or even annoyed. Amused, if anything.

  Oh . . . I shrug. So he figured that much out. Doesn’t seem like he’s picked up on the fact that we’ve been using cast names from Charlie’s Angels all night. I’m actually surprised. I could see him being the type of twelve-year-old boy to jerk off to reruns of a young Farrah Fawcett. “I don’t know. I like to role-play.” Adding coyly, “Sometimes I like to play dress-up, too.”
I actually fucking hate costumes, but judging by the spark of excitement in Ben’s eyes, his imagination is taking that and running to all kinds of filthy places.

  He’s fun to toy with.

  That’s exactly how I ended up here.

  That and too much tequila.

  He leans in. His lips—so contradictorily sweet next to that obnoxious mouth—land on the nape of my neck, eliciting an embarrassing groan out of me as I tip my head back and coil my arms around his head. It’s not Jared’s mouth, but it will work.

  The room is beginning to spin, but this feels so good that I force myself to ignore the revolutions as I lean farther into him. I continue to ignore them as his fingers slip under the hem of my tank top to pull it up and over my head. Tossing it aside, his hands quickly find and unfix the clasp to my bra.

  “Damn, I knew it.” He shifts back to get a good look at my bare chest as cool fingers graze the silver hoop through my left nipple. He gives it a skilled tug, just enough to elicit a gasp and a burn in my lower belly. With a devious smile, he murmurs, “What else you got?” He has my shorts and panties on the floor before I know what’s going on.

  “I thought there was no rush?” I mutter, grabbing Ben’s arm to stop myself from toppling over as I step out of them, a spike of nervousness jumping in me as I acknowledge that I’m completely naked in front of this fully clothed and fit man who works at a freaking strip club. I have a small waist and decent boobs, but the package comes with a tiny abdominal “bump” and an ass that’s a tad fuller than I would like.

  I hope he’s too drunk to notice.

  A frown mars Ben’s forehead as he peers down at my face. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

  “Because your eyes just crossed. That’s usually not a good sign.” The crease deepens. “Are you sure you haven’t had too much to drink? Because I don’t like to—”

  I answer by grabbing the front of that red shirt and yanking him down into my mouth for what I hope is not a sloppy-drunk-girl kiss. But probably is. That seems to be all he needs, because his arms snake around my body to crush me against him. It may just be the alcohol but, damn, does this obnoxious bouncer have some skill. I hadn’t expected it. In truth, I thought he’d be the “no kissing on the lips” kind of guy. Now, though, I find myself mesmerized by him, letting my hands crawl all over his chest, ready to find out exactly how skilled he is.