down with him. Stop constantly masquerading as normal.
It was nice.
But I haven’t told him the real truth, and I won’t; so as
fun as this relationship has been, it’s over now. The end.
“The fucking end,” I growl past clenched teeth.
I ignore the phone and peel out onto the quiet down-
town street, desperate to get home. Four blocks away
from his building I have to slow for a small bar district.
People walk past, young and happy and buzzing. They
all seem to be in groups, connected by companionship
and looped arms. Their faces flash beneath streetlights
that light up their joy in the dark.
I want some of that. I’m too empty. Always too empty.
Impulsive is my favorite speed, so when I see an open
parking spot at the end of the block, I drop my desper-
ate run for home and swing toward the curb to park. As
I shove my phone and wallet into my coat pocket, the
unfamiliar claws of that bad feeling—anxiety? fear? I’m
not experienced enough to identify it—begin to retreat,
and by the time I reach the door of the closest bar, the
pain is gone entirely.
The biggest sign on the window reads tapas in fancy
letters. Below that is a promise of “curated cocktails,”
whatever the hell that means. Most important, the music
shaking through the glass is far too loud, and laughing
people crowd the tables, even on a Thursday night.
I open the door and walk into the friendly chaos, and
that’s all it takes. I’m instantly myself again. No scratchy, strange pain. No doubt about anything.
Fifteen minutes later I have a seat at the bar, a delicious dish of melted cheese and toast points in front of me, and
one perfectly curated cocktail in my hand. There’s a man
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Problem Child
next to me, working hard to get into the good graces of
the woman next to him, and I eavesdrop with delight.
“Yeah, I broke up with her last month,” he shouts
over the music. “Didn’t she tell you?”
“No, but we’re not really that close,” the woman
responds. “I mean, we’re friends, I guess, but she seems
really high-maintenance, and I’m not into that kind of
thing. Too much drama.” She laughs coyly as she throws
her friend under the bus.
“Yeah, I don’t know. I mean, she seemed down-to-
earth at first, but then shit got really demanding, you
know?”
Way to set up this new woman to lower her expecta-
tions. Don’t expect things from me—that’s unreasonable—and if you do, I’ll leave. I love it. So does the skinny brunette, who tosses her hair and laughs, desperate to be cooler
than her friend.
Ah, the cool chick. We’ve all been there. Pretending
to love sports and unsatisfying booty calls just so he’ll pay attention to you. Even I’ve walked that line in four-inch
heels, though I never did it in the pursuit of love. I had
other motivations.
Mr. Low Expectations waves a hand and orders two
shots of tequila. The bartender, who has a styled mustache
and probably calls himself a barkeep, flinches a little but sets two shot glasses down with an elegant spin. I raise
my eyebrows in acknowledgment of his craft and he
winks as he pours.
Low Expectations is utterly focused on his prey and
hasn’t noticed me at all. Why would he? I’m ten years
older than the brunette and I’m still dressed like the
badass bitch I am in my pin-striped suit. He doesn’t need
27
Victoria Helen Stone
that kind of trouble. Still, plenty of other men are will-
ing to screw a girl like me, even if I’m nothing close to
a ten. Theoretically, a few extra pounds and a lack of
striking beauty make someone like me more desperate
and therefore better in bed. Or so I’ve heard. It’s amaz-
ing what you can pick up on the dating scene if you pay
close enough attention.
The flirting pair down their tequila and giggle together
as if they’ve done something particularly naughty.
“I probably shouldn’t have skipped dinner!” the bru-
nette declares.
Instead of offering to order some delicious tapas, the
guy calls for another round of tequila, then mentions
late-night grilled cheese at his house. She laughs at his
obvious plan to get her to drink way too much and come
home with him. “You’re so bad,” she squeaks.
Already bored with this tired scene, I make eye contact
with a forty-something guy at the end of the bar wearing
a too-tight shirt, but it’s just habit on my part. I don’t need that kind of energy tonight. I already had sex with Luke,
and it was hotter than anything I can get with a stranger.
Even during a frantic quickie in a bar bathroom, Luke
took the time and effort to make me come. Half these
guys couldn’t even do that if they were trying, and—let’s
be honest—they wouldn’t be trying.
I sigh and sip my spicy ginger highball before digging
into the cheese.
I haven’t cheated on Luke once. It’s not that I’d feel
guilty. I don’t feel guilt. I don’t understand it. If you don’t get caught doing something, nothing terrible happens to
anyone, so why would you bother feeling bad about it?
I could have sex with any one of these guys right now,
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Problem Child
and my boyfriend would never find out. But I don’t want
to. I’m physically satisfied, so there’s no need to risk a
wasted thirty minutes with Bad Sex Bob. That’s just
common sense.
But this relationship is drawing to a close, and I’ll have
to get back in the game. It’ll be fine. I haven’t lost my edge.
I can glance right down the line of men at this bar and
immediately tell which guys might make a woman come
and which of these jokers have never given it a thought.
Still, caring isn’t doing. There are no guarantees for us
humans born with clits. It’s a crapshoot but without all
the fun crowds and shouting. Usually.
When we first dated in college, Luke was fine in bed,
but during our years apart he became downright delight-
ful. I ran into him unexpectedly when I was visiting
Minneapolis, and I took him home for old times’ sake.
That gamble really paid off.
Since then our time together has amped up his kinki-
ness. He was a pretty vanilla guy, but a little time with a horny monster like me can inspire a man to live out his
secret fantasies. Anal? Yes. Spanking? Yes. Rough role
play? Heck yes, miss, I’ll try anything.
But they’ll all try anything. I can find someone else.
I’m scowling into my delicious cheese dish, and that
won’t do. I get the bartender’s attention with a lingering
glance, then I order a gin drink made with blood orange
essence and pink peppercorn, of course. When I hear
Mr. Low Expectations trying to talk the drunk girl into
a third shot, I tap him gently on the shoulder. He turns
and raises his eyebrows in friendly question.
“Don’t you work at Sebastian and Fields?” I ask, nam-
ing the big accounting firm whose logo I see on a key
card clipped to his coat pocket.
29
Victoria Helen Stone
He brightens a little. “Yeah!”
“Hi, I’m Jane.” I offer my hand.
“Kyle,” he says as he shakes. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
“I’m pretty sure I’ve seen you on the elevator recently.
I work in Human Resources.”
“Oh, nice to meet you,” he says, just as a little twinge
of uncertainty dances over his face. His eyes dart toward
the four empty shot glasses and the pretty woman who’s
trying to wait patiently. She likely doesn’t realize she’s
frowning over his diverted attention, and that makes her
eyes look small and slightly crossed.
“Long week already, huh?” I offer Kyle with a hint
of kind amusement in my voice.
“Ha. I guess.”
“I get it. You’re not on the clock or anything, so please
don’t worry. Have fun!”
“Right. Sure. Thanks.”
I hold up my hands in assurance. “I’ll close my eyes
and ears, Kyle, I promise! Do your worst.”
His uncertainty is blooming into fear now. I watch
finally, the delicious slow slide of his face into the sad-dog curves of disappointment. He can’t take a drunk woman
home for sex with a witness from the HR department
looking on. He’s an upstanding young man on the rise
at Sebastian and Fields, and people in a corporate en-
vironment suddenly care about harassment and sexism.
Damn it.
“This manchego is amazing,” I gush. “You two should
try it.” I grin past him to the woman, whose pinched
scowl has gotten a little blearier since I last looked.
“Right. Yeah.” Kyle smiles tightly and nods. “Good
idea. Can I get one of these?” he calls to the bartender,
30
Problem Child
pointing at my half-eaten cheese. “And then I’ll wrap
up that tab.”
People have never called me a hero, but ten minutes
later the drunk brunette is happily eating her crock of
manchego cheese and Kyle is heading out to catch an Uber.
The woman has totally lost her irritation with me, and
if she registered my conversation with Kyle about work,
she’s forgotten it now.
She’s regaling me with the story of Kyle and High-
Expectation Girl’s abrupt end. I order some bacon-wrapped
shrimp and dig for all the deepest secrets as if I’m part of this woman’s world.
“Let me ask you something serious,” I say.
“Okay!” She claps her hands onto her thighs and sits
up straight as if she’s ready for a quiz.
“Is your friend really high-maintenance, or is Kyle
just a fuckboy?”
The brunette—Laura, I think—squints hard, wrinkling
her nose. “I don’t know. Genevieve is kind of demanding.
She gets very touchy when you don’t return her texts.”
“But Kyle is also clearly a fuckboy.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I guess he is.”
“So it won’t be worth it if high-maintenance Genevieve
decides to slash your tires and shit-talk you to all your
mutual friends. There are a sea of fuckboys here tonight.
Choose one that didn’t date in your friend group. It’s
just smarter.”
Her eyes widen. She pops a shrimp into her mouth
and nods. “Oh my God, you’re so right. What am I do-
ing? Oh my God, you’re my new best friend!”
I’m finally having fun, and when I accidentally catch
the eye of the guy in the too-tight shirt at the end of the bar, I realize he’s still watching for another signal from
31
Victoria Helen Stone
me. Before I can shake my head, he vanishes, then reap-
pears next to me and begins to slide into the seat I vacated when I moved closer to my new friend, Laura.
“No,” I say, and turn my back to him. You have to
be cruel or they won’t believe you. Even then it’s pretty
dodgy. I can feel him hovering, the possibility of sex too
buoyant a lifesaver to let go of easily. But a few minutes
of staring at my back finally begins to sink him. “Fucking
bitch,” he mutters.
“Good food is one hundred times better than random
dick,” I say as I pop my last toast point into my mouth
and chew. “Every time.” My new friend collapses with
laughter. A nice evening, all in all. By the time I finally head home to feed my cat, I’m not worrying about Luke
at all.
32
CHAPTER THREE
Good times always come to an end, and I’m restless now
that I’m clean, well rested, and back at work. Rob’s door
is closed when I get in. It stays closed all day, though I
can hear him furiously typing away, likely producing the
best work he’s ever done for the firm in an attempt to
claw his way back into the partners’ good graces.
All I have to work on is boring prep stuff and contract
research, so when my phone rings, I snatch it up quickly
out of desperation.
“I have another call about your niece,” I hear in mourn-
ful tones. What the hell? My family is pure trouble, and
I cut contact with my parents a year ago. They’re the
only family that would ever get in touch. My grandma
is long dead, and my brother and I haven’t spoken since I
left Oklahoma ten years ago. Truth be told, he wouldn’t
bother reaching out even if Mom and Dad were struck
dead in an entertaining freak accident. So what’s up?
I open my mouth to tell the receptionist to put the call
through to voice mail again, but I hesitate. My parents
are overstepping by tracking me down at my new place
of employment, but I’m also really bored, and my family
is great for providing eye-rolling stories. I always feel superior after our interactions, and that’s an additional plus.
33
Victoria Helen Stone
“I’ll take it,” I finally answer, and the line clicks open.
“Yes, this is Jane,” I say, a warning in the words.
“Jane? Jane, oh my gosh!” Not Mom or Dad. So maybe
they are both dead. The unfamiliar voice keeps gushing.
“I’m so glad I got through to you! This is Joylene. Did
you get my message?”
“No.”
“Oh.” She takes a breath and blows it out for long
seconds. “Okay, I’d better start from the top, then. I found your name and office number online, so I thought I’d
reach out. I hope that’s okay.”
“I don’t know you.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m your brother’s ex. Joylene?”
I roll my eyes and wait to hear how much money she
wants and for what. Does this woman really think I give
a shit what happens to my shiftless, asshole big brother?
I care exactly as much about his well-being as he cared
about mine when we were growing up: not one good
goddamn tiny little bit. And I ca
re even less about his
exes and children.
Finally giving up on any gracious forgiveness on my
part, Joylene takes another deep breath. “I think we met
once at Christmas a long time ago. When your brother
and I were together.”
“I’m sorry,” I offer, and she actually laughs like she
gets it.
“Yeah, well. I was young, and times were desperate.
Regardless, we have a son together, so I stay in touch,
and I’ve been involved with his other kids, because they
are Wesley’s siblings and I feel like he should have a re-
lationship with his own family.”
Wesley. I remember them now. Joylene was a short,
curvy black woman who’d seemed far smarter and more
34
Problem Child
responsible than Ricky or any of the other women he’d
ever dated or impregnated. He complained bitterly that
she was no fun after he knocked her up. Apparently she’d
been quite a drunk, which explains her long-ago attrac-
tion to my brother. Once she got pregnant, she went cold
turkey and turned her life around. Ricky was outraged
at her sobriety. Her naming the boy Wesley was the last
straw. “Fucking nerd name,” he’d grunted out right in
front of the child.
“The reason I’m calling is,” Joylene ventures, “well …
you’re an attorney.”
“I don’t practice criminal law, so whatever he’s done,
I can’t help.” And I won’t help. My brother has been in and out of the system since the age of seventeen for
various felonies. Breaking and entering, grand larceny,
aggravated assault. That kind of thing. He impregnates a
woman during each brief furlough, like a salmon return-
ing home to spawn.
“I wouldn’t ask for him,” Joylene says. “This is about
his daughter. I really don’t care what happens to Ricky. If he violates probation again, he’ll be back in for four years and out just in time for Wesley’s graduation, and that’s
all I care about. A boy needs his father.” She said that last part hard and fast, as if she’d been trying to convince her son and everyone else of that for many years.
“But this isn’t about him,” she continues. “His daughter
Kayla is missing and no one gives a damn.”
“She’s missing?”
“Yes. The girl just turned sixteen and no one has heard
from her in a month. The officials don’t care because
everyone involved is considered trash. I don’t know who
else to call. No one is doing anything. Not the police.