* * *
What else matters? I’m not entertaining picket fence fantasies here, all he has to do is be good enough for one night. His tattoos have convinced me of that already.
* * *
NO. NO-NO-NO. You do not decide whether a guy is quality one-night stand material based solely on the fact that he has tattoos. Tattoos should NOT be your baseline. I’ll submit every dude currently serving time in county jail for some incredibly stupid crime involving barnyard animals as proof of that. You KNOW they all have bitchin’ tattoos.
* * *
YOU have tattoos. Lots of them. So does your husband. Hypocritical, much?
* * *
Hypocrisy is one of my great strengths. As is my ability to make the world’s best enchiladas. Most of all, I can always be counted on to remind my friend that she deserves the best. So unless one of those tattoos somehow proclaims that he’s safe, sane, and knows what to do with his dick, then YOU NEED MORE DATA.
* * *
Tara’s professional life revolves around things like data and logic, so she tends to act as my voice of reason—one I usually try to pay attention to.
Unfortunately, I can’t pay any more attention to her right now, because in the time it took to check my phone, the bartender managed to swoop in and settle the aftershave model’s tab. I abandon my text to Tara just as he stands up and grabs his jacket from the barstool beside him, tucking it under his arm. His car keys are already in his hand.
He gives me a quick nod, his expression still tense. “Have a good night.”
Even as I nod my head at him, my mind is working overtime. He’s leaving and I need to come up with a way to stop him, without sounding like a nut. Nothing comes to me, even as I stare at his retreating form.
Then he passes by the hostess, who seems to really enjoy the long view of his lazily hot, slow amble toward her. When he reaches the front door, I practically bolt off the barstool. Rummaging through my purse again, I dig out the last of my cash. I catch the bartender’s attention by waving a twenty-dollar bill around in the air.
“Is this enough to cover my bill?”
The bartender flips through her tickets, plucking one slip out. “Totally. I’ll get your change.”
I sling my purse over my head, calling back over my shoulder for her to keep the change, even though I’m not in a position to be waving money around like I have plenty of it.
Losing my job at the museum and moving out of my ex Martin’s house means I’m both unemployed and without a permanent address, which is one hell of a combination. I’ve lined up a spur of the moment house-sitting gig for the next six weeks, but all that provides as payment is a roof over my head. It won’t put food in my mouth or pay my student loans. Until I have a steady paycheck again, I need to watch my pennies.
I barrel out the restaurant door and straight into the heat of a Tucson summer night. Scanning the lot, I spot my target just as he slips around the side of a black SUV, tugging on his jacket as he walks. I start to jog in that direction, trying not to seem totally stalker-ish as I slow to a stop a few feet away from him. I catch sight of the back of his jacket just before he whips around with one hand tucked in at his side. US MARSHAL is printed in bold yellow lettering across the black canvas material.
Apparently, he isn’t an aftershave model after all. He’s a cop.
Not that it matters, but I’m not entirely sure how I feel about that. If this wasn’t just a one-nighter, a US Marshal isn’t the kind of guy I could bring home to meet my parents, that’s for sure.
My eco-warrior father monkey-wrenched his way through most of the seventies, racking up plenty of legal offenses along the way. As for my mom, her path to citizenship wasn’t exactly a straight line; it involved overstaying a work visa and never going home to Oaxaca after meeting my dad at a farmworker rights rally in the eighties. They married quickly and then spent the next few years doing activist work that occasionally landed them behind bars. After I was born, they decided it was time to settle down, and bought a ramshackle ranch out in the Sonoita desert. My childhood involved living in a house that was a temporary stopover for a wide array of interesting souls, passing through for days or weeks at a time. Our home may have had an open-door and an open-heart policy, but that doesn’t mean my unconventional parents would be keen on extending that toward anyone with a government pension and a badge.
On the upside, becoming a US Marshal has to involve a background check of some sort, which means he’s probably a decent, normal guy. Unless, of course, he’s a seriously bad guy. Like the kind of sociopath who’s capable of outwitting a personality test while also keeping his background check spotless. One of those guys they eventually make a Dateline special about, chock-full of interviews with his neighbors and colleagues, all of them talking about how they had no idea, while looking horrified.
Before I can decide for myself which group he belongs in, he exhales slowly and draws his hand out from beneath his jacket.
“It’s not a good idea to run up behind people in a dark parking lot,” he grumbles, then lets out another exhale. “You okay? Is there something you need?”
“I’m Anya,” I announce.
His brow furrows. “Hello. Anya.”
He punctuates each syllable by drawing it out slowly, like I’m an errant toddler and he’s curious where the hell my mother is. Then he lazily thumbs toward his chest. “I’m JT.”
After that, he gives my form a once-over and at first, I’m not sure if the inspection is just that of a cop sizing me up, or if it’s something more interesting. Then his gaze settles at the hemline of my dress. The pale yellow sundress I’m wearing lands well above the knee, leaving plenty of my summer-tanned legs on display. I’m pretty sure I look great it in, so when his jawline tenses, I decide that this isn’t just a cop checking out a perp.
He draws his eyes back up to meet mine. Yup. Unless cops are prone to using smoldering, heated looks to throw criminals off balance, this is not your standard cop inspection.
I tug on the strap of my bag, awkwardly adjusting it while trying to slow the hammering of my heart.
That heated look, those tattoos, and that body? One night with JT the US Marshal just might ruin me, and I almost consider abandoning my plan because of it. Maybe it would be better to scrounge around in my purse until I can come up with enough loose change to buy a pint of ice cream and then head back to my hotel room where I can scarf it down while watching something mindless on TV. Because this guy may be more than I can handle.
No, I tell myself. No way. Screw all that noise in my head, all the parts of my heart that believe it would be easier to sink under the comforting weight of self-doubt. I don’t need that. What I need is to be an independent single woman who can enjoy being ruined by a man like JT for one night, then get up in the morning and be on her merry way. Solo, satisfied, and ready for my next adventure.
I take a deep breath. “Nice to meet you, JT.” Another breath, but this time it’s because I have to steel my nerves. “There’s no subtle way to do this, so let me be upfront: I’m looking for someone to spend the night with. Do you want to have sex with me?”