Until Now Read online

Abby nodded. “And they both have major jealously issues.”

  “And they’d probably really appreciate it if you fucked off and left us alone,” I said sweetly.

  The guy grabbed his beer and slid off his barstool, his face red. When he was gone, off to hit on some other unsuspecting woman, Abby and I covertly high-fived each other. The same trick had worked last week, at the cocktail bar. The regulars at Bay Street were more than happy to pose as fake fiancés for a worthy cause.

  By the time we made it to Fusion an hour later, the line was already curled around the building. Ladies’ Night was popular, apparently.

  “I’m so glad you finally started accepting my invites to go out,” Abby said as we joined the line. “I was beginning to think you were antisocial or something.”

  No, I thought. Just trying to stay on the path of righteousness.

  “This will be awesome,” she went on. “You’re a total hot guy magnet. We’ll have dozens to choose from. It’ll be like a fucking buffet in there tonight.”

  I laughed and shook my head. She was just as magnetic with her long blond hair and lithe, toned body. Plus, her skirt was even shorter than mine.

  The music was already jacked up to ear-splitting levels when we got inside the club, and I mostly lip-read Abby’s suggestion that we head straight for the bar. I pretended to know where this was as I stuck close to her side, letting her lead me through the sea of bodies and pulsing lights to the other side of the dance floor. People were stacked three-deep around the bar, but we managed to cut a swath through a cluster of college-aged guys, half of whom offered to purchase whatever we were about to order. We politely declined and paid for our own drinks, a rum and Coke for Abby and a White Russian for me. I’d missed vodka, I realized when I took my first pull from the straw.

  “See what I mean?” Abby screamed in my ear once we were clear of the bar. She pulled back and jutted her chin toward the group of college guys. “Hot.”

  I tossed a glance over my shoulder and noticed one of them watching me. I stared back at him, eyebrows raised, just to see if it flustered him enough to look away. It didn’t. He continued to watch me, gaze lingering on my ass and then my legs. I turned back around, heat blooming in my stomach from the brief connection. Like Abby had said, he was hot. The kind of hot I’d always been drawn to—effortless, confident, hypnotic. The word trouble exuded from every pore. Irresistible to the old me, but the new me was different. I was more cynical now, less romantic, no longer on the look-out for my perfect match. Or maybe I had become antisocial. In any case, I was extremely out of practice with the partying scene and everything that went with it.

  “Let’s dance,” Abby said after we’d sucked back our drinks.

  Feeling suitably buzzed from the drinks at Milo’s topped with the White Russian, I readily agreed and led the way to the dance area. The floor thrummed to the steady beat of music, the vibration starting at my feet and quickly settling in my head, making me feel woozy. Yeah, I so wasn’t used to this anymore, but I liked it. I liked it a lot. Here, with the pounding music and the press of bodies and the warm, claustrophobic air, nothing else could penetrate.

  Or maybe something could. Fingers grazed my hip, light and deliberate, and I twisted around to find their owner. The hot guy from the bar stood right behind me, inches away. I stopped dancing and looked up at him. He was tall, at least half a head taller than my five-foot-eight (six feet in my highest heels) and well-built, like the guys at the gym whose abs could cut glass. Brown hair tumbled over his forehead like he couldn’t be bothered to brush it away and his gaze on me was intense and slightly mocking.

  Oh yes. Trouble wafted off him like musk.

  “You drunk?” he asked, leaning down to speak in my ear. He smelled like beer and spicy cologne.

  “Trying to determine if I’m of sound mind and body?” I turned away and started dancing again, even though Abby had ditched me for a cute dark-haired guy who’d been in the same group at the bar. She was now several feet away, grinding up on him while the guy stood in place, admiring her low-cut top. She’d made her pick at the buffet, apparently.

  “Your body is definitely sound,” Mr. Trouble said, his fingers trailing across my hip bone again. Usually I reacted violently when a stranger touched me, but the vodka must have dulled my senses. “As for your mind, I couldn’t say.”

  I gyrated out of his grasp. “Shouldn’t you at least ask a girl’s name before you try to fondle her?”

  “What’s your name?” he asked, not the least bit chastened.

  I thought about giving him a fake one, or whipping out my fake bodybuilder fiancé picture, but I did neither. Instead, I leaned in close and said, “Robin.”

  His hands found my hips again, lightly resting there like it was a space they owned and inhabited often, and this time I let them stay. “Robin,” he repeated, like it was something erotic. “Well, Robin, you’re so fucking gorgeous that I had to race about ten different guys over here just so I could get to you first.”

  I laughed, even though he looked dead serious. His eyes, grayish-green and slightly bloodshot, stayed firm on mine. “This is the part where you tell me your name,” I said, swaying into him a tiny bit. I may have been drunker than I let on.

  “Cody,” he replied. He took advantage of my unsteadiness to wrap his arms around my waist and pull me closer.

  “Well, Cody,” I said, whirling away from him again, “I didn’t have to race anyone to get to you.”

  I heard him laughing as the song changed into something even more frenetic, turning the crowd into a single, pulsating mass. I weaved my way over to Abby, who squealed at the sight of me and immediately pulled me into the dry-humping dance she was doing with the dark-haired guy. He didn’t seem to mind.

  “I’ll buy you drinks for the rest of the night if you guys kiss right now,” he shouted over the music.

  Abby and I shared an eye-roll. No, we weren’t drunk enough to perform for an audience of horny guys. I’d only done that once, on a dare, and discovered that it wasn’t really my cup of tea.

  “Come on,” the guy coaxed, trying to maneuver us toward each other. “Just a small one. Tongue action is optional but greatly appreciated.”

  Annoyed, I twirled away and danced smack into a wide, hard chest. Mr. Trouble again. Clearly, the guys at this club had a hard time taking a hint.

  “You look thirsty,” he said, and took my hand, towing me off the dance floor. I didn’t resist, because I was hot and thirsty and ready for a break.

  It was a little bit quieter near the bar, but not much. Mr. Trouble—Cody—ordered another White Russian for me, and I watched him carefully as he took the glass from the bartender and handed it to me. Okay, so he hadn’t slipped me any date-rape drugs. I sipped the icy drink gratefully.

  “You want a bump to go with that?” Cody asked, his eyes on my lips as they closed around the straw.

  “Here?”

  “No,” he said with exaggerated patience. “Outside.”

  “No, thanks,” I said, finishing my drink. I’d only done coke once too, when I was sixteen, and I swore I’d never try it again. It made me jittery and paranoid, like I wanted to jump out of my own skin. And the crash afterwards sucked. I mostly stuck to weed and pills after that, but I hadn’t smoked or popped anything stronger than Tylenol in at least two years.

  “Ah, so you’re a good girl, then.” He tugged a strand of my hair, which I wore loose and straight to the middle of my back. “Just say no to drugs.”

  “That’s right,” I said, smiling angelically. If he only knew.

  “Alcohol is a drug.” He took my empty glass and placed it on the overflowing tray of a passing waitress.

  “One I can control.”

  Someone bumped me from behind. I stumbled forward and then burst into giggles, effectively contradicting my words. Cody smirked at me, which made me laugh even harder.

  “Come along, good girl,” he said, taking my hand again. And again, I let him pull me away, th
is time back toward the packed dance floor.

  Abby and her buffet boy had disappeared, but that didn’t concern me. At that moment, nothing did. Not even Cody’s hands, back in position on my hips, guiding them toward his. This time, I didn’t spin away. I just let it happen, let the familiar warmth of oblivion wrap itself around me and make itself at home. As much as I tried to be good, as much as I told myself I didn’t miss that surge of release, that pleasant numbness in my brain that dulled the raw edges and let me escape, I knew I was just kidding myself. I had missed this, at least all the good parts. The bad parts resonated in my memories the most, but right now, I felt removed from them. Tonight, they didn’t exist.

  I danced—and drank—with Cody for the rest of the night, and the more I drank, the closer I let him get. In the past, this was how it had always worked with me and guys, and I guess adulthood hadn’t cured me of it. By the time I rounded up Abby, who was equally as smashed, my hair was tangled, my lips were swollen, and I was already feeling the stirrings of what promised to be an epic hangover.

  “Give me your number,” Cody said when we stepped outside into the blessedly cold night.

  I rattled it off to him, hoping I’d remembered it correctly. He punched the numbers into his phone and then hugged me good night before disappearing down the sidewalk. I gripped Abby’s arm, steering her toward the curb. I was pretty sure one of us had called a taxi.

  “We need to do this again,” she mumbled, her head dipping toward my shoulder. We both swayed, and I knew if I didn’t sit down soon, I’d be doing it involuntarily right there on the dirty sidewalk.

  Relief coursed through me when a taxi pulled up and it was ours. As I collapsed into the back seat, yanking Abby in after me, my cell phone chimed with a text. Clumsily, I dug it out of my purse and squinted at the screen.

  Next time you feel like being bad, call me.

  A twinge of regret forced its way through my muddled brain, and I dropped the phone back into my purse like it was a live grenade.

  Chapter 10

  “Robin? Are you awake?”

  The bedroom door creaked open, letting in both the light from the hallway and Taylor’s stepmom, Lynn. I turned over in bed and winced at the thump of pain in my temples. “What time is it?” I asked, the words grating past my throat.

  “Eight-fifteen,” Lynn replied. “Don’t you have work today?”

  I squinted at her as she stood there in the doorway, dressed in her nurse’s scrubs and watching me carefully. Any fool could’ve seen that I was hungover, and Lynn wasn’t a fool. “Work?” I repeated, my thoughts filtering through the sludge in my brain. Shit. I had a nine-to-three shift today and I hadn’t even set my alarm. When I’d arrived back to the Brogans’ house the night before, all I had the energy to do was fall face-first onto the bed.

  “Better get a move on then, huh?” Lynn said, giving me a measured look before leaving me to my own devices.

  My stomach rolled. Would she tell Taylor about my obvious condition this morning? No, I decided. Lynn didn’t miss a trick, but she was discreet. I remembered when Taylor first started dating Michael, and her parents banned her from seeing him because they thought he was too old for her, and Taylor went behind their backs to see him anyway. Lynn figured it out, but didn’t let on. Tactful confidentially was ingrained in her after decades of nursing. Lucky for me.

  I staggered to the bathroom wearing the same clothes I’d worn the night before and had a nice, cleansing puke before getting in the shower. Once I was dry and dressed, I headed downstairs, grabbed the biggest mug I could find, and filled it with coffee. It helped a little, but not much. My stomach was a volcano, rumbling, threatening to erupt. I briefly considered calling in sick to work, but I’d just managed to get back on Wade’s good side, so I sucked it up and went.

  “You ill, Ms. Calvert?” he said when he saw me. I did look terrible—pale, dark circles, crooked ponytail. I’d never gone to work hungover before. Ever.

  “Just a little stomach thing,” I assured him, trying to smile. He raised his bushy eyebrows, unconvinced. Like Lynn, Wade wasn’t a fool.

  “Well, try not to look like you’re going to keel over on the desk, okay? You’re scaring the clients.”

  This wasn’t true—I could put on a good show when necessary—but I nodded anyway, promising to do my best. Wade shot me a wary look and left me alone.

  During lunch, I managed to keep down a dry tea biscuit and some Gatorade, which made me feel a teensy bit better. As my mind cleared, images of last night started piecing together. I remembered White Russians, and lots of dancing, and the handsy guy named Cody who’d offered me a bump. Had I kissed him? I put my fingers to my lips, feeling the dry, chapped skin there. Yes, a public make-out session had definitely occurred. God, I’d acted like I was seventeen again, wild and rebellious and carefree. This was precisely why I’d stopped drinking in the first place. Vodka, for me, was nothing but fuel for bad decisions.

  By the time my shift was over, my ass was dragging. The nausea and headache had been replaced with bone-crushing exhaustion, and I knew I needed either a long nap or vast amounts of coffee.

  Coffee, I decided as I climbed into my car. Strong, and lots of it. I started for the closest Starbucks, but then, on a whim, I backtracked and headed north instead, ending up at the little organic bakery next to Margins. Their coffee was delicious, and they made the best muffins too.

  This time, like a rule-following good girl, I ate and drank in the bakery itself. And two cups of coffee and a banana chocolate chip muffin later, I felt a million times better. So much better, in fact, that I had the urge to shop for books.

  Ryan was stationed behind the cash, reading a novel, when I entered Margins. Again, the store was completely dead, kind of odd for a warm Saturday afternoon.

  “Hey,” Ryan said, surprised to see me. He closed his book and dropped it on the counter.

  “How does this place stay open?” I asked, glancing around. My voice sounded extra loud in the stillness.

  “You missed the big rush I had about an hour ago. It comes in spurts.”

  “That’s usually the way it works.”

  Ryan made that half-laugh, half-cough sound, like he did when I amused and/or scandalized him. I smiled benevolently and walked over to the cash. “I was in the neighborhood,” I explained, in case he thought I was stalking him.

  “Because it’s such a nice neighborhood to visit?”

  “Hey, now.” I picked up a stray pen and started fiddling with it. “I happen to like graffiti and homeless people.”

  He looked at the pen, which I was tapping against the counter with lightning speed. “Hyper today?”

  “Too much coffee.” I leaned over to see what book he was reading and caught sight of something else on the far side of the register. “Ryan Monahan,” I said, and if I’d known his middle name I would’ve thrown that in too. “Is that a beverage I see? Do you have a beverage in the bookstore?”

  His eyes flicked toward the half-full bottle and then back to me. “It’s just water.”

  “Hmm,” I said, pretending to consider this. The fact that he was so serious and straight-laced made him extra fun to tease. I understood why his family ribbed him so often. “You know, I don’t have a college degree yet, but I’m pretty sure water is a beverage. Which,” I added, casting a significant glance toward the No Food or Beverages sign on the door, “is against the rules of this establishment.”

  “It’s dry in here,” he said, deadpan. Still, a slight crinkling around his eyes gave away his amusement. “And water isn’t as damaging as, say, coffee and muffins.”

  I cocked an eyebrow. “Water isn’t damaging to books? Have you ever dropped one in the bathtub? I have, and it didn’t end well. It was a library book too.”

  A flicker of interest crossed his face, making me wonder if he was picturing me in the bath. Then his expression returned to its usual bothered state and he said, “Did you come in here just to bust my balls or…”


  “No, that was a bonus. I’m here to buy a new book.”

  “Really.” He crossed his arms over his chest and looked at me like he doubted I was even literate. “What type of books do you read? Wait, don’t answer that. I want to see if I can guess.”

  He moved out from behind the counter and proceeded toward the stacks. I threw the pen down and followed him. Predictably, he went straight for the Romance section and pulled down a paperback featuring a muscular, bare-chested man on the cover. “This?” he asked, holding it up.

  I shook my head. He replaced the book and we moved across the aisle to Historical Fiction. Wordlessly, he extracted a thick hardcover I’d never even heard of, let alone read.

  “Nope,” I said, tapping my foot.

  Ryan narrowed his eyes at me and continued with his guessing game, leading us from genre to genre with the confidence of someone who thought he had me pegged. After the seventh failed guess (cookbooks? Really?), I decided to take pity on him.

  “True crime?” he said sceptically when I handed him an Ann Rule paperback. “You read about serial killers? Isn’t that kind of morbid?”

  “Um, you were reading a Stephen King book when I came in.”

  He returned the book to its designated slot, even though I hadn’t read that one and wanted to buy it. “Yeah, but that’s fiction,” he said.

  “So? Truth is stranger than fiction, right? Just because I read true crime and watch Dateline doesn’t make me a sociopath.”

  I flopped down on the green couch, which was only a few feet from the True Crime section, and peered up at him from under my eyelashes. He looked especially good today in jeans that hugged his frame just right and a fitted gray shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. I wondered briefly if I still looked like I’d been hit by a bus. I could’ve explained away my haggard appearance as the result of drinking enough vodka to kill a buffalo, but for some strange reason, I didn’t think he’d like that. Not that I cared what he thought of me, but still.

  “Okay,” he said, crossing his arms again. He did that a lot, I’d noticed. Like a defense mechanism. “So I had you all wrong. It’s just that most women who come in here are usually looking for something a little more…escapist.”