Cherry Bomb (Brighton #1) Page 3

  The hot Brit, Cash, as his friends call him, tracks me with his eyes. They stare at my mouth, then linger on my throat, before sliding down. My skin heats. My body reacts to this man in a way it never has before. I’m not a virgin, far from it, but he makes me feel things with a single glance that no one else, not with lips or with tongue or missionary, has.

  Maybe it’s the accent, or maybe it’s the tattoos, but something in my gut tells me that Cash would fuck every inch of me, mind, body, and soul. Seducing every crevice so that I’m lost in him, drunk on him, desperate for him, long before he ever penetrates me. Even now, with the ruddy man at table four shooting daggers my way, my attention is firmly in Cash’s tattooed hands.

  He lifts his glass, draining the dregs of Hendricks. The ice clinks as he sets it down. His eyes, that insane shade of blue, take another lap around my body before he grins. It’s not sleazy when Cash checks me out. There’s a strong possibility that it’s because his ink makes me wet, but I think it’s more than that. It’s the appreciation in his eyes. He doesn’t stare at me like he wants to use me. He stares like he’s committing me to memory. As if every inch is something to be cherished. As if the smudged black liner rimming my eyes and the beer staining my uniform (thanks to the assholes who let their three-year-old run around the Garden) is as special as the body underneath it.

  “I think we’ll take the check. My pious friend here can’t hang like he used to.” Cash smirks.

  “I didn’t think priests could drink?” I say, though I don’t really know. I can count on one hand how many times I’ve been to church.

  “They deny him women. Not even God is cruel enough to deny booze, too.”

  The priest rolls his eyes. “We aren’t allowed to be stumbling drunk,” he says, lifting his beer. “But a few drinks with dinner won’t condemn me to eternal damnation.”

  “Your porn collection should.” Logan snorts, slipping his wallet from his back pocket.

  “Did you just make a joke?” I’m pretty sure my jaw is on the floor. Satan doesn’t joke, laugh, or smile. He just makes waitresses cry.

  Apparently, he has a one-joke minimum because, in the next moment, he’s shoving his card at me without another word. I slip it in my apron and finally check on table four. His steak—which he ordered medium—is too pink. It isn’t, it’s perfect, but instead of arguing with him, I take it to the kitchen, asking them to make a medium-well sirloin, then run Satan’s card.

  “So, is the party over for everyone, or just the member of the clergy?” I ask, sliding Logan his receipt.

  “It depends,” Cash responds in that low timbre that makes me want to crawl to him and kneel at his feet. It’s a tango—a dance—he’s luring me to him like the Pied Piper and I willingly fall in step. The only difference is instead of music he entices me with stolen glances, small smiles, and a potent combination of lust and virility. I’m ashamed to admit it’s working. I’d follow him anywhere, and that’s only after an hour of being in the same room as him. Habits I’d thought I’d buried deep down stir in my belly. I want him. More than that, I crave him.

  “On?” I arch my brow.

  “On if you’ll be joining us after your shift.” Oh, he’s good. Too good. I should cut my losses now, but there’s something about him that inexplicably, I trust.

  Tick.

  Tick.

  Tick.

  My heart is like a bomb in my chest. “There’s a bar down the street, Eddy’s. A bunch of us go there after we close to unwind. And my roommate is going through a shitty breakup. I want to get her drunk so we can burn his letters in effigy.”

  “His Greek letters.” Satan laughs. “As in, Brighton University. Can you even get into a bar?” So much for the human side of Lucifer.

  “I can.” I pop my hip, narrowing my eyes on the asshole. With my fake ID. I add mentally.

  “Then it’s sorted.” Cash grabs the receipt and fills in the tip line, sliding it to me. Two things stand out: 1. He tipped fifty percent, and 2. He included his phone number. I would feel bad about taking this much money from a man I fully intend on fucking, but technically, it’s Logan’s money, and well, call it restitution.

  The man at table four clears his throat, reminding me that he’s steakless, and since I don’t want to be jobless, I should get going. “Fingers crossed; I’ll be done at eleven. Meet you there?”

  Another smirk, this one makes the insides of my thighs slick with arousal. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  A few hours later, the dining room slows down and Marco finally cuts the floor. Somehow, despite being twenty minutes late, he still lets me go. “Thank you! Thank you!” I jump up and down, tossing my last roll of silverware in the bin.

  “Just go,” he says, fighting like hell to suppress his smile. I grab my stuff from the break room and slide my phone out of my bag. There’s a missed call from Arden. I hit redial and wait. She answers on the fourth ring. “Hey, are you on your way?” I ask, plugging my ear with my finger. I can barely make out her response. It sounds like she’s at a party—a Greek party. “Tell me you didn’t.”

  “I know. It was a dumb idea, but Beth showed up and we took shots, and then she mentioned a thing at Sigma and here we are,” Arden slurs.

  “I’ll come pick you up.”

  “You don’t have to drive all the way out here,” she says, but what she really means is, I want to stay and torture myself some more.

  “Arden.”

  “Cherry, it’s fine. Derek isn’t even here. They hate Sigma.”

  I roll my eyes. I don’t really know the ins and outs of Greek life, but I do know that, one time, I was chem partners with a girl from one of Arden’s rival houses and she wouldn’t let her step foot inside our dorm room.

  “I thought we were going to hang out.” A pang of jealousy shoots through my chest. Before Arden pledged Gamma Psi, we were inseparable. I know it’s stupid. We live together. We are best friends by choice, not because of some stupid antiquated tradition. But still. Arden is on a different plane than me, and sometimes I feel like I’m losing her.

  “You can come here,” she suggests. The noise dies down a bit and I assume she’s shut herself inside a bathroom or an empty bedroom to talk.

  “I would rather my dead body turn up behind a dumpster than go to a frat party. Actually, going to a frat party might be the catalyst for my body turning up behind a dumpster,” I huff. I fish around my oversized bag, pushing aside all the pens, packets of sugar-free tic-tacs, and dry shampoo, in search of the tiny glass vial I swore I’d toss. I glance around my shoulder to make sure the coast is clear, then unscrew the top and pull out the tiny scoop filled with white powder and lift it to my nose.

  “You’re so theatrical,” Arden giggles as I snort.

  “And you’re a flake.” The burn of the coke as it drips down my throat calms me in a way that I should probably be worried about, considering my family history. The vial is almost empty, and I make a silent promise to myself that once it’s gone, I’m done. One less vice.

  “I’m not a flake.” Arden’s voice brings me back to the here and now. Here, in the back lot behind the steakhouse, and now, when my best friend stood me up. “I’m heartbroken.”

  “I get it, babe. I do.” It’s not about you, Cherry. I remind myself, and it isn’t. Arden getting her mind off Derek was the plan. It seems as if she’s doing that at Sigma. And honestly, there’s a hot dude, covered in tattoos, waiting for me, and it’s been so long since I’ve gotten laid that I’m pretty sure there are cobwebs down there.

  “Look, have fun and be safe. I’m going to grab a drink at Eddy’s.” I pause and consider telling her about Cash but decide against it. “What time are you coming home?”

  “I’ll probably crash on campus,” she says. The noise from the party gets loud again. “Love you, Cherry.”

  “Love you.” I end the call and toss my phone in my bag.

  The back door to the restaurant swings open, and out bounces Emma, the new hostess.


  “Hey, new girl, wait up,” I yell, making my way towards her.

  Emma turns, her keys in her hands. “Who, me?”

  “Yes, you, loser.” I grin. “There’s no one else out here. What are you doing tonight?”

  She looks around, tugging on her ear. “Umm…nothing?”

  “I’m going to grab a drink at Eddy’s. I’m supposed to be meeting a guy there and I don’t want to go alone, just in case he’s a serial killer. Wanna come?”

  “Do I want to come with you to a bar to meet a potential Ted Bundy?” Her green eyes twinkle with amusement as she pretends to mull it over. “Sure.”

  “I knew you weren’t as innocent as you look,” I tell her. And my God, does she look like a saint. Her blonde hair is pulled into a low ponytail. Her makeup is light and natural, and her cheeks burn such a bright shade of pink, it’s like they almost glow against the night.

  “Just because I don’t present badass stripper vibes doesn’t mean I’m innocent.” She lifts her shoulders nonchalantly. “Also, I have a small obsession with serial killers, so meeting one for drinks is an offer I can’t refuse.”

  We turn and walk shoulder to shoulder to Eddy’s. “He might not be a serial killer,” I muse after a few minutes of comfortable silence. “Do you remember the three men you sat in my section earlier, the Brit, the priest, and the asshole?”

  “Sounds like the beginning of a terrible joke.” She giggles.

  “Or an awesome porno.” I wink.

  “You really can’t help the stripper thing, can you?”

  “My parents named me Cherry Valentine,” I deadpan. “What do you think?”

  We erupt into a fit of laughter as we round the corner. The street is still busy this time of night, because it’s Friday and because Brighton is as much a college town as it is a tech town. People stumble out of bars and restaurants on their way to their next stop, and Emma and I join them, merging onto the sidewalk. “You’re new here, right? To Brighton?”

  “Yup.” She nods.

  I wait a beat, thinking she’ll keep going, give me a little more info about her background. When she doesn’t, I ask, “Why’d you move?”

  “I needed a change. Plus, there’s a great undergrad program for early childhood development, and sunshine.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “The Midwest.” It’s an oddly vague reply, but then again, Emma is an oddly vague girl. She’s shy and observant, yet snarky and aloof.

  “Oh yeah, we’ve got sunshine in spades.” I smile and let it go. She doesn’t seem to want to talk about her past, and I’ve never been one to pry. We all have our shit. Mine happens to be a fucked-up relationship with food and a tiny coke habit. Hers is hiding somewhere in the Midwest. I respect that.

  Eddy’s is at the end of Main Street. The bright green awning looms above, and a skinny man with a shamrock shirt stands at the door. “Hey, Lennon.” I wave. We hooked up one night after a few of the restaurant staff came to Eddy’s after work. I got shit-faced, Lennon was there, and tall and bearded, and drunk Cherry thought he was cute. Sober Cherry realized that the simple equation, height plus beard, doesn’t always equal cute. It’s merely an optical illusion. On the bright side, since he knows me biblically, he doesn’t card me anymore. Emma isn’t so lucky.

  She flashes him a seriously awesome fake ID.

  “Pepper Jones?” I arch my brow. “Where’d you get this?” I ask as soon as we’re out of earshot.

  She shifts. “Midwest, remember? We don’t do much but tip cows and find ways to get drunk.”

  “It’s fucking amazing! I got lucky. My sister is only a year and a half older than me. We look enough alike for me to pass as her. Her hair is a different color, but my hair is clearly not in its natural state, so no one comments.” I grin. “Plus, Lennon and I go way back.”

  We settle at the bar. I glance around the room, hoping to find Cash. A pang of disappointment shoots through me when I come up empty. I contemplate sending him a text message, but my pride can’t handle being blown off two times in one night. So, I prolong the inevitable a little while longer. We each order Tito’s and soda and talk about nothing. After we polish off the first round, I slap two crumpled ten-dollar bills on the bar. “This round is on me. I’m going to go pee.”

  I push my way inside the last stall on the end. I sit and dig through my bag. The financial aid letter is there, along with Cash’s phone number, and the remaining dregs of cocaine.

  Tick.

  Tick.

  Tick.

  The bomb in my chest beats. The letter, I’m sure, is a rehash of the email I received last week, but I tear into it anyway.

  Dear Ms. Valentine,

  We regret to inform you that the Brighton University Women in STEM program has been defunded. The scholarship will pay out through the end of the 2019 school year. We’ve attached a list of the many other scholarships Brighton has to offer, and we encourage you to apply.

  Best regards,

  Brighton University Financial Aid Director

  I ball the letter into a wad and push it into the trash bin. The entire reason I chose Brighton over every other school I’d been accepted to was the Women in STEM scholarship. My dad can’t afford this place, and my tips from the steakhouse cover my living expenses and not much else.

  Life would be much easier if I were Arden. The only things I’d have to worry about would be boys and overbearing moms. I don’t mean to sound jealous because I’m not. I know she has her own demons. I know, in theory, money doesn’t buy happiness, but in reality, I’d rather have rich-people problems than poor ones.

  My stomach growls, but I ignore it. The glass vial catches my eye. I hold the bottle up to the light.

  Tick. Tick. Tick.

  What the hell? I snort the last of the powder and stand. There’s nothing I can do about it tonight. Might as well get drunk with my new friend.

  I wash my hands and swipe on a fresh coat of lipstick before heading back to the main bar. A man dressed in all black leans against the wall. Those already familiar tattoos peek out from under the rolled sleeves of his shirt, and that grin, the one that threatened to set my panties ablaze earlier, is painted on his face.

  “I’ve been looking for you.” He says it in a way that calls to me. A way that makes me believe in fairy tales. It rolls through me, painting every inch of my flesh with goose bumps. His blue eyes shine with equal parts mischief and Hendricks. He looks like old money, with his rigid posture and artfully styled hair, but the tats and the gleam in his eyes shout blue collar, not blue blood. Cash is a man who isn’t of this world. He’s a god among mortals. I know better than to covet this beautiful deity, but the cocaine and vodka swirling in my brain confuse common sense and courage.

  A smile spreads across my face. “I’ve been here the whole time.” I walk to him because, even though he’s late, he’s gorgeous. He’s a magnet, and I am a scrap of metal. He stands, catching me around the waist, and pushes me against the wall. “It’s about time you showed up.”

  “We had to drop Jaxon off and then Logan needed to check in at home. It took a little longer than expected, I’m sorry.”

  I blink. He apologized. The guys I usually date are slow to admit any wrongdoing and even slower to apologize “You’re…here now.”

  Cash leans forward, his grip on my waist grounds me. “And you’re mine for the rest of the night,” he whispers. It’s not a question or a suggestion. It’s a decree.

  “Okay.” My eyes track his lips, and I wonder if they feel as soft as they look.

  “I left Logan and your skittish friend to set up a round of billiards,” he chuckles. “We should probably go save the girl.”

  “She isn’t as innocent as she looks.”

  “Then we should save Logan before she shoves a cue up his ass.”

  “She’d have to take the other stick out first,” I mumble.

  I push off the wall and follow behind Cash. His back muscles flex beneath the expensi
ve fabric of his shirt. I’m doing this. I’m allowing myself this night with this man. Even though those familiar feelings are brewing beneath the surface. Don’t be obsessive. Don’t be insecure. You’re a badass. He’s lucky to have you.

  Logan and Emma look tense as we approach. “Hey, Cherry,” she says handing me my drink. “I just remembered, I have to go…somewhere…far away.” She glares at Logan, who rolls his eyes in return.

  “It was a joke.”

  “Whatever.” She turns to me. “I’ll see you at work.”

  I give her a hug and watch as she disappears into the crowd. “Well, I guess I’m leaving too,” Logan says, tracking her with his eyes. I can’t tell if he’s into her or if he just likes making her uncomfortable.

  “Ohhh, no,” I say sarcastically. “Bummer.”

  Logan and Cash say their goodbyes, leaving us alone. “You play?” he asks, dusting a layer of blue chalk on the tip of the pool cue.

  “No, but how hard can it be?” I arch my brow, lying through my teeth. Truth: my dad is the best pool player in three counties. I grew up in pool halls.

  “Not hard at all. It’s as much luck as it is skill.” He smirks. “But it’s more fun if we make a wager.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  Running two fingers along the wood grain, he slowly approaches. He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and cups his hand around my neck. “If I win, I get to taste you.”

  My lips part, forming a little “o” and I blink innocently. “And if I win?”

  “You can have whatever you like.”

  “Breakfast,” I say coyly, lowering my gaze to his cock before returning my eyes to his. “I’d like breakfast in the morning.”

  His fingers flex around my neck and his forehead drops to mine. “You’re a bad girl, aren’t you, Cherry?”

  “Only if you want me to be.”

  Cherry

  I WHOOPED HIS ASS IN pool, but in all fairness, he spanked mine in the Uber on the way to his hotel, so I’d say we were even. Probably tanked my passenger rating, but totally worth it.