No Pink Caddy (ACE Book 1) Read online

  I sigh in relief as I begin determining if I’m actually injured. Rubbing my elbow helps disperse the throb. It’s fine. Reaching up, I try to pinpoint where the ache is in my head.

  Closing my eyes for a brief moment helps keep the room from spinning. When I open them again, the fedora-wearing stranger stares down at me with an ugly little V between his wide, gorgeous blue eyes.

  “You okay?” His accent isn’t Cajun.

  “Yeah,” I reply as I try to sit up. He kneels next to me in this crazy yogaesque pose. My teacher would be super impressed with his flexibility. He places two hands on my shoulders and applies enough weight that the meaning is clear. I’m to stay here until he thinks I’m really okay.

  “You hit your head.” His voice is raspy but sweet with a melodic quality to it. I can’t explain it but well, I like it.

  “Not hard.” I reach back and touch the source of my pain, causing me to wince.

  He uses his fingers like a comb and runs them over my scalp. I must admit it has been a long time since someone made me want to purr. It’s as good as a shampoo head massage at the salon.

  “Hard enough.” His face is thin, but his cheek bones are high and defined. I’ve only seen sculpted features like his on male models, but there’s a ruggedness to him that screams he’s never walked a catwalk in his Calvin Klein underwear. He’s older than me, but I can’t decide how old. Lines spider from the corners of his large, almond-shaped eyes, and I wonder if they are a permanent feature of his face or if they’re present from concern.

  My elbow no longer throbs but my head is foggy. I don’t think I’ve drank enough to earn this discombobulated feeling so it must be the knock I took.

  “My boobs suffered quite a beating. Maybe you should examine those.” Sweet Mother of Jesus, did that just come out of my mouth? My Catholic prim-and-proper mother just grabbed her rosary and said one hundred Hail Marys on my behalf. I’ll blame it on the two rum and Diet Cokes I’ve had. No. It was the bump my head took. Yes! It knocked my brain-to-mouth filter off-kilter.

  He drops his head back and laughs. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down on his long neck. I’ve never thought an Adam’s apple could be sexy, but on Fedora Guy, it could be considered pornographic. That’s when I notice his perfectly straight white teeth. They’re actor or newscaster white. Nobody has naturally white teeth like that, but then I get distracted by his full lips. They’re a shade of plum and look swollen, as if they’ve been stung by bees. They’re so pouty. He’s very pretty, but in a bad boy sort of way. I immediately determine he’s a reality TV star. Then, my brain reminds me that I watch most of the big shows and I don’t recognize him. Maybe he isn’t famous. The super-white teeth could be because he’s vain. That’s not out of the realm of possibilities. His shirt, jeans and boots tell me he’s probably an oilfield worker. But then there’s the fedora . . .

  His fingers pinpoint the source of pain. “I feel a knot. That’s good. As long as there’s a knot, you should be fine.” He reaches under my arms and helps me sit up. He positions me against the leg of a fixed-in-place bar stool.

  “Really, I’m fine. Let’s just pretend the boob comment’s because of the bump on my head.”

  Immediately, his eyes travel south. A grin plays across his lips. “S’okay. They’re nice tits. I can see why that asshole went for them.”

  My face flushes with anger and my blood pressure spikes. “You don’t know him. Don’t call him names. Doctor Jared is going through some rough times. Trust me. He would’ve never behaved that way if he hadn’t been trying to pay off Eddy’s credit card debt.”

  “Sorry. Call ’em as I see ’em. He injured and took advantage of a pretty young girl.” Fedora Guy pulls the eyelid up on each of my eyes. “Are you dizzy?”

  “No. I’m really fine.”

  “I’m going to help you to your feet. If you start feeling funny, let me know.”

  “Kay,” I respond, and offer him my hands.

  He grasps them, and his callused fingers smart against my smooth, moisturized skin. Desk job hands meet working man hands. Theory is correct. He does something in the oil and gas industry.

  Once I’m standing, he grips my hips and stares into my eyes. “Still okay?”

  I feel as if I’m being probed, but then this beautiful little smirk pulls his left cheek up and I find myself smiling back.

  The fog has cleared. “Yes. I really think I’m fine. Just a good knot to show for my efforts.” I reach back and grasp my hair into a ponytail, so thankful I wore my unused rubber band as a bracelet, while my bangs still cover my eye. I’ll give Eddy credit. He keeps one hell of a clean bar. There’s not an ounce of sticky bar yuck in my hair.

  At full height, he’s a head taller than me—well over six feet, but the fedora could be adding inches. He’s also thin, but muscular. His red, plaid flannel shirt skims his chest and arms nicely. It doesn’t look like it was purchased in the men’s department at Wal-Mart. The buttons look higher quality. That’s one of the tricks of thrift store shopping—check the seams and buttons for workmanship.

  He takes my hand, and I note how well we fit together. I have large hands for a female. Most of the time when I hold hands with a guy it’s awkward, like we can’t find a way to lace our fingers together. With Fedora Guy it feels natural, as if we’ve been holding hands like this for years.

  He leads me to the table where he was sitting. As we walk, I glance around, noticing Doctor Jared is gone and so is the cab. Someone must have helped him leave.

  The black and white notebook and yellow mechanical pencil rest in front of him. The drink he’s nursed all evening is still two-thirds full and looks watered down.

  Then out of the corner of my eye, I catch Eddy walking towards us. He places a rum and Diet Coke in front of me. I look up with round eyes. I’ve been a regular at this bar since I was twenty-two. Eddy doesn’t bring anyone anything.

  I think he attempts a smile. “Thanks for helping the doc out. Hope you’re okay.” Then he rushes off.

  “His way of saying he loves me,” I muse as my heart grows for the rough-around-the-edges bartender.

  As I reach for my drink, it’s snatched away by Fedora Guy and the V crinkles his forehead once again. “Hit your head. Bad idea.”

  Although I appreciate that he cares, I also don’t like being told what to do. “Look, guy-who-wears-a-flannel-fedora-in-New-Orleans-because-he-thinks-it’s-cool, Eddy has never brought or bought anyone a drink in the history of owning this bar. I’m the first, and I will drink my celebratory booze, so hand over the glass.” My palm turns and my fingers gesture in a give-it-here move.

  His head tilts and he leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. A smile spreads so wide across his face that I swear I can see his molars. “You know, sweetheart, I’ve been called a lot of names in my life but guy-who-wears-a-flannel-fedora-in-New-Orleans-because-he-thinks-it’s-cool is a new one.” He opens his notebook, and I swear he grabs a pencil and writes it down.

  While he’s distracted, I snatch my drink back. My mother probably put whiskey in my baby bottle so I’d sleep. Drinking is second nature.

  He’s still writing when he says, “I’m not going to fight you, MK. Do as you wish.”

  Warning bells go off in my head. “How do you know my name?”

  He closes his notebook and pushes his fedora up revealing a glimpse of hair. It looks to be the color of straw, but it could just be the poor bar lighting. I find myself intrigued to find out. “Asked Eddy.”

  “How do you know Eddy?”

  “Don’t. I was in yesterday.”

  “I wasn’t in here yesterday. You haven’t been up to the bar since I came in. How do you know my name?”

  He winks. It’s so sexy my face heats. “Checking me out, huh?”

  My arms cross defensively over my chest, creating some awesome cleavage. “New-guy-with-the-fedora, welcome back to high school. Nothing has changed. Everyone notices the new kid.”

  “Fair e
nough.” He leans forward and rests his arms on the table as he picks up his glass to take a drink. His Adam’s apple bobs deliciously up and down.

  “So you know my name. What’s yours?” Logical question and one that is only fair.

  “Guy-wearing-fedora not good enough for you?” He smirks.

  “Only on Tuesdays.” I pretend to check my phone. “It’s Wednesday. Day late. Dollar short.”

  “What does MK stand for?” The manner in which he asks the question is interesting. Simple question—one I’ve been asked a thousand times. However, when he asks it, it’s as if he’s trying to prove a point to himself.

  Condensation drips off the bottom of his glass and forms a water droplet on the wood table.

  “How long are you going to nurse that drink? Give it up already. It’s got to be watered down and nasty. Commit, man. Either drink it or not. Don’t half-ass it.”

  He rests the highball glass on the table. “I don’t drink anymore.”

  But some of the drink is gone. I guess he could have just eaten the ice. Or it could be a soda with no alcohol. The story starts to weave together in my head. He’s here from up north, maybe Ohio. He’s been transferred to New Orleans to fix a problem with one of the offshore rigs. Short-term, really. Maybe only here for a few weeks. He’s scribbling notes in his notebook—ideas on how to fix the problem. He doesn’t drink because he had a bad period in his life with his former lover. He quit drinking as a way to prove to himself that it didn’t define him. Yes . . . I like that story.

  He grabs his glass, indicating a toast. “To drinking and not drinking in a bar.”

  I clink my glass to his, but it’s not a whole-hearted noise. He’s derailed me from sharing his name. Clearing my throat, I say, “Name, or I slam my drink and stagger home with a potential concussion. I slip into a coma while I lie alone in my bed not to be found for days. By then, it’s way too late and my dear, Catholic mother has to sign papers to turn off life support. And here’s the kicker. It’s all your fault.”

  “Geez, MK,” he says as he shakes his head. “You’ve got guilt down to a science.” There’s a bit of awe in his tone.

  “I come from a long line of guilters. You know why I didn’t go to the amusement park and ride the rollercoasters when I was twelve?”

  He smiles, and it’s adorable. “Why?”

  “It’s because a kid once was waiting in line for a ride and fell from the raised platform and died. I couldn’t bring that kind of worry on my mother and grandmother. I would’ve spent the whole trip to the amusement park feeling sick to my stomach that they were home saying their rosaries so I would be safe.”

  He shakes his head laughing in an I kind of believe the stuff that’s coming from your mouth sort of way. “No guilt. I promise. Name’s Aaron.” There’s a slight hesitation before he says Aaron. I register it, but don’t have time to dwell on why someone would pause before their own name.

  “I’m breaking the guilt cycle. Ending it for the Landry family. Nice to meet you, Aaron.” I like his name. Aaron. It sorta fits him. I couldn’t see him with a name like Butch. Too masculine. He’s an Aaron. There’s an artsy quality to him, but those callused hands are throwing me off. “So what do you do for a living?”

  I’ve never been right regarding the stories I’ve made up about strangers, but there’s always a first time for everything.

  “What’s with the star tattoo on your wrist?” He motions toward my arm and instinctively I pull my jacket sleeve to my palm. Another interesting thing about Aaron—he asked about my star. It’s a simple thick line design in black ink. It’s important to me but doesn’t look like it holds a whole lot of meaning. It could easily be a tattoo gotten by a drunk nineteen-year-old who just wanted to prove she was an adult. He noticed it and asked about it. Does he sense there’s something more to my star?

  Leaning back in my chair, I decide to deflect. “See, there you go again. I ask you a question and you don’t give me the courtesy of a response, and then further insult me by asking a question of your own. Coma and death, Aaron. Coma and death. On your shoulders.”

  “I thought you were breaking the guilt cycle, MK.” His eyes don’t leave the point of my star, still somewhat visible.

  “Old habits die hard.” I laugh as I catch his eyes, directing them away from my tattoo.

  “Speaking of deflecting one’s questions, what does MK stand for?” He crosses his right leg over his left knee and leans towards me. He’s handsome, don’t get me wrong, but he’s more than that. There’s a magnetism that hangs around his body like an aura. I’m drawn to him—just sitting here in his presence is making me feel a rainbow of emotions. I don’t understand it, but I rest my arms on the table, wanting to be closer to him.

  I’ve been around charismatic men. Even though not all of them have been traditionally good-looking, there’s still some sort of primal energy I find so attractive. Aaron has that but in spades.

  “My Christian name is Mary Kay Landry. My mother is Mary Kate Landry, and my grandmother is Mary Katherine. You can see how it would be confusing in my family. I started going by MK in first grade. Now, the only time I’m called Mary Kay is when my mother is particularly annoyed with me or if it’s written on a wedding invitation.”

  “MK . . . MK . . . It has a nice ring to it.” My name rolls over his tongue like a song and as he says it, his thumb moves back and forth over the pad of his pointer finger as if it’s a trick for name recognition.

  “When I have children, I’m supposed to keep the tradition going. That’s why I pray for boys.” I pick up my drink and take a sip. Alcohol is going down way too easily tonight. That’s probably not a good thing.

  “You have gorgeous eyes.” He smiles.

  “Are you going to ask me if I invented the airplane?”

  His eyes crinkle, and he tilts his head. “What?”

  “’Cause you seem Wright for me.” I hold up my glass in a toast.

  He chuckles. “That wasn’t a line, MK. You do have very pretty eyes.” He points at me. “You need to learn to take a compliment. If you didn’t have gorgeous eyes, I would’ve kept my mouth shut. You come off as self-confident and self-sufficient, but your aversion to saying thank you and instead making a joke tells me that’s a defense mechanism.”

  Wow. Didn’t he just hit the nail on the head. My shoulders want to roll inward and my body to shrink in this chair. He doesn’t know me at all and just revealed my biggest self-preservation tactic—my quick tongue.

  “How’s your head?”

  He reaches across the table and runs his fingers over my tender spot. If it was anyone but him, I would probably yelp. Instead, I lean in to his touch. His hand lingers a bit longer than necessary, and I don’t pull away. A peaceful feeling settles in my soul—one I haven’t felt in so long and I pray it stays.

  Running my tongue over my bottom lip, I question what this pull is between us. His eyes, the color of the Caribbean Ocean, cause me to feel naked and exposed. But instead of pulling my jacket tighter over my chest, I shrug it off, wanting him to know who I am. My head feels so light that it might float away and bumblebees fight for dominance in my stomach.

  That’s when the ten o’clock alarm on my phone sounds. Our moment is over.

  Aaron leans away, shaking his head as if he’s experiencing the same strange magnetic pull and light-headedness I am. No one’s touch has made me feel that—whatever that was.

  My lovesick subconscious is wearing a cheerleader costume and doing herkies, screaming this is the chemistry you’ve been looking for. My ever-practical conscious is dressed in a black turtleneck with black pants and peering over her cat-eye glasses, reminding me I was in a bad place when I arrived at Eddy’s Bar tonight and am vulnerable right now. I’m inventing imaginary feelings.

  “Well, Aaron, that’s my cue to go. Time to be an adult and get home at a decent hour so I can be a productive member of society tomorrow.” I extend my hand, but he doesn’t take it.

  His feat
ures grow serious as his teeth catch the inside of his cheek. “Look, I’m sorry I made you feel uncomfortable.” His fingers tap a confused beat on the closed notebook in front of him. It’s as if they can’t seem to find their rhythm. “I was trying to pay you a compliment.”

  Feeling completely out-of-sorts, I pull my hand back with the excuse of silencing the annoying chime on my phone.

  “Boyfriend?” he asks. I can’t read what he’s thinking, and I find his abrupt change of subject nerve-wracking.

  Relying once again on my sharp tongue—defense mechanisms be damned—I reply, “Not that it’s any of your business . . .”

  “Oh, but it is.” A playful glint distracts me for a moment from my confused emotions. “I need to know if someone’s going to make sure you don’t slip into a coma.” The smirk is back, and I find myself loving it and hoping to see it again.

  Standing up, my hand goes to my hip. “I did tell you earlier I was going home to an empty bed. Pay attention, Aaron. You have to be quick to keep up with me.”

  “Give me your number.” He grabs his phone, holding it as if he’s ready to record my digits.

  I shake my head, hating that I made this rule for myself a couple of years ago after I had a guy who wouldn’t take no for an answer. “I don’t hand out my number, but you can find me on YouTube, Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter. I’m NoPinkCaddy. It’s my website also.”

  “I’m not on social media,” he replies expectantly, as if he’s waiting for me to change my mind. I won’t. If he’s interested, he’ll message me through my accounts and as an added bonus, get to know me better by perusing my site. This rule has weeded out a lot of bar hookups who just wanted a one-night stand, preventing them from ever asking me out.

  As I bolt for the front door, not bothering to put my jacket on, I turn over my right shoulder, catching his confused expression.

  “Your loss.”

  Chapter Two

  MK Landry @NoPinkCaddy