Page 1 of Playboy Pitcher
Chapter One
They saylife happens when you least expect it. False. It’s not life.Shithappens when you least expect it. That’s when everything derails, and the universe grabs you by the hair only to boomerang your ass back to the beginning.
The last place you want to be.
Tonight, that place is standing in the middle of a rainstorm, soaked from the top of my head to the soles of my ankle boots. I wish I could blame my current situation on a lapse in good judgment, but I can’t.
I left that back in New York.
Running across four lanes of traffic like a human pinball, I hold my breath as I zigzag between cars. Finally reaching the other side, I glance up at the flickering neon sign, three words shining like a pink beacon of desperation.
No Flocks Given
I can’t roll my eyes hard enough.
Not only am I literally and figuratively caught in the middle of a storm, but I’m now standing outside a bar, staring up at a drunk flamingo wearing flip-flops and a pool floatie.
Great.
However, this is West Palm Beach, Florida. At this time of night, most bars have lines a mile long, so unless an ark floats by in the next ten seconds, I don’t have much of an option.
Fuck it.
Gritting my teeth, I grasp the brass handle and gaze up at that stupid grinning bird again. “What the hell are you smirking at?” I growl.
Swinging the door open, I cast one glance around, and freeze. The bar looks like a frat party doused in Pepto-Bismol. It smells like one too. The owners definitely didn’t half-ass the decor. They took the inebriated flamingo theme and ran with it—off a cliff.
The whole place is bathed in pink, from the booths to the walls to the flamingo-shaped barstools. To add to the ambiance, every cringe-worthy slogan imaginable hangs on the wall:Flock Off,What The Flock,and the always classy,Drunk As Flock. Which I suspect most of the clientele already are or will be soon enough. Half of them can barely sit up straight.
I still haven’t moved from the doorway; obvious by the couple dozen eyes that turn my way. It doesn’t faze me. Teal hair and alternative clothing rarely blend in with any crowd.
“In or out; you’re dripping water and blocking the door.”
Blinking, I turn to my left, where a blonde cocktail waitress in a frilly pink mini-dress glares at me, a serving tray balanced on her cocked hip. By the look in her eye, she wants to clock me over the head with it.
Friendly.
“Hey, Puddles,” she yells, snapping her fingers. “¿Hablas inglés?”
I arch an eyebrow, my frown turning into a smirk.I know I look like I just crawled out of the Atlantic, but at least I’m not dressed like Little Ho Peep.
And for the record, there’s no one behind me.
“Nice outfit.” Closing the door, I flash a syrupy smile and walk past her. “Let me know if you find your sheep.”
I can feel her eyes burning a hole into the back of my head as I slide onto an open barstool. Just as I grab a handful of pink cocktail napkins and attempt to dry myself, she slams her tray onto the bar while mumbling to herself.
I’m fairly certain she’s cursing me to hell.
Too late, sister. I’ve already arrived.
I’m still wiping my skin when the man beside me lets out a snort. Pausing with a napkin stuck to my chest, I swivel my head and raise an eyebrow. “Something funny?”
“Just ignore her,” he offers, and I’m notprepared for how rough and smooth his voice sounds—like silk-wrapped sandpaper. “She’s been in a bad mood ever since someone dropped a house on her sister.”
The insult isn’t particularly funny, but that voice has my attention, so against my better judgment, I scan the rest of him. It only takes half a second to determine he’s all muscle, no substance.
Clad in dark jeans and a blood-red T-shirt, he’s hunched over the bar with his elbow propped up, holding a mug of beer to his full lips. It’s obvious he works out; that bicep alone is a work of art. However, other than a clearly defined jaw that could cut glass, his face is a mystery. The baseball cap he has on is pulled down so low his eyes are nothing but shadowed blobs.
