Page 1 of Hard Ride
1
Katherine
I’m at the bar having a drink with Laurel, one of my co-workers, when I see it. She’s turning to answer a question from the guy sitting on the other side of her, and her phoneis on the bar top. It’s unlocked since she was typing something in it, and I just happened to glance over at the screen.
Whatever app she’s looking at is still open, and right there, staring back at me, is my ex-husband’s face.
For a second, all I feel is shock. Then I think that maybe I made a mistake. But fuck, there’s no mistaking him.
It’s Tate. Tate O’Rourke.
My breath catches. Nothing like an unexpected glimpse of your ex ten years after you left him to really make a girl feel alive. I glance away, conscious that my heart is racing, which it shouldn’t. I left him a long time ago, never intending to see him again, not after the way we left things, so I have no idea why my attention keeps getting dragged back to the picture on Laurel’s phone.
Tate’s looking away from the camera, but you can see his features. They’re harder than I remember, grimmer, too. He’s got a neatly trimmed black beard — which he never had when we were married — but the straight, black brows and short black hair are the same. His green eyes are looking elsewhere, as if someone is talking to him out of shot, but I remember those green eyes, too. Always so intense, burning with a fury that I guess he was entitled to considering his shitty upbringing, but there was also a demand there as well, that I didn’t understand. He always wanted more than I could give.
Thereissomething different about him in this photo, something indefinable. A presence he didn’t have when we were married, and even in the picture, I can sense it. It’s something authoritative, something charismatic, something…
Shit, I really should stop staring at him.
“So you see it too, right?”
I blink, then try to pretend that I haven’t been looking at her phone, because that damn man doesn’t affect me, not anymore. “Oh? What?”
Laurel, naturally, sees right through me and grins. “Come on, I know you were staring.” She picks up her phone and holds it out to me, Tate’s face staring from the screen. “Because I don’t blame you. That guy is fire.”
Laurel doesn’t know about my ill-fated one-year marriage back when I was nineteen. I don’t tell anyone about it, because why? It was years ago, and I’ve moved on.
I very determinedly do not look at Tate’s face again. “Yes,” I say. “He really is. So what is this?” I gesture at the screen. “A new dating app?”
Laurel gives me the world’s most secretive smile. “Kind of. It’s called The Club.” She leans in, whispering. “It matches up kinky people.”
Ugh. I’d never shame anyone for their sexy choices, but kink is very definitely not for me. I’m totally vanilla and I prefer it that way.
“Right,” I say. “Good for them.”
“It’s BDSM mainly,” Laurel clarifies, even though I don’t need her to clarify. “But there are other kinds of kink on the app.”
“Is that what you’re into?” I raise a brow. “You kept that quiet.”
She laughs. “I’m not sure if that’s something I want to explore yet, but I heard about the app from someone at work and was kind of intrigued. Apparently, it’s very safe. There’s lots of vetting done on everyone who wants to sign up, you know, regular STD tests etcetera, etcetera.”
“How romantic,” I mutter. I’m not actually judging. I mean, if you’re into all that stuff, then you’d want to be physically safe, but for me, it’s all way too clinical.
Laurel ignores me in favor of waving her phone in my face. “Come on, look at this man. Is he, or is he not, hot AF?”
Since she’s leaving me with no choice, I peer reluctantly at the screen. Yep, there’s Tate, and below his photo is a very simple bio. It lists only his BDSM experience and a list of all the things he’s into sexually.
He’s a Dom. What a surprise. Not.
Even ten years ago he was a bossy asshole in bed, and I didn’t like it. He scared me with the
way he took charge, and not that I was scared for my safety or anything — Tate was never a man who would hurt a woman — it was more that I found it…deeply uncomfortable. Mainly for reasons I never told anyone about because I was too young. Suffice to say, they involved one of my mother’s hook-ups and my mother calling me a filthy little slut.
Laurel regards me from her barstool. “You’re interested,” she says. “I can tell.”
I am not interested. In fact, the depths to which I’m not interested cannot be measured, and I want to tell her that. Except I can feel my face heating like a teenage girl’s and it’s very irritating — one of the ‘perks’ of being a pale-skinned redhead — especially when there’s no reason for it.
“I’m not.” I try to soundextremelycasual.
