Corps Security: The Series (106 page)

I’ve got to give her some credit though. She really lucked out with John Beckett, and I would probably feel the same way if I were in her shoes. The love that those two have for each other is almost too much to watch.

“Jesus, Dee. I just don’t think this is the right time, you know?” I complain. Even to my own ears, I just sound like I’m bitching. Which I am.

“Yeah, and when will be the right time? When the baby is here? When the baby is older? When you’re seventy? I get it. Really, I do. But you can’t just keep living your life, working, and sitting at home.”

“I don’t just sit at home,” I bristle.

“Ah, yeah, you do.”

I can feel myself getting frustrated with this conversation, and the last thing I want to do is snap at Dee when she is clearly just trying to do something nice. Even if it is unwarranted.

“I do other things,” I weakly argue.

“HA! Like what?” The challenge is clear in her words.

“I . . . uh . . . The other day, I . . .”

Shit. She’s right. There really isn’t much I do. I work with her. I go to weekly dinners with the group. I help—er, used to help—Asher. And I write.

“I know!” I yelp a little too loud. “I went to my first creative writing class the other day!” I throw my fist up in the air, realizing that I have her there.

Writing has always been a passion of mine. Nothing I’ve ever had the guts to pursue at a deeper level other than dabbling. It wasn’t until everything with Coop happened that I realized just how precious life was. From that day on, I’ve made a point to work on things I’ve always been afraid to try. I might never do anything with the book I’ve been working on for the last four years, but it’s there, and more importantly, it makes me happy.

“As proud of you that I am, there is no way that counts. I’m talking about going out, meeting a m-a-n.”

“I don’t need a man, Dee. Just because I’ve got a baby on the way in no way means that I need a man to take care of me. My mom managed just fine. Not only was she a single mother, but also she never made me feel like I was a burden on her life. She was the best parent I could ever imagine. A man doesn’t define whether I, or my child for that matter, have a good life.” I can feel my throat burning with unshed tears just begging to get out when I think about my mom.

It’s been almost five years since I lost my mom to breast cancer. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t miss her. She had been struggling for a good year before she passed away. It wasn’t sudden, and even though we had time to come to terms with her immanent death, it wasn’t easy. One thing that keeps me going is knowing that, wherever she is now, she’s proud of me. I know she is. Sure, she wouldn’t have wanted me to be a single mother like she was. No mother wants her child to deal with being a single parent. But she taught me everything I know about love and, more importantly, how to love a child. So I know she’s happy.

“I didn’t mean that, Chelcie,” Dee whispers into the phone. Her earlier excitement has obviously dimmed because of my attitude. I instantly feel guilty for letting my crazy pregnancy hormones get the best of me.

“I’m sorry, Dee. I know you’re just trying to help. I just don’t know
if
I want to even be in a relationship. I’m going because—who knows—I might be, and I might meet someone worth taking the chance.” I take a deep breath and realize that everything I just said is true. I might not
want
to go or even think I
need
a man right now, but I could also be keeping the door to my own personal happiness locked tight by refusing to go.

“Really?” she questions. The earlier bravado in her voice is completely gone, making me feel like crap.

“Really, Dee. Thanks for everything. I’ll let you know how things go tonight with Nikolas, okay?”

We talk for a few more minutes while I continue to get ready before getting off the phone. I walk back into my bedroom and close the door, turning to face the mirror that is hanging behind it. I take a deep breath and look over myself with a detached eye.

My dark-blonde hair is hanging loose in waves; my makeup is minimal but still flattering. Even to myself, I can admit that I’m good-looking. I won’t be starring on America’s Next Top Model anytime soon, but I can turn heads. My eyes might be a little too large for my face, but they’re a unique gold-brown that I’ve always been told is beautiful. My nose is straight, not too large or wide. And my lips are plump and full.

My eyes travel down my body, taking in the loose, black dress that hangs from my body in a flattering way and successfully hides the little bump my baby gives my stomach. Smiling, I press the fabric to my stomach and rub the slight roundness.
It’s you and me, kid.

After turning from the mirror, I grab my heels from the bed, balancing on one foot and then the other before I’m ready to go.

On the way out of the apartment, I let myself think about the man who not even a week ago consumed my every thought—before he made a giant ass of himself, that is. I might still be holding a ridiculous crush on Asher Cooper, but I like to think that even I’m smarter than to let that torch burn when it’s clear he wants to stay in the darkness.

“Have a good night, Joe!” I call to the apartment’s older and friendly doorman.

“You as well, Ms. Avery!” he replies, a smile in his voice.

I walk to my car and, with a deep breath, hope for the best with the night yet to come.

CHAPTER 4

Chelcie

My nerves are a wreck by the time I pull up to the restaurant Nikolas told me to meet him at. I hadn’t heard of Slice before, and to be honest, I really didn’t care where I was going. I’m just ready to get this started and over with. Seven on the dot and so nervous I feel as if I’m going to puke all over my brand-new dress.

I press my palm against my belly, rubbing the rounded skin that holds my child within, and say a silent prayer that everything will go well tonight. Dee swears that Nikolas is a great guy, and from the few times that I’ve talked to him on the phone, I have to agree.

“It’s now or never,” I whisper to myself. If I waste another second sitting here, letting my nerves overtake me, then I know I’ll turn the car back on and take off as fast as I can. Go back home, where it’s safe. Where I can pretend that life outside my little bubble isn’t a big fat unknown.

It takes me a second to adjust to the lighting in the restaurant. It isn’t like it is bright outside, being that it’s seven at night, but it’s so dimly lit inside that I have to squint for a second before walking up to the hostess.

Or who I assume is the hostess.

“Yeah?” she questions, looking up from her desk, snapping her gum loudly, and twirling her long,
pink,
and clearly
very
unwashed hair.

Uh . . . okay.

“I think I might be in the wrong place,” I mumble more to myself than to the lovely piece of happiness in front of me.

“Sure,” she snaps, rolling her eyes and picking up the magazine she was reading before I had the audacity to interrupt her.

I open and close my mouth a few times before I snap it shut and try to calm my climbing temper. “Excuse me!” I force out through gritted teeth.

“What, lady?” she barks, throwing her magazine down and looking at me as if I am the offending party here.

“Is this or is this not Slice?” I know damn well it is, but for the life of me, I can’t understand how this
thing
in front of me has a job anywhere, let alone somewhere where she is in charge of first freaking impressions!

“Uh, lady, do you know how to read? It’s on the door when you walk in.”

The hell?!

I can feel the heat of anger painting my skin red. I’m going to blow up at this girl and it’s not going to be pretty. Usually I have no issues controlling my temper, but when people want to act like half-wit window lickers I just can’t hold it back.

“Listen here,
doll face.
I don’t know what in the hell crawled up your sweet-as-pie ass this morning and made you turn into the spawn of Satan, but that is no excuse to act like your shit doesn’t stink. For some unknown reason, your boss decided you would be an oh-so-pleasant person to have sit on your butt and treat
paying
customers like garbage. Do you need me to show you how it is you should greet someone? Let’s repeat after me, shall we? ‘
Hello, and welcome to Slice. How may I help you this evening?
” I have to ball my hands into tight fists to keep from reaching out and shaking the tar out of this little twit. My chest heaves with frustration.

Her overly-lined-with-the-blackest-liner eyes narrow, and I can just see it working behind them that she is about to say something else that will just piss me off further. I hold my hand up—stopping inches in front of her face—and roll my eyes when I see her face flash with irritation.

Irritation at
me!

“Listen, I’m sure you are just normally so full of sweetness that you were just about to apologize for being a massive bitch, but let me save you the trouble. Run out to the store and grab yourself some Midol. Maybe while you’re there, you can meet a nice man to get you off since clearly you’re suffering from some sort of frustration. IF by then you still aren’t feeling the joyful tingles of happiness, maybe you can find something else to occupy your time. Clearly being a people-person just isn’t your thing. Now, tell me, where in the hell is the bar in your fine establishment?”

I put my hand down when I finish, rolling my eyes when she just stands there gaping at me. She finally lifts her hand and points to the left. I don’t waste a second longer, turning on my heels. I walk into the darkened doorway that I hope leads to the bar.

I might have paid a little more attention to the waves of trepidation that keep flushing over my skin, but unfortunately for me, the little ray of happiness that met me at the door is making it impossible to focus on anything else.

Slice isn’t as bad as I expected, but it is by no means a restaurant, and it is definitely not a place I would ever think a first date should be held.

The room I walked into is vast and dark. There are smoke puffs floating around the air, causing me to cough a few times when I walk through a thick one. The lights are even darker in here, and given the way the lights keep flashing and sweeping the area with the low beats of some popular pop song, my guess is that I just walked into a bar—and by the looks of it, not one I would typically enjoy.

There are booths lining the room, some high-top tables with barstools pulled close, and in the center of the room is a long, rectangular bar. I’m assuming that it’s raised above the floor level, because other than the sea of bodies around it, I can’t see much.

The bartenders are dressed in what can only be described as their underwear. The shorts, which are skin tight and bright red, hug their curves and make me very aware that I am no longer a size five. Their bra-like top is hugging, pushing, and squeezing their boobs. Hell, they’re basically defying freaking gravity. I look down at my own chest, which isn’t lacking, but it most definitely isn’t pushing my nipples into my eyeballs.

With a deep sigh, I take off for the bar in hopes that finding Nikolas will be easier than it looks. Luckily, we exchanged emails and a few pictures so we both know what the other looks like. He told me this morning what he would be wearing, which isn’t much help since just about every other man in the general location of the bar is wearing a black shirt.

I walk up to the bar, trying to get the bartender’s attention, and quickly realize that, if I had a dick, this would be much easier.

This was a mistake,
I think.
There is no reason for me to be here.
Just when I’m getting ready to just say the hell with it and leave, I spot him. He isn’t unattractive. He just isn’t my type. Or at least the type that I’ve found I only have eyes for lately. The tall, blond, and blue-eyed variety seems to be the only one occupying all of my fantasies.

Nikolas is an attractive man. He isn’t overly tall—my guess is somewhere around six foot. He has jet-black hair that curls up around his neck in that sexy ‘I don’t really need a haircut’ kind of way. I remember from his picture that his eyes are an attractive gray color. His face is all angles and high cheekbones.

And he oozes player.

Which is very evident since he is currently leaning over the bar, whispering in the bartender’s ear.

What a freaking joke.

Straightening my shoulders, I set off in his direction. Might as well just get this over with. If I at least say hello to him, I don’t have to lie to Dee when I tell her that we just didn’t connect.

It takes me a second to get through all of the people crowding the bar. The music has gotten considerably louder since I walked in only a few minutes ago. The bodies that are dancing around the bar make it hard to walk without being jostled, and the last thing I want is to be pushed and, God forbid, fall.

I finally reach Nikolas just in time to see him lift the bartender’s hand up to his lips and give her a wink before kissing her knuckles.
What a shmuck,
I think. It’s a shame that he’s obviously such a douchebag because he wouldn’t be bad to look at for a few dates.

I laugh at myself before reaching my hand out and tapping him on the shoulder. He leans over and says something in her ear, causing her to look over at me before meeting his eyes again. Then she nods her head before walking away.

What the hell was that?

He turns, his smile still in place, and doesn’t even pause before letting his eyes take in every single inch of my skin. I can feel his eyes as if they are a physical touch, and even though it’s a clear sign—as if I need another one—that this man is a major douche, I can’t help but feel a little more confident that I clearly can still make his eyes flash with arousal.

In your face, Asher Cooper, with all your bullshit chubby talk.

“Nikolas?” I question.

“Ah, Chelcie. I was beginning to think you had stood me up.” He grabs my hand, mimicking the same play he put on just seconds before with the bartender.

It takes all of my willpower not to snatch my hand out of his and run to find the closest bathroom.