Change of Heart
Authors: S.E. Edwards
Tags: #coming of age, #new adult romance, #New Adult & College Romance
Change of Heart
By Scarlett E. Edwards
Copyright © 2013, Scarlett Edwards
eBook Version 1.1
Publication Date: May 20, 2013
Cover design by: Scarlett Edward
http://www.ScarlettEdwards.com
Book Description:
Persevere.
That's how I've gotten through nineteen years of life. It's what I do every single day—no matter how badly the odds are stacked against me.
Persevere, and
survive
.
Those are my two guiding words. I never knew either of my parents. I have no family and no home. The only person I could ever rely on was myself. In this cruel world, that's about as much as I could ask for.
Love?
Hah
. Don't talk to me about love. I stopped believing in it the day my first boyfriend ripped out my heart three years ago.
That's why love is the last thing on my mind when I leave a packed college bar with a captivating stranger. Yet everything changes when I'm awakened in the middle of the night by a pounding at the door. Suddenly, an arrangement meant for just one night threatens to become something much deeper.
All expectations are thrown to the wind as I'm tangled in a dangerous world unlike anything I can believe. The man I met has secrets swirling around him like a dark cape. I'm about to become his biggest one...
Table of Contents
Chapter One
I’m pissed. Seriously, I’m pissed.
I push my way to the bar at the end of the smoky room, not caring how many people I have to shoulder though to get there. Cries of “Bitch!” and “Watch where you’re going!” trail after me. I filter them out.
Right now, I have only one thing on my mind : a drink. A strong one. After six months of abstinence, I’m long overdue. And right now, I need something particularly potent to take my mind off the disaster of tonight.
I get to the bar, and place my hands wide on the sticky counter. I feel like taking up space. I know I should probably be grossed out by the semi-dry paste of liquor that clings to my fingers, but I’m way beyond caring about that now. I make eye contact with the bartender and nod him over. He’s busy serving somebody else. He raises his hand in acknowledgement, letting me know he’ll attend to me soon.
But soon can’t come soon enough. As I wait, irritation about everything that has happened tonight flaring within me, I find my eyes moving over his body. I can’t help it. Even though he’s facing away from me now, I can make out the outline of his strong shoulders and lean, cut arms from beneath a black V-neck tee shirt. He’s not bad looking, with close-cropped dark hair and a jeweled stud in one ear. When he finally turns away from his customers and walks over to me, the features of his face become clearer in the dark. He’s clean-shaven, with a strong, square jaw and hard, black eyes that seem to pierce the hazy air. He flashes an easy smile, revealing perfectly-white-but-slightly-crooked teeth. Despite my mood, I can’t help but give a little sigh. I’m a sucker for those types of imperfections.
“And what can I get you, pretty lady?” he asks.
His southern accent catches me off-guard. It’s completely out of place in the small-time Oregon college bar. It’s not at all what I would expect from someone who looks like him. I recover quickly, and spit out the first drink that comes to mind. “A Dry Manhattan. On the rocks.”
“A
Dry
Manhattan,” he repeats with a smirk. “On the rocks. That’s a pretty strong drink for a lady your size.”
I roll my eyes.
Strike one,
I think,
you’re out.
“I’m tougher than I look.” He perks a curious eyebrow at me in a way that is probably meant to be flirtatious. If he hadn’t made the comment, I might have even smiled back. But I don’t. I’m in no mood for small talk. Not now.
The bartender catches my ill humor, shrugs, and reaches over to right a clean mixing glass from his side of the bar. Bending down, he scoops a handle of ice into it, then sets the half-filled glass on the counter in front of me.
“You have your ID on you?”
“My
ID
?” I repeat, incredulous. This is the
last
thing I need right now. “You’re not serious.”
“Serious as can be. You see the sign.” He points to the side, where the words, “
NO WRISTBAND – NO DRINKING!”
are scrawled in thick black Sharpie on a bright yellow sheet of paper. He makes a point of looking down at my wrists. Both are empty.
“I’ll just pretend you let yours slip off that delicate little arm of yours,” he continues, “not that you
couldn’t
get one when you came in. But I’ll still need to see your ID before I can serve you.”
I narrow my lips in displeasure. The wristband rule is a vestige from the time this bar was still sponsored by the college administration. Anybody was allowed in, but only those students of drinking age would get their wristbands at the door. I always thought the rule was ridiculous. It is super easy to swap with someone, or have a friend buy you drinks. Never before have I heard of the
student bartenders
caring enough to check IDs.
To prove my point, I look behind me. The space in front of the bar has transformed into an impromptu dance floor, with some indie DJ pumping out his personal remixes of top 40 tunes from the corner. There are drunk coeds and frat boys everywhere. There must be at least five girls within ten paces of me who are obviously underage and sloshed out of their minds.
“Well?” He picks up the glass he set down in front of me and hovers it over the sink. “You have it, or not?” He tilts the glass ever-so-slightly, threatening to dump the ice cubes down the drain.
“Uh, yeah, hold on,” I say, trying to buy time. As I fumble through my purse for my wallet, I know it’s never going to fly. I haven’t used my fake ID once since moving from California, mostly because it wasn’t very good.
I start to regret my decision to shut out the bartender’s attempt at small talk. Maybe if I’d been friendlier at the start, he would have been willing to overlook the
wristband
issue. But I hadn’t been in the right frame of mind to think that far ahead. Now, he probably thinks of me as some cold bitch. This is just his way of getting back at me. While I would love nothing more than to pull out a real ID and show him up, I know that that isn’t going to happen.
But, what the hell? I might as well try the fake. If he calls me out on it, I’ll just leave—even if I have nowhere to go after what happened earlier tonight.
Just as I’m about to hand him the fake, I find two arms placed on either side of me, and feel a hard torso pressing up against my back. An unfamiliar voice speaks over my head. “Rod. You harassing my girl?”
“She’s with you?” The bartender sounds surprised. “I didn’t see the two of you together.”
“You’re questioning me?” The stranger’s voice sounds amused, but also… menacing.
Rod shakes his head quickly. “No, man, I believe you.”
“Good. Then whatever you’re making for her, make one for me, too. You can put it on my tab.”
“Sure, bro! No problem.” The bartender picks up a second glass and fills it with ice, then gets a bottle of dry vermouth to start on the drinks.
I can’t believe that worked. I don’t know
who
the person speaking above me is, but something about his calm, collected voice just oozes sex appeal. I sneak a glance to my left, and notice a small tribal tattoo decorating the inside of his forearm. Okay,
now
I’m intrigued—if still trying to suppress the annoyance boiling in me from earlier tonight.
“Look,” I begin, turning to address the stranger, “I appreciate the gesture, but I don’t particularly like being called ‘my girl’. Especially by someone I don’t even know…” The words die on my tongue as I get my first look at the man who still has his body so close to mine.
He’s tall. Much taller than I expected. At least a good foot taller than I am, and I’m not exactly
tiny at five-foot-five. I have to tilt my head back to look at his face.
Stunning grey-blue eyes greet me. They regard me calmly from beneath a mane of dark reddish, unruly hair. His cheeks are hard and angular, his nose in perfect proportion to the rest of his face. His broad shoulders project power and confidence. “Handsome” would probably be the way most girls describe him. Maybe even “dreamy.” But I’m not most girls.
“Hello there,” he says. I’m struck again by the raw male
edge
that his voice carries. The effect is somehow augmented now that I have a face to match the voice to. “I think this is the time I’d ask if I can get you a drink,” he comments. “But it looks like we’ve already got that covered.” A knowing smile plays on his lips.
“Yes, I think we do,” I say flatly, trying to cross my arms to better relay my mood—and to create a little bit of space between us. He doesn’t budge. Instead, he nods, cocks his head to the side, and continues smiling at me.
“Is something funny?” I ask.
“No,” he replies. His eyes still haven’t moved away from my face. He’s either extremely confident, or extremely drunk. But, I can’t smell any liquor on his breath. His unwavering stare is a sure sign of sobriety.
Confident it is, then
.
“I’m Richard.”
To prove I’m not intimidated by him, I match his eye contact one-to-one. “…And?”
“Annnnd,” he drags out the word, “It’s nice to meet me? I think this is the part where you tell me your name.”
“Why would I do that?”
He chuckles, and finally takes a small step back. His body isn’t pressing against mine anymore. I find myself feeling an odd sense of loss at the change. “Because, that’s what we do in polite society, woman! It’s what separates us from the animal kingdom… and people from Jersey.”
“
I’m
from Jersey,” I lie, just to see how he’ll keep up.
“Then you’ve just proved my point.” He winks. “But, I don’t think you’re beyond hope. We can get some culture in you, I can feel it.”
“Is that so?”
“Definitely. In you, I sense…
potential
.”
“Potential?” I repeat drily. “What are you, a fortune teller?”
Richard laughs, and I’m amazed at the way the sound carries over the din of the bar. His laughter cuts through the air, full and hearty, and very attractive. “Woman, if you’re this defiant with every guy who comes to say hi, it’s no wonder you’re all alone right now.” He leans in, bringing his lips close to my ear. “Don’t worry though,” he whispers in a way that makes shivers run down my spine. “I can handle it.”
“Two dry Manhattans, on the rocks,” Rod announces from behind us, breaking the tension of the moment.
Rich pulls his head away and takes an appraising look at me. “
That’s
your poison?”
I hide a little smile. “What? A girl isn’t allowed to drink?”
“No, no, I’m impressed. I was just expecting something more
delicate
out of you.”
“Oh?” I murmur. “I think I can be full of surprises.” I bring the drink to my lips to take a sip. Richard catches my hand before it gets there.
“The least you owe me so far, anonymous girl,” he says, “is a toast before the first drink.”
“A toast?” I ask. “To what?”
He smiles. “To people from Jersey.”
I consider it for a moment… and find myself grinning back. “To people from Jersey,” I agree, clinking glasses with him before having my first drink in months.
***
Earlier That Night...