*Jordan

Alone in the semi-crowded Kokomo bar on a Thursday evening is exactly my brand—if I was worried about having such a thing. I sigh, my glistening beer bubbles with foam at the top of the glass. A bit of golden froth slides down the side and I lick it surreptitiously.

Damn, I'm wild.

This is as much excitement as I can afford. Not literally, since I finally have enough money to survive plus get a few extras these days, but this is all my reputation as 'trying to be a very good girl' or 'role-model citizen exhibit one' can afford.

Sharon grins at me from behind the spotless counter, a rag on her shoulder. She's the reason I'm here. As my oldest and possibly my only friend, I spend as much time with her as possible. Even if girl-time happened to be happy-hour on opposite sides of the bar. A man at the other end beckons, but she holds up a finger for him to wait.

She can afford to make men wait for her—no reputation to keep or save, and more power to her. In fact, she has them down on her knees for her.

I tell myself I'm not jealous, and it's true. I would hate to have men knocking on my door—the saints above know I don't need the temptation or heartbreak of sending them away.

"First, I want you to drink some of that, Jordan," Sharon says, breaking through my brooding thought. I stare blankly until she motions at the beer. "Drink. Second, I want you to farkin' enjoy yourself a little, because you deserve it. You work hard and you do good things for those kids at the center. But, you'd better agree with me, occupational therapist is your daytime job, not your entire persona. Relax. Have fun."

"You have no idea if I work hard for my day-time kids. I might be a major slacker when I go into work and just blow bubbles and build houses with wooden blocks." Actually, a lot of my time is spent blowing bubbles and stacking blocks. The kids love it. But she's right, it's still hard work and I deserve to relax when I'm done for the week. I pick up my glass to make her happy and take a long drink. I give another sigh, but this one for amber liquid running down my throat. It tastes like weekends, summer days, and freedom all dressed up in one. I have to savor this kind of feeling when I can get it. It doesn't last.

"Hey, honey," the man calls, getting impatient. "What does a man have to do to get your attention?"

"Wave a fifty in the air and I'll come running," she shouts over her shoulder. He laughs and she strolls away to ask him what he would like.

I go back to contemplating my drink. I do deserve it. I am dedicated to helping those kids grow and learn and develop their skills at life—the sweet, wide-eyed at-risk babies and toddlers who come to the center. I help them as much as I can, teaching them to move their bodies correctly and interact with each other. I love them, too. My heart swells just thinking about them. I give them the love I can't give—

A rag smacks the table in front of me, knocking me back out of my thoughts.

Sharon puts a hand on her hip. "I know that look. If you want to be depressed and sad, why do you have to come in here and do it in front of me when I can't give you hugs and redo your horrible, messy, broken nails? Good grief. Get thee to a salon, Jord."

She takes my hands in hers, the only person I let touch me, and inspects my non-manicured fingernails. Her own are impeccable. Everything about her is put together and coordinated—hair, jeans, tucked-in sweater, nails, and big, eighties jewelry. As the only female bartender at Kokomo, she raked in the tips and got all the hours she wanted. She was also the owner's daughter, but that wasn't her fault. Just luck of the draw.

Luck was something I did not have. Not even a little bit.

I pull my hand free to take another long drink of beer, despite telling myself I have to make it last. I can't drink a second one, since I'm driving myself home alone, as usual.

More customers come up to the bar to sit or take drinks to their table, but no one sits next to me in the corner where I've stationed myself. People are either with someone else, or they know me, and aren't interested in conversation.

But I came here to chat with Sharon, anyway. She'll be busy all weekend and I won't have another chance until our Monday afternoon coffee time at the Hot-Spot Diner.

"You haven't said a word yet about your date," I say as she wipes glasses from a washing crate. "Which means either it was too hot to talk about in public or it was too lame to ever mention again."

Her lips twitch and suddenly, she's trying to hold back a grin.

"Ah ha. That answers my question." I waggle my eyebrows at her. "Spill. All the deets. You can whisper if you need to, nobody will hear you..."

"You know me too well. All right. Remember I said he's a welder? So he's got these arms, and hands, and I swear—" She leans her elbows on the bar to get closer and she drops her voice lower. "He really knows exactly what to do with his hands and fingers at any given moment. Not much of a conversationalist, between you and me, but he didn't get tired of showing me what he thought until it was nearly dawn."

"You naughty girl!" I live vicariously through her adventures. I never would sleep with a man on the first date. Scratch that. I never sleep with anyone. "When do you see him again?"

She shrugs, looking smug. "Maybe tonight."

"Ha! I love it. So long as he treats you right. Don't take any crap, or let him try to talk you into anything you don't want to do."

"Oh, Jordan, he won't have enough oxygen to say anything at all when I'm sitting on his face until three a.m."

The door jingles, and she glances up, but I don't bother. She always keeps mental tabs on customers, and greets the people she knows by name. She frowns, a wrinkle forming between her eyebrows. "I know him. I think I know that guy, Jord. Does he ring any bells for you?"

I crane my neck to see who she's squinting at. A tall, jaw-dropping, mouth-watering dark-haired man stands at the door. There's a deep scowl on his face as he scans the place for a seat and pulls his hands from his black jean jacket. Heart clenching, I hastily turn my face. I feel as if someone has both doused me with a bucket of ice water and set fire to my panties.

Cole Reid Danielson. My high school crush. The boy who didn't know I even existed and was the only person as broken as me and my sisters is back in town as a grown, dangerously hot, sex-trap of a man.

Trap—as in I'm going to fall in it if I'm not careful. And what happens to helpless animals who fell in traps? That's right. Nothing good.

"Breathe, Jordan. And tell me who it is because I need to get his number for you," Sharon breathes, intrigued.

"I can't." I shake my head at her. "I mean, I can tell you who he is, but I can't have anything to do with him. You know that."

"I don't know it." Her face settles into something hard and fierce, as if she wants to protect me from something. But it's too late for that. "Who is he? He's from school, right?"

"Yeah. Cole Danielson. He was one year older than me, so two years ahead of you."

"Oh, my god. I remember him! He was so skinny back then. He set the gym on fire, didn't he?"

"Exactly." I square my shoulders. "And that's only part of why I can't have anything to do with him."

"But you want to. I can see it in your eyes." To make a point, she gets eye level with me. "Tell me everything you can."

I know what she means. She isn't only talking about the crush I once had. She wants my secrets—the dark parts of my life I have never had the courage to reveal. Even as my best friend there are so many things I keep from her. Whenever she can, she tries to pry them out of me. I give in, just a little, because keeping all my secrets is soul-crushing. "Cole is—he was on my bucket list, you know..."

"Of guys to do? I know now."

"Not like that. I was sixteen. I had a huge crush and I wanted to kiss him. Just once. But then Trey came along, and you know the rest."

"I don't know the rest, but you'll tell me one day. Wait here," she says, as if I was going to bolt.

Actually, bolting might be a good option. My cheeks burn as he slides onto a stool at the far end of the bar, and Sharon takes his order. She chats a moment, getting him to smile. Damn. How does she do that? She makes it seem so easy to talk and get to know someone.

She serves him a bottle of locally brewed beer, and casually wanders back to me.

"All right, tiger. Here's your chance. You want him? He's only in town for a couple of days to take care of some legal stuff. Then he's gone again forever." She frosts a shot glass with salt and sets it in front of me, then fills it with tequila. She hands me a lime wedge.

"I can't." I'm frozen. From the corner of my eye, I can make out the unshaven, square form of his jaw and the hooded cast to his eyes. Is he still broken?

Because since the time I watched him from afar in high school, I'd been smashed to pieces a dozen times over and left to live or die on my own.

Who is he now? Every woman in the bar darts furtive glances his way—he draws their gaze. He's nearly a head taller than the other men at the bar, and easily twice as wide. Tattoos peek from his shirt at his neck and wrists. He exuded sex and danger.

He was bad at seventeen, but at twenty-eight he looks positively illegal.

I stare at the tequila shot. Either I leave it on the bar and walk away now—like I should. Or I drink up, gather whatever liquid courage I can from it, and get him alone.

And not just for a kiss.

*** Thank you for checking out my newest story! Just so you know, I will only post a few chapters on Wattpad. If you want to read it all, the link to Radish will be posted soon! ***