Good For Me: A Ransom Family Novel Page 2

  Things get unusually slow for a Friday just before eleven and I know our boss is going to send Brad home soon—Dave doesn’t like paying for more staff than he needs. For once I consider asking to be the one let out early, but leaving Kim with slow-ass Brad would probably get me a swift kick to the nuts. I’m tempted, though.

  Then midnight hits and my mood shifts again. Because Jas just walked through the door and for once, her idiot boyfriend isn’t with her.

  God, she looks good, is my first thought. It shouldn’t be remarkable—she always looks good. Yet it still hits me like a freight train every time I see her.

  Jasmine Weaver is the kind of gorgeous that stops your breath. She’s tiny—nearly a foot shorter than my six-four height—but she has the most amazing curves I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s her eyes that really get me though, a shade of grey that seems to shift between stormy and clear depending on her mood. I always want a closer look at those eyes, sure that I’ll find something really important in their depths. She usually comes into the bar still dressed from her part-time job as a bank teller—professional slacks and blouses, her dark hair neatly arranged in a bun.

  That only makes it all the more hot on those occasions when she leaves her hair down to cascade in a thick curtain over her shoulders. Another thing about Jas I find mind-meltingly hot? No matter how professional her clothes, I can always catch a glimpse of black combat boots under her elegant pants and suits.

  Those boots make me crazy. They make me want to know more about her, about what she does in her spare time, where she likes to go, what her friends are like.

  Basically, I want to know everything there is to know about Jas. And I have ever since the first day I saw her.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Kim mutters when she sees me staring. “River, you need to give it up. That girl is never going to go for you.”

  I know that. I really do. Jas is completely out of my league and shows next to no interest in me whenever she’s here. Which is all the time, because Dave is her uncle and she lives in the spare room in his apartment over the bar. She also helps him do his books, since he’s comically bad with numbers for a business owner.

  Jasmine Weaver is the kind of girl who has her shit together. She’s driven. It’s obvious she has goals, and she’s not going to stop until she takes over the world like a total badass. Of course she’s not going to be into a guy like me.

  But her lack of interest does nothing to cool the obsession that hit me strong the first hour of my very first shift at Davie’s Pub. I figured this job would be the same as all my others. I’d sling drinks for a few weeks before doing something stupid and getting fired. Then I’d move on somewhere new. Rinse and repeat.

  But that was before Jas showed up an hour into my first shift and directed me to join her in the office. I’d been pretty much struck dumb the second my eyes met those steely grey ones. As she handed me employment forms to fill out, her voice remained crisp and professional while I sat there speechless and staring at her, my brain in overload with all the things I wanted to do to her.

  And it wasn’t just sex stuff—though my dirty mind was coming up with plenty of that. The thing I wanted to do the most was get her out of the loud bar and take her somewhere quiet where I could stare at the shifting shades of grey in her eyes and have her tell me every single thing about herself.

  I don’t know what it is about this girl, but I can’t get her out of my head. It doesn’t matter that she’s dating a total asshole. It doesn’t matter how many girls I hook up with—a number that’s been steadily diminishing since I started here and realized no amount of no-strings fun was going to replace the empty ache I feel whenever I see her.

  Jesus, listen to me. I sound a million times more lame than the cousins I was giving shit just a few hours ago.

  Kim snaps her fingers in front of my eyes and I realize I’ve been standing here staring like a fucking creeper for the past however many minutes. What else is new.

  “Seriously, Riv. It’s not happening. Move on.”

  Move on. It’s something I normally would have done several months ago. From the girl and from the job. I’m not exactly the stick-it-out type and no woman has ever held my interest for more than a few weeks.

  Yet here I still am. Working in the same job for more than four months—a record for me. And pining after a woman who doesn’t give two shits about me.

  You really are a fuck up, River Ransome, I think to myself.

  But that doesn’t stop me from grabbing a shot glass and preparing her usual order—a shot of tequila followed by a Heineken—ignoring Kim’s grumbles about how pathetic I am. And it doesn’t stop me from taking the drinks to her round table in the back myself instead of handing them to Kim, just so I can stand in Jasmine’s presence for a few moments.

  Because not only am I a fuck up, I’m also a masochist. And I’ve never been any good at changing my ways.

  Jas

  My uncle’s bar is the last place on earth I want to be right now. Hell, I don’t even want to be in our apartment upstairs, where the sounds of music and laughter never quite fade away until well after last call.

  But I haven’t updated the deposit book in days and if I don’t do it tonight, the numbers are going to be messed up for next week, too. So even though my head is pounding and my stomach is roiling, I park my ass in my usual seat in the back and get to work.

  But first I make the mistake of glancing over at the bar. Stupid, stupid girl.

  There’s another reason why I don’t want to be here, and he’s currently walking right in my direction, his icy blue eyes locked on me.

  Damn it. I really should ask my uncle for the bartender schedule before I just stop in.

  Maybe you would do that if you actually didn’t want to see him, a nasty voice in my head says.

  River Ransome is gorgeous. That’s just an objective fact. Those damn blue eyes. I’ve never really had a thing for guys with blond hair, but River’s is unique—so blonde it’s nearly white. And he wears it all messy and longish, like he just rolled out of bed that way and somehow still looks that good. He’s tall and lanky, but surprisingly cut when he lifts his shirt to wipe sweat from his face after hauling kegs back from the loading bay. Not that I’ve ever looked, of course.

  Okay, I totally look. But I don’t, like, try to make it a point to be here on delivery days. Not very often, at least.

  I’m so ridiculous.

  But the worst part isn’t his looks. There are lots of pretty men here in Los Angeles and a lot of them work in places just like this while they wait for their modeling/acting/music career to take off. No, the real draw of River Ransome is the way he looks at me. There’s so much intensity in his eyes whenever I catch them on me—and I always seem to catch them on me. He looks at me like he’s trying to figure out all the secrets of the universe on my face.

  And there’s a part of me—the very immature part that apparently never grew out of being a teenage girl—that gets all lit up when the cute boy stares in my direction.

  “Here you go,” he says, sliding a shot glass then a pint glass across the table to me.

  That’s the other thing. He knows my damn drink order. Maybe that just means I’m boring and predictable, but I know for a fact the majority of the bartenders and waiters working at my uncle’s place have no idea what I like to drink. River knows though. Because River always seems to be paying attention.

  And even though this is an interaction that’s happened at least a dozen times before, something about it hits me right in the feels tonight, and my throat gets thick.

  Apparently, that’s the kind of thing that happens when you walk in on your boyfriend of two years banging his secretary on his desk. While wearing the tie you bought him for Christmas. On your birthday.

  “Hey,” River says, his husky voice softer than usual. “You okay?”

  Because of course he notices my sudden display of emotion. Like I said, River pays attention.

  “Shitty day,”
I tell him, my attention locked firmly on the pint glass in front of me so he won’t see anything else in my eyes. At least my voice doesn’t break. I haven’t cried yet and I’m determined not to. Kurt doesn’t deserve my tears.

  “What kind of shitty day are we talking?” River asks. “Is this a one-shot shitty day or do I need to go get you another?”

  “Well, I walked in on my boyfriend screwing another woman. How many shots do you recommend?”

  Shit, I hadn’t meant to say that. The last thing I want to do is talk to River about this. I imagine those intense blue eyes filling with pity and anger rises up in me. Pity and I have a long and not so pleasant relationship. I’ve had more than my fair share of seeing that emotion reflected from someone’s eyes. It’s not the same as compassion—which I’m also not a huge fan of. But pity is worse. Pity includes traces of judgement and few things piss me off more than that.

  River curses loudly, drawing my gaze to his, and I’m surprised. There isn’t a trace of pity on his face. There is, however, the fire of hot anger in his eyes.

  “He cheated on you?” he asks, sounding both pissed off and incredulous. “That dorky-ass motherfucker? Cheated on you?”

  “More like horny-ass motherfucker,” I mutter.

  “No way,” River says firmly. “That’s way more than horny. That guy was batting so far out of his league with you. You realize that, right? He should have been on the ground thanking the universe he was lucky enough to even get you to look at him.” He shakes his head. “Jesus, what an idiot.”

  Something about River’s incredulousness has a warm little glow pulsing in my belly, forcing out some of the hurt and anger and shame that’s been weighing me down since I showed up at Kurt’s office for lunch this afternoon only to be confronted by his bare ass. River’s expression is absolutely aghast, like he literally can’t comprehend that Kurt would cheat on me. It almost makes me want to laugh.

  “Hang on,” he says, reaching for my drinks. “We need something else entirely.”

  “We do?”

  He nods. “Fuck yes. Beer and shots are for drowning your sorrows.”

  “That’s kinda what I was going for.”

  “No!” he cries. “We’re not drowning your sorrows! We’re fucking celebrating.”

  I raise an eyebrow at him. “I realize you’ve been trying to get in my pants since you started here but celebrating my heartbreak seems a little cruel.”

  He makes a scoffing noise. “We’re not celebrating your heartbreak, and this has nothing to do with me or your pants.” But his gaze falls down to my legs and he smirks a little. “Though you do look insanely hot in those pants.”

  “Will you shut up and give my drinks back?”

  He holds his tray out of reach but leans closer to me, and just like that I’m trapped in his ice-blue glaze. “Jas, listen to me. You absolutely should be celebrating right now. Do you know why?”

  I just shake my head. There’s something about being this close to those eyes that makes it hard to form words.

  River grins. “Because you’re free, girl. You just got rid of one hundred and sixty pounds of worthless loser in the blink of an eye. That guy was all wrong for you. Just think—you’ll never have to hear him drone on about spreadsheets or algorithms or whatever the fuck lame-ass dorks like to talk about.”

  A snort escapes and I slap a hand over my mouth. River smiles knowingly. “He totally talked about spreadsheets, didn’t he?”

  “He’s an accountant.”

  River groans like I just told him my ex is a war criminal. “You dated an accountant, Jasmine? Seriously? A cool girl like you?

  “You know I’m currently getting my degree in business administration, right?”

  “Sure,” he says easily. “But you can still work on cool things with a business major, right? You could open a kick ass whiskey distillery or a store that sells those badass chick boots you’re always wearing.”

  I shake my head. “How did we go from talking about my cheating asshole ex to badass chick boots?”

  He points at me. “You’re right. I’m supposed to be getting you a new drink. I got distracted by the epic lameness that is Kurt.” His face wrinkles in disgust, like the name is physically painful for him to say. “Hang tight.”

  “You don’t need to get me a new drink,” I call after him, but River is halfway to the bar. I shake my head as I pull out my laptop and open the pouch filled with my uncle’s bank deposit slips. I should probably just take this stuff upstairs to our apartment. I usually prefer to do my work down here—I’m one of those people who needs background noise to concentrate and the bustling bar fits the bill. Plus, beer. But tonight, I’m clearly not fit for company.

  River appears a few minutes later and I do a double take at what’s in his hands. “What the hell is that?”

  He smirks, setting the purple monstrosity down and then, to my surprise, takes the seat across from me. “This, lovely Jasmine, is a Drunken Unicorn.”

  I suppose it’s an appropriate name for what he just brought me. Instead of a pint glass, River brought over what appears to be a literal punch bowl filled with deep purple liquid. It’s rimmed with bright pink sugar and the whole thing is topped off with a generous dollop of whipped cream covered in little candy pieces and sprinkles.

  “I’m not drinking that,” I say immediately. I am strictly a beer and hard liquor kind of girl.

  He grins and holds up two straws. “Did I mention there’s five different kinds of booze in this? It’s not only celebratory—this stuff will get you trashed.”

  He looks so eager sitting there, his gorgeous-enough-to-model face suddenly boyish. It will feel cruel to send the drink back—like kicking a puppy. So instead I take the straw he offers and stick it into the purple liquid on my side of the bowl.

  “Holy fuck,” I gasp after my first sip.

  “Right?” River asks, wincing, pulling his mouth from his own straw. “I think I’m drunk already.”

  I take another sip. The drink is disgusting—way too sweet and cloyingly fruity, in addition to being burn-your-hair off strong—but I have a feeling I’m going to drink my fair share anyhow. “I wasn’t actually planning on getting trashed tonight.” I point at the untouched work. “I have stuff to do.”

  River waves me off, taking another mouth puckering sip. “You’re not working tonight. It’s a night of celebration.”

  “I’m still not sure I’m with you on the whole celebration thing.”

  He eyes me over the sea of purple. “Was he a good boyfriend?” He flashes a smirk. “You know, in spite of the accounting thing.”

  “Of course.” A strange defensiveness rises in me. “I dated the guy for two years.”

  He nods, slightly more subdued. “That’s a long time. Lot longer than any of my relationships.”

  I roll my eyes. From what I’ve seen since he started here, River Ransome doesn’t do relationships. His hook-up reputation, on the other hand, is pretty well established.

  His smile is sheepish. “I know, I know, I set a super low bar.” He studies my face. “But the accountant must have treated you well, huh? For you to stay with him that long?”

  I open my mouth to say of course, but the words get stuck. Did Kurt treat me well? All of a sudden, the only thing I can think about is how pissed he was when I got drunk with my best friend Brie and let her convince me to dye a purple streak in my hair a few days before his firm’s annual summer picnic. “What the hell are the partners going to think when I introduce you?” he’d asked me, red-faced and furious.

  Then there was the time my favorite DJ was coming into town right before my birthday. He knew how badly I wanted to go to that concert—we talked about it. But then he bought tickets to some symphony instead because several of his clients were going to be there and he thought it would be a good opportunity to network. So I spent my birthday trying not to fall asleep during a Bach concerto or some shit.

  That was last year. This year he promised to t
ake me out to do whatever I wanted. But those plans were kind of shot to hell when I decided to surprise him with lunch and instead walked in on the most cliché affair ever. His secretary. God.

  “He’s kind of an asshole, actually,” I mutter.

  River nods, looking thoughtful. “Did you have a lot in common?” I fight and fail to stifle a snort, and a grin crosses River’s face. “Not so much?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Let me guess. The accountant spends his free time collecting stamps and playing polo?”

  “Polo? Is that even a thing people do?”

  He shrugs. “I was trying to think of the most uptight sport I could.”

  I take a long pull of purple liquid. I’m not sure if it’s the liquor or the conversation but my chest is starting to feel warm, much of the earlier tightness dissipated. “He collected wine, not stamps. And it was golf.”

  River makes a horrified face. “God, that might be even worse.”

  “Golf isn’t that bad,” I argue. I’d gone with him a few times. It was kind of nice to walk around outside and the grounds at the fancy courses he frequented were always pretty. And I’d had plenty of time to admire them, considering he always had a client or colleague with him and they talked business pretty much constantly.

  I sigh. “That was the real problem with Kurt. Everything was always all about work.” I scowl. “I mean, the real problem besides for the whole banging his secretary on his desk.” I slurp up another long pull of purple liquid. I think I’m getting drunk already. “On my fucking birthday,” I mutter.

  River makes a choking sound. “It’s your birthday?”

  “Yup.” I pop the p loudly. Yeah, definitely getting sloshed. I should probably slow down. I take another slurp instead. “Happy fucking birthday to me, right?”

  “Okay, this whole set-up just became unacceptable,” he announces. Before I can blink, he’s grabbed hold of the envelope of deposits and is tucking them away.

  “Hey.” I grab for the bag but the unicorn drink makes me clumsy. “I need that.” He waves his hand dismissively, tucking the now zipped up pouch onto the seat beside him. Then he slides my laptop away and shuts the lid. “Hey!”