But that was a lifetime—and an emotional lobotomy—ago.
She wasn’t the same gullible, stars-in-her-eyes young girl Griffin had left sobbing in a fetal position on sheets still carrying the scent of Freshly Fucked. A year after stumbling around like a slightly-cleaner-not-as-bloody zombie, she’d gotten her ass in gear. He’d broken her, but out of the pain, she’d forged someone stronger, smarter, and driven. Someone who didn’t take anyone’s shit. Someone who wouldn’t ever be cock-fodder for another man again.
Any love she’d harbored for Griffin Sutherland had been successfully torched and incinerated years ago by his indifference and silence. But, Joshua Sutherland wasn’t privy to the history between her and his youngest son. As far as he knew, they’d been chummy during childhood and up until Griffin had abandoned his family five years ago. In his opinion, who better to send on this retrieval trip than a person his son actually liked?
She snorted.
Joshua would’ve been better off coming himself. Since “the help” hadn’t been invited to Audrey Sutherland’s—Joshua’s wife and Griffin’s mother—birthday party several months ago, Hayden hadn’t seen Griffin when he’d returned to Houston to attend. Which was a blessing because ripping off his son’s balls the first time she laid eyes on him in five years would’ve probably been just cause for being fired.
Still…she had to suck up her castrating urges. She hadn’t failed a task given to her yet by Joshua, and dragging his black sheep son back to the family fold wouldn’t be the first. Even if this was literally the last place she would rather be. And that included hell and Disney World on the 4th of July.
Sighing, she glanced up, searching for the waitress. Her beer was starting to not just look like piss but smell like it. Just as she caught the young woman’s eye, a big hulk of a man with a black beard that had to break a record for bushiness, a leather vest and a chest full of tattoos winked at her. A shiver of eew skittered over her skin. Even if she did go for the Blackbeard the pirate look, was that a fucking swastika inked on the side of his neck? Apparently, being a member of the master race didn’t prevent him from wanting to bone a Latina. Fucker.
A burst of raucous laughter yanked her attention from Blackbeard and almost drowned out the incongruous tinkle of the bell above the bar’s entrance. She glanced up as three men stumbled through the doorway, shoving each other and tossing insults back and forth. She scanned their scruffy faces, stained T-shirts and jeans, hope craning its head up…only to drop back down in disgust. Nope. No Sutherland among them. The tip Joshua had received and passed on to her about this being Griffin’s favorite watering hole must’ve been off.
Disgusted, she rose from her table. This was pointless. After four hours of waiting on him to show and being biker bait, she had to face the facts. Griffin probably wasn’t showing up here tonight. That meant cruising the tiny town of Blackpool to find him. Oh fucking goody.
Muttering, she reached for her pocket and the cash she’d stashed there. She might have lived in a cottage on the estate of a million dollar mansion as a child and have resided in the Texas suburbs for the last few years, but Lorena Reynolds hadn’t raised a fool. By carrying a purse into this pit, Hayden might as well loop a sign around her neck that declared “Beat the Shit Out of Me and Steal My Money” in red, bold, 48 point font.
“You boys enjoy. Drinks on me tonight.”
She froze. That drawl. Slow, thick, and warm like the dark gold, heavy Karo syrup her mother used to pour over pan-fried cornbread when Hayden was younger. Delicious. Pure sin. And familiar. Too damn familiar.
Her ass dropped back to the stool as her heart kicked into a dull, ponderous thud in her chest. It’d been five years since she’d heard that voice. Since then it had teased her, whispered to her…seduced her.
“Open up for me, baby. That’s it. Let me fuck that pretty mouth.”
“This tight pussy is mine. Mine. Say it.”
“I could fucking die in you, baby.”
She blinked, beating back the memories that molasses-and-sex voice stirred, locking them away in the vault they’d somehow escaped from. Swallowing past the fist in her throat, she slowly rotated in the direction of the bar.
Wide shoulders and a broad chest tested the fortitude and determination of a plaid shirt stretched over a white T-shirt. Long, thick, muscular thighs encased in sturdy but worn denim. She could only catch a glimpse of his profile, but that small look revealed a man bigger, more muscled than the one in her memories. The formerly short blonde waves were now caught up in one of those pretty-boy man buns. Sure, this area of Florida could probably claim more than one Viking among its population, but only one man had ever incited theoh shitdip in her belly. Or that damn lick of heat in her veins.
Griffin.
The man had eviscerated her soul to the point that for a year after he left she hadn’t wanted to do anything but lie in a bed and disappear under the covers. Yet, her body still recognized him as the only man who’d ever made it sing like fucking Pavarotti. She’d had one lover since him, and he’d failed in dragging a shattering, damn near mind-bending orgasm out of her like Griffin had. He hadn’t made her crave his special brand of lust and passion that had her willing to do anything he asked.
Only Griffin had possessed that power.
God, how she hated him for it.
Hated herself for it.
But that was then. When she’d been a naïve girl eager to please the man on whom she’d believed the sun specifically rose and set. So what her pussy was like Pavlov’s pitiful, trained dogs? She didn’t want him, didn’t need him. And last time she checked, her pussy followed her dictates, not the other way around.
Sliding from the chair once more, she straightened her shoulders, and strode toward the bar. The sooner she delivered her message to the bastard, the sooner she could call this mission accomplished and go home.
The headache-inducing blare of classic rock blaring from the ancient jukebox didn’t soften, but damn if it didn’t seem as if the volume lowered and every eye zeroed in on her as she cut a path through the tables and stools. Or maybe it was the pounding of her heart. She scoffed. That was ridiculous. What did she have to be afraid of? She’d faced down drunken good-ol’-boys who figured PA meant Piece of Ass. Confronting the man who’d ripped her heart out of her chest and used it for batting practice? Just another day on the job.
Wishing she had a baby wipe to clean the scarred surface of the barstool, she slid onto it.
“Hello, Griffin.” Griffin, not Griff. Since they were no longer friends, she didn’t have the right, or the inclination, to use the shortened, more intimate version of his name.
The blond giant next to her shifted, a small smile already curving his lips. But she caught the moment recognition entered his eyes, darkening them. That sensual but polite smile fell, leaving an impassive, stoic mask she prayed to God she mimicked.
Silence descended between them, swallowing up the raucous chatter and tinny music. As cliché and trite as it seemed, the world contracted and narrowed until only the two of them remained.
