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  Wounded Hearts

  Julia Sykes

  Copyright © 2018 by Julia Sykes

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  For You

  Thank you for Nashville

  Contents

  Wounded Hero

  Wounded Hearts

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

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  Wounded Hearts

  I walked into the bar at one fifty-three AM. My casual saunter made the black fringe dripping from my pretty lace wrap sway around my calves. I liked the silky glide of the tassels against my bare skin. Confidence rolled off me, intentionally so. A woman walking into a bar alone at one fifty-three AM has to be confident. If that confidence slips for one second, the veneer of adventure crumbles, and her stark loneliness will be laid bare for everyone to see.

  Adventures. That’s what I liked to call them. These little forays into the world, when desperation took me to seek comfort in the company of strangers.

  Maybe one of them would be on an adventure of their own. Then, maybe we could both pretend we weren’t lonely, just for a little while.

  Just until the bar closed.

  Luckily, the bars in Nashville stay open until three AM, even on a Tuesday night. I’d already wasted several precious hours singing karaoke and laughing with anyone who would talk to me in passing. Now, I wanted some company. Male company.

  Maybe.

  The thought of being intimate with a man terrified me. And thrilled me.

  And left me feeling sick in the pit of my stomach, a churning that belied the deeper ache between my legs. I hadn’t gotten laid in…

  I didn’t want to do the mental math of how long it’d been since I’d left my husband. Or how long before that had been the last time we’d had sex.

  I flinched away from that line of thinking. I’d only recently begun to accept the full, disgusting truth that I’d lived through years of abuse at the hands of a man who claimed to love me.

  Don’t think about Thomas.

  Despite my wayward thoughts, my feet carried me smoothly from the entrance to the ebony bar without hesitation. Any indecisiveness would be seen as a moment of self-doubt, and I wasn’t going to allow the neuroses that plagued me when I was sober to take over and ruin my all-important veneer of confidence. I shrugged into it like a well-worn coat, and a sense of cool calm settled over my shoulders.

  I could feel male gazes dance over my skin, tickling my flesh like the silky tassels that bumped against my calves with every step. The black dress I wore was low-cut enough and short enough that the outfit left little to the imagination. While I always wished I could shift a few pounds off my thighs, body confidence wasn’t an issue for me. I loved my curvy self.

  I ordered a Dos Equis and turned to face the live band, my back arching slightly as I struck a casual but suggestive pose.

  A pose. The way I positioned myself was artificial. A confident lie that I was exactly where I wanted to be. A lie that I was completely content being alone.

  The male attention I could feel like a palpable sensation rolled from across the bar to skim over my body. I glanced in that direction. Found the man’s startling pale blue gaze. Held it.

  I allowed a small smile to tug at one corner of my lips. Then, I turned my eyes back to the band and took a swig of my beer, as though I hadn’t seen the handsome man at all. As though I wasn’t hoping I’d placed just enough bait to get him to come to me. As though I wasn’t desperate for it.

  I watched two women vie for the lead singer’s attention, waving money at him as they called out requests. There was only time for a few more songs, and the women were hell-bent on getting their preferences played. The pretty brunette with the fiddle took the money with a smile and a promise to play both their songs. Briefly, I considered commenting to the nearest woman that I like the fiddle player’s gold velvet, damask bellbottoms. Just to have a reason to talk to someone.

  But I could still feel the man’s eyes on me, so I chose to hold my place for a few minutes longer. Settling my elbow back against the bar behind me, I kept my muscles relaxed in a casual stance as I took another swig of my beer.

  His attention made my stomach quiver, and excitement raced through me. I knew he was watching. I wanted him to come to me, to talk to me for a little while, at least. I wasn’t looking for sex—the prospect of vanilla sex left me cold. I needed a little pain with my pleasure.

  I doubted the man watching me could give me what I wanted in bed, but I craved company more keenly than I wanted an orgasm.

  I felt his presence at my side before he spoke, but I didn’t turn to face the man. I didn’t want to appear overly eager.

  “Is that your husband?”

  “What?” I blinked up at him. He loomed tall beside me, just at the edge of my personal space. Respectful, but definitely interested. He was even more attractive than I’d thought. In the initial glance I’d allowed myself, I’d gotten an impression of pale eyes, blond hair, and a square jaw. Up close, I could see the fine lines around his eyes, which were set above high cheekbones.

  “Is that your husband?” he repeated. “The lead singer.”

  I laughed. “No, he’s not my husband.”

  “You’re here by yourself?”

  I tossed my hair back, a flippant gesture. “Yep.”

  “The way you were watching him, I thought he must be your husband.”

  That cut a little. My marriage was over. If he kept pressing me about why I was alone at a bar at two AM, I might not be able to maintain my casual bearing.

  “Nope.” I held my smile. “If this is a pick-up line, it’s a weird one,” I teased, putting some of the pressure on him to divert it from me. “I’m single, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Oh. Good.”

  “So,” I prompted. “You didn’t tell me your name.”

  “Scott,” he introduced himself, giving my hand a firm shake.

  “Addison,” I replied, my smile more genuine. I’d gone through a string of Scotts back in my college days, and my best friend still joked about it. Now that I was single again, I supposed it was only fitting that I go on another Scott streak. Or at least, I’d indulge myself by talking to this particular Scott for the next half hour, until the bar kicked us out.

  What would happen after that, I wasn’t sure. I chose not to think about it; I’d live in the moment and simply enjoy flirting with one of the hottest guys I’d managed to attract since I’d left my husband.

  He was older than me by a few years, but that didn’t make him any less handsome. He looked like he worked outside, his skin slightly tan and a little weathered. The rugged appearance suited him.

  I leaned closer to him, my body thrumming with awareness of his masculine presence. Desire heated my veins, and I summoned up a flirtatious smile. Sex might not be on the table, but a kiss would be a welcome distraction from my loneliness.

  “What do you do, Scott?” I loved learning about strangers
’ careers, their passions. As a writer, I soaked it up for inspiration.

  “I’m in the lumber business,” he said. “We’re actually on our way back to Minnesota from Florida, but we’re stuck here in Nashville because the weather’s bad back home.”

  “Minnesota,” I repeated with a slight smirk. “You definitely have the accent.” I hadn’t noticed it at first, but it was more pronounced when he told me where he was from. I did the same thing; I often lost my Southern accent unless I was talking about home or was around my family. The commonality was comforting, and I instantly felt more at ease near him.

  It didn’t hurt that he was regarding me with open interest, and he’d moved in closer, so we could hear each other over the loud country music. The heat in my veins warmed my chest, and something stirred between my legs. He smelled good. Masculine.

  “Yeah,” he allowed, shifting slightly. I wondered if he was self-conscious about his accent, or maybe I’d sounded a little too teasing.

  “What were you doing in Florida?” I redirected the subject to ease his discomfort.

  He shrugged. “We were there for business.” He gestured to his friend, whom he’d abandoned across the bar. The dark-haired, stockier man frowned in our direction, and I chose to ignore him. He either didn’t like being left alone, or he didn’t like something about me.

  “Your lumber business took you from Minnesota to Florida? And you drove?”

  It seemed odd to me. If he was affluent enough to travel for business, why the long drive? Why not fly?

  “Yeah,” he replied again. “Have you ever been to the Bahamas?”

  “What?” The sudden change of topic startled me, but I was intoxicated enough that I didn’t dwell on it. “Oh, I stopped in the Bahamas on a cruise once.” I shrugged. “It was right after high school. I don’t really remember it well, and we weren’t there for long.” I didn’t like to think about it, but that graduation cruise had been eleven years ago. Acknowledging the passage of time—and the fact that I only had four more months left in my twenties—made me feel old. Especially now that I was having to start my life over at thirty, since my marriage had ended.

  I chose to focus on Scott instead of my worries. Alcohol and his sex appeal made for an easy distraction.

  “What’s the weather like in the Bahamas in the winter?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I went on my cruise in the summer. Why? Are you thinking about going there?”

  “Maybe for business.”

  “The lumber business? In the Bahamas?” I was trying to get a read on his job. He was being vague, and something felt off. Suspicion made the back of my neck prickle with wariness, and I shifted back from him slightly. I didn’t like being lied to, and I was usually far too gullible. My trusting nature had caused me a lot of heartache, and I’d become a little more cautious in recent months.

  “Uh-huh.”

  He wasn’t giving me a lot of information to work with.

  “I love to travel for work,” I said, trying to continue the conversation. I might not fully trust him, but my body told me to keep him close. I hadn’t felt this kind of physical draw toward a man in years.

  “I do it whenever I can,” I chattered on. “Where do you like to go?” Travel really was one of my passions, and having that in common with him would give me the excuse to keep talking to him.

  “I spend a lot of time abroad,” he said.

  “Oh!” Excitement buzzed through me. Finally, something we could talk about. “I’ve spent a lot of time in England.” I didn’t mention that I’d lived there on a spouse visa with my ex-husband and had recently been forced to move back to America. I tried to keep the wistfulness from my tone when I mentioned England. The loss of my adopted home made my soul ache and my eyes burn if I thought about it for too long. “Where do you travel?” I stayed in the moment, focusing on Scott instead of falling into familiar despair.

  “Not England.” His lips twisted with distaste, and his eyes darkened. “Farther south.”

  The way his expression shuttered let me know he didn’t want to talk about it, making me surmise that he found the subject unpleasant. I began to suspect that he’d been involved in something other than the lumber business in the past. Maybe he was former military and didn’t want to discuss his time in combat zones.

  Whatever the case, I detected anguish in the clipped way he’d spoken and his carefully neutral expression. I might be halfway to drunk, but my empathetic senses were as sharp as ever. I didn’t want to dwell on any topic that might upset him.

  “The band is really good.” I changed the subject again.

  He smiled, his white teeth flashing through the dimness of the bar. Some of the tension in my chest eased. I liked his smile.

  “They are,” he agreed. “Do you want to dance?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t dance.”

  “Come on,” he cajoled, taking a step toward the area in front of the stage, where two women were twirling and swaying their hips like no one was watching.

  “I can’t dance. I’m sorry, but I’m really bad at it.”

  I’d always wished I were more graceful, more coordinated. I nearly caved to the desire to please him and take his hand, but I knew how it would turn out: with me shuffling awkwardly and falling prey to my anxiety. I didn’t want to feel self-conscious around Scott. The way he was regarding me so intently made me feel beautiful and confident. I didn’t want to ruin that.

  “Where are you staying?” he asked, shifting the conversation once again.

  “My friend’s loft.” Georgia had left me hours ago, returning home with a migraine. I’d chosen to stay out by myself.

  “What about you?” I prompted.

  He pointed out the window. “I’m at the Hilton. It’s right across the street.”

  I wondered for a moment if he was inviting me back to his room, but I decided not to pursue that line of thinking. I wasn’t ready to spend the night with a strange man, no matter how handsome he was. No matter how desperately I wanted to be touched. He wouldn’t be able to fulfill my kinky needs.

  “Man, I really wish you’d dance with me,” he said. “It would mean a lot to me.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t.” Regret tugged at my heart. His words felt heavier than those of a man who wanted to grind on a woman. It sounded as though it really would mean something significant to him if he could share a dance with me. Again, I sensed the sadness I’d noted in him when he’d mentioned his travels abroad. His life must be more complicated than simply a man traveling for business.

  “Okay,” he agreed, settling in beside me to watch the band and enjoy the music.

  My chest tightened. I hated letting him down when he clearly wanted to dance with me, but I liked that he hadn’t pressured me. And I was relieved that my refusal hadn’t prompted him to return to his friend. I didn’t want him to leave.

  As the silence stretched between us, I began to shift uncomfortably. It bothered me a little that he hadn’t asked anything about me. I’d given him openings to ask about my career and my time in England, and he’d chosen to give me clipped answers and not return with any follow-up questions. I didn’t like to think that he was a self-absorbed person who wasn’t really interested in knowing more about me, but then again, he hadn’t left my side.

  He was hot enough that I overlooked the potential character flaw. Besides, it wasn’t as though I had anyone else to turn to for company. In a few minutes, the bar would close, and I’d have no choice but to return to Georgia’s apartment.

  The band played one more song, and I drank my beer as I listened. Scott watched the band, too, but I could still feel his attention on me. I wondered why he didn’t prompt any further conversation, but I decided not to get hung up on it. He wanted to stay near me.

  I wasn’t alone.

  The song ended, and the lights turned on. Scott sipped at his drink, unconcerned by the fact that the bouncer was shouting for everyone to leave. I chugged some of my beer before setti
ng the bottle down on the bar top. I didn’t have to finish it.

  “We have to leave,” I told Scott, regretting that my time with him was over already.

  “No, we don’t. Not yet.”

  The bouncer shouted again, ordering everyone to finish their drinks and head for the exit. I wasn’t one to disobey or cause anyone the smallest inconvenience, so I stepped away from the bar with a sigh.

  “We really do.”

  I started to walk toward the exit. Scott set his glass down on the bar and followed me. I smiled to myself. I really didn’t want to leave him yet.

  But there was nowhere for us to go. Georgia was sleeping at the loft, and even though we had separate bedrooms there, I didn’t want to disturb her. There was also the dilemma that Scott would expect sex if I invited him back. I just wanted to chat with him and pop the bottle of prosecco that waited in the fridge. Maybe make out with him. Just a little.

  We stepped out into the balmy night, and I turned to face him. “Where are you going now?” I asked, fishing for an invitation to spend more time together. I didn’t have to have sex with him. I didn’t have to do anything I wasn’t comfortable with, and I got a sense that he wasn’t the type to try to talk me into something I didn’t want to do. He’d proven as much when he’d respected my choice not to dance with him.

  “Where are you going?” he countered.

  I wasn’t the only one who wanted to keep hanging out. I beamed up at him.

  He stepped toward me and wrapped his arms around me, his big hands settling at my lower back as his hips pressed against mine. I drew in a shuddering breath, reveling in the first intimate contact I’d had in months.

  His friend exited the bar, appearing at our side. Scott didn’t let me go.