Excerpt of Hitting on the Hooker by Mina Carter

She’d been stood up. Unbelievable.

Fern Morgan checked her watch, a thin gold affair that
always ended up with the
face on the underside of her wrist, and wrinkled her nose.
Yup, forty minutes late
and no message. Greg had stood her up. Great. No doubt he’d
had a better offer.
Story of her life. Her love life wasn’t just DOA, it had
been MIA for at least the last
couple of years.

Checking out the level in her glass, she abandoned any
pretence of being a lady
and downed the drink in one swallow. She grimaced. Wine had
never been her
favorite. Since it seemed her date wasn’t going to show his
face, the next round
would be whatever the hell she wanted.

“Vodka and lime,” she ordered when she had the bartender’s
attention, ignoring
his pitying look at the fact that she was still alone. He’d
probably seen it all, so there
was no point bluffing. A woman didn’t sit at a bar—on her
own—for almost an hour
for kicks and giggles, not a high class one like this. No,
this was date territory, a
venue classy enough to make that all-important first
impression. Which meant the
décor was first class, as were the prices of the drinks.

Greg had picked it. Bastard.

“Vodka for the lady.” The bartender slid the glass in front
of her, the ice inside
clinking together as it stopped. “Can I get you anything else?”

Sensing he wanted to hang around and chat, she shook her
head. After a long
week at work, and the disappointed anticipation of a
not-date with Greg from
Acquisitions, she wasn’t in the mood. All she wanted to do
was commune with her
drink, get happily buzzed, and head on home to seek
consolation in the tub of icecream
she kept on reserve at the back of the freezer.

Looking up after the bartender moved off, she caught sight
of herself in the
mirror behind the bar. The wrong side of thirty, her
shift-dress covered a figure with
a few more curves than she would have liked. Whatever she
did, no amount of
sweating it out in the gym or starving herself would get
those last few stubborn
pounds to move, so she’d given up.

Her hair was short and sleek, a neat bob that framed her
face, the dark color
natural. Thank God. She couldn’t do the whole once a month
ordeal some women at
the office went through to stay blonde, or black, or
whatever color they’d decided
they wanted to be.

Her face was made up, but in the subtle style she preferred.
A slick of lippy, a
quick flick of eyeliner a la Audrey Hepburn, some mascara,
and she was done. No
false lashes here, thank you very much. She’d tried them
once, and ended up with the
bloody things stuck to her cheek like damn caterpillars.
Never again.

Bored with her reflection—after all, it was nothing new—she
took a healthy sip
of her drink and savoured the burn as it went down. Damn,
that was good vodka. No
watering down here, that was for sure, which was a bloody
good job with these
prices. She cast a baleful look at the wine list by her
elbow. She earned good money,
but these prices were ludicrous.

The door at the front of the bar crashed open, and loud male
voices announced
the arrival of a large group. The bar staff froze for a
second before the one nearest to
her, the one who had tried to engage her in conversation,
groaned.

“Great, the Sharks. Molly, I’m heading out on my break.” And
with that he was
gone, leaving the girl at the other end of the bar shooting
a glare full of daggers after
him.

Fern studied the chaos at the front of the bar through the
mirror. The Strathstow
Sharks were famous for their abilities on the pitch, the
favoured sons of the town
when they’d stormed to victory in the premiership and won
the cup, and infamous
for their somewhat exuberant nights out in the local bars.
They were loud, brash, and
could be a pain in the backside when celebrating.

If she’d know they were playing today, she might have
thought twice about
coming out tonight—date with Greg or not. A night in might
have worked a lot
better. Couple of vodkas and a chance to scratch the itch
that had been bugging her
for months… Christ, she couldn’t remember the last time
she’d had sex. Long days
at work and exhaustion had limited her options for meeting
prospective partners.
Thank God for vibrators. Without them, she’d have gone nuts.

The crowd moved closer to the bar, filling the empty space
next to her as they all
tried shouting their orders to the poor, harassed-looking
Molly all at the same time.
Fern huffed and shook her head, burying her nose back into
her glass. When would
they learn that they’d get their drinks quicker if they
organised themselves, and one
person ordered?

“SHUT THE HELL UP!”

A voice roared above the melee, and silence fell.
Interested, she looked over as a
man fought his way to the front of the group. Like the rest,
he was suited and booted,
but in his case, the smart jacket barely contained a
powerful physique. Shorter than
the rest, he had a set of shoulders on him as big as a barn,
and a vicious bruise
decorated one cheekbone.

Despite that, it was obvious he was the man in charge.
Quickly, he collected
orders and relayed them to Molly behind the bar in a low
voice Fern couldn’t make
out over the baying of the others as they pushed and jostled.

Shaking her head, she took another swallow from her drink
and tried to ignore
them. As soon as she was done, she was out of here in search
of a tub of Ben &
Jerry’s and a DVD. Something with explosions and car chases
should do it…