What If Read online

  What If

  By

  Dani Wyatt

  Copyright © 2019

  by Dani Wyatt

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places,

  events and incidents are either the products

  of the author’s imagination

  or used in a fictitious manner.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  is purely coincidental.

  www.daniwyatt.com

  Cover Credit PopKitty

  Editing Nicci Haydon

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  I appreciate every one of you.

  Dedicated to everyone that

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  WYATT’S WENCHES

  Chapter 1

  Jessie

  “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  A gust of wind whips my hair into my face as I look down the street and hold the phone to my ear.

  My damp hair sticks across my cheeks and lips and I pinch my skin as I try to right the strands that on my best day barely qualify as unruly. Springtime in Michigan isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

  “Yes, it does matter.” Heather sounds so hopeful and motherly making me feel more pathetic. “What if this one is the one? You write about it in every one of your books. Finding ‘the one.’ What if this is it?”

  The sad thing, this isn’t the first time Heather’s given me this pep talk. She’s my best friend and greatest cheerleader but at times she could stand to rein in her unrealistic optimism when it comes to my unusual number of blind dates.

  As the mist in the air makes my hair look like a mop of miniature blonde corkscrews and slicks the sidewalk, I think about the number of blind dates through which I’ve suffered.

  It’s sad, but after ten or so, I thought maybe I was going for some sort of record, so I started counting. “This is number twenty-eight! Twenty-eight, Heather. That’s a record for the most blind dates for anyone, ever, in the history of blind dates.” I lean forward, sticking my arm straight out into the street as a flash of yellow turns the corner.

  The checkered cab comes to a stop at the curb. I moved to mid-town Detroit about a year ago from the suburbs, thinking a change of scenery would help shock me out of the rut I’d fallen into. My apartment is nice—nothing special, but suitable. My life has been less than suitable before, so suitable works for me.

  Heather’s voice only makes me feel more like the last kid picked for dodgeball in gym class. “Maybe twenty-eight is a lucky number? You’re young, blonde, you’ve got great tits, you’re financially stable, low drama, funny and you sure know how to write dirty. A pretty good package in my opinion.” She pauses, and I open the door to the cab tossing my purse on the seat and sliding in listening to her go on. “At least you are trying. Helga’s trying to help to and, hey, I haven’t even had a proper date in almost two years.”

  “Heather. First of all, nice that you took note of my tits.” I snap back as I settle into the back of the cab, hold the phone away from my head for a second and give the driver the address that Derek Melrose—a.k.a. number twenty-eight—texted me a half hour ago. When he nods and pulls from the curb, I bring the phone back and finish. “Second of all, you’re married.”

  I sigh in exasperation as the cab rolls down the street and I settle back thinking for a moment about her description of me.

  It wasn’t so many years ago I was broke, nothing felt funny, and I was lying in a hospital room in a lock down wing. Low drama was certainly not how I would describe that period of my life.

  Derek Melrose. Respectable sounding. If there’s potential in a name, he’s got potential.

  The bar where we’ll meet is called ‘Lucky Charlie’s.’ It’s downtown, in an area I’m fairly sure isn’t the safest, but in Detroit things are changing all over, so it could be that it’s a little corner that’s on the upswing.

  Derek was a set up by none other than Helga Klemkowsky, the owner of the Looney Baker, where I get a donut almost every morning and work part-time since I moved to this part of town.

  Helga gave me almost no information on number twenty-eight and in my professional opinion—because truth is, I think I’m a professional at blind dates by now—less information is better. I’ve grown to look forward to the surprise, besides, then there are zero expectations.

  Because expectations can be the worst part of dates.

  Worst part of life for that matter.

  As well, writing can be a lonely endeavor day in and day out, so working at the bakery has saved my sanity more than once. Well, that and my therapist, Barbara—and two prescriptions I take every day to keep the train on the tracks, so to speak.

  Helga has to be close to eighty and ever since I told her I didn’t have a boyfriend, she’s made it her mission in life to get me married. Which is ironic since she has never taken the leap herself and about ten times a day extols the horrors of all things male. But she honestly wants the best for me, so enter number twenty-eight, a customer she said is perfect for a girl like me.

  Girl like me. Not sure what that means. This is my third set up from Helga and although the other two weren’t horrible, I’m not sure her picker is completely on target.

  Through the phone I hear Heather’s giggle realizing I’ve not been listening. “I know I’m married. See? You think it’s all happily ever afters? Not so much, sweetie.”

  Heather and her husband have been on the roller coaster for their entire marriage and I’ve taken to the opinion that some people enjoy that push-pull.

  Break up. Make up. Break up. Make up. Heather has said on more than one occasion it’s as exhausting as it is exciting.

  Her husband, Mitchell, is a criminal defense attorney and works a lot and quite frankly, Heather is a little needy and could use a hobby. She’s a stay at home wife with a black Amex and too much time on her hands.

  But that kind of up and down relationship is not for me. I don’t like to fight. I want the fairy tale with all the trimmings. I’m a hopeless romantic; not only do I believe in love at first sight and happily ever after, it’s what I live and breathe every day.

  Well, not live it, exactly…I write it. I’m a romance writer. I’m all growly alpha males, mad sex, and ride off into the sunset. Easy peasy, right?

  Wrong.

  I’ve always had the rule, never more than a kiss on a first date. And never, ever have sex on a first date.

  The irony is, on only a handful of occasions has the kiss thing ever been an issue.

  I watch out the window as the moisture in the atmosphere covers the glass and the cab takes a corner pulling out into traffic on Mack Avenue, heading toward Lucky Charlie’s.

  In the window, I can see my reflection looking back and I don’t think I’m bad looking. I’m sort of the girl next door from the shoulders up and Mae West from the neck down. When I hit puberty, my body looked like it had blown up a couple balloons above and below my waist.

  “You know that phrase about teachers?” I ask Heather.

  “Which one?”

  “You know, ‘those that can’t do, teach’? I’m beginning to think that’s me. I can
write about love and lust and sex and romance, I just can’t do it.”

  “Come on. It’s not like you’re a spinster. You’re only twenty-three.”

  “Twenty-three going on seventy-two. I started knitting Heather. Knitting.”

  “Oh, come on. Knitting is like the new clubbing. Okay, look, don’t take this the wrong way…but, do you think, deep down, you might be worried about the other things? Like, if you get close to someone, you’ll have to tell them?” The seriousness in her voice shifts the tone of the conversation, and I know exactly what she’s talking about.

  “No,” I lie, pulling at the hem of my jacket and shifting around in the vinyl seat as the driver talks to someone on his phone about owing him money.

  “Because if someone loves you, they’ll understand. Everyone has a past.”

  “Not one that includes a felony. And a…” I check myself. I don’t even like to say the word. “A less than positive self-image and outlook on the future at one particularly dark time in my past.”

  “You screwed up. Made some bad choices. But that’s not you anymore, Jessie. Don’t carry around baggage that doesn’t matter anymore. You’ve come so far. It was a bad time. A very bad time. I get that.”

  “It could matter. You get involved with someone, they care about you, you care about them. Feelings start and then BAM. You’re in too deep to get out alive.” My choice of words takes me back and I blow out a long breath as the cab driver tells whoever he’s talking to he has two days in this Marlon Brando voice and I wonder what exactly he’s going to do if he doesn’t get the money.

  Heather interrupts my thoughts about broken kneecaps and waterboarding. “You need to stop. You were taken advantage of at a rough time.” Her voice trails off.

  “I know,” I agree, trying to wrap up the subject. It’s a trip down memory lane I could do without.

  That time in my life is done with. The dodgy boyfriend, the cocaine in my purse…I do not want to even think about it, but every time it’s brought up it’s like I’m right back there. I made bad choices, I’ll own up to that, but the consequences of those choices were disproportionate to the stupidity on my part.

  I fought the charges, with the help of funds from my mother and stepfather, but it still ended up with a plea deal and a felony collusion to distribute on my record.

  Not exactly something you bring up on the first date.

  And then, of course, there’s the blow to my already fragile mental state at the time. I did something else to myself I’d rather forget and never have to recount to anyone.

  I’d been battling anxiety and depression since my early teens. You add to my usual struggle the humiliation of what happened with the arrest and let’s just say looking back I’m incredibly grateful I wasn’t successful at my attempt to make it all disappear.

  I shift in the seat, reminded that I need to cut back on the donuts as the waistband of my skirt digs into my tummy. The brown velvet blazer I’ve paired with a white tank top is pulling over my triple D boobs and straining the single button that threatens to pop open at any moment.

  It took me a half hour to find an outfit that still fit me and looked decent but not desperate. Being a writer, I do a lot of sitting and you combine that with my other side job of working in a bakery, it’s a sure recipe for an ever-expanding rear end.

  “Listen,” I start as I grab a glimpse of myself in the cab’s rearview and take my free hand to my hair, trying to smooth it back. My hair is full of these whacky little curls. When people ask me how I get my hair to ‘do that’, I answer with, ‘I wash it and hope for the best’.

  I finish my request to Heather, “Just call me in, like, forty-five minutes, okay? I need an out just in case. I can’t endure an entire evening of blind date hell again. I just can’t. I feel like if one thing goes wrong, I’m going to lose it.”

  “Fine,” Heather answers on a sigh. “Just try to keep an open mind. You never know when Prince Charming will arrive. Your whole ‘What If’ series is based on that very idea. When you least expect him, expect him. Isn’t that your tagline?”

  Anxiety knots my belly and has a throb starting in my temples. “Unfortunately, fiction isn’t real life.”

  I wrap up the call with Heather and do some deep breathing as the cab winds its way through a tough looking neighborhood to finally slow and stop outside a seedy street front bar that looks like it’s seen better days.

  “Eight-fifty.” The driver addresses me with a look into the rear view as I wonder how deeply Helga interviewed this new potential suitor. Because if the location of our first date is any indication, he’s not raising my expectations.

  As I fumble in my purse for my wallet, a voice inside my head says to tell the driver to keep driving. Instead of heeding what is probably very good advice, I pay the fare and on a deep breath make my way through the wind and mist into the bar.

  As I cross the sidewalk, I look down at my black patent leather Doc Martens. I have fourteen pair of the signature boots and I wonder if maybe my foot ware is part of the problem. Could it be that men simply cannot make peace with a girl that enjoys a good edgy boot? If I traded my rubber soled, lace up habit for some Jimmy Choo’s would my life be different?

  “What if. What if…” I mumble as I tug open the door plastered with a selection of beer logo bumper stickers, pressing a slight smile onto my face and shaking my hair back hoping for the best.

  Inside the dark bar, it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust but immediately my nose is in heaven. Instead of being assaulted with the scent of stale beer and cheap perfume it smells like coming home. Only, unlike my home—where reservations were my mother’s claim to fame—this is like stepping into the kind of home where the mom spends the day cooking everything that smells like comfort.

  I do a quick room scan and there’s an invisible rope that pulls my gaze to a table where a dark-haired, beast-size guy sits. My eyes lock onto him and I swallow hard and my stomach does this little flip, a rush of instant heat envelopes me. There’s a steaming cup of coffee in front of him, as well as an empty plate with silverware and a rumpled paper napkin on top.

  Why would he have eaten without me?

  Rude.

  I shuffle a few steps forward, my heart tap dancing in my chest and there’s a low hum buzzing in my ears. The guy hasn’t looked up yet, but the only other patrons I see sit in pairs or groups so I’m assuming this hunk of man flesh is Derek even though he said he’d have on a black jacket. Whatever. All I can think is…

  Score.

  As a professional blind dater, I’ve learned to trust my first impressions. Never before have I had this sort of sensation. It doesn’t feel like my feet are touching the floor and everything around has blurred edges. There’s a light shining down on him like a heavenly sunbeam through the clouds, and I notice he’s looking down at a book.

  He’s reading.

  Oh my god.

  He’s reading an actual book.

  I squint and see it’s an older, hard-bound copy of The Great Gatsby one of my favorites of all time and I’m half in love already.

  Maybe Helga has the magic touch after all.

  I cover half the distance between the door and his table wishing he would look up and stand or smile or give me a sign he’s my number twenty-eight. The faded blue jeans, and untucked white button down give him just the right combination of classy and rough. His dark hair is clean cut, short with a squared off jaw line that is covered in a short black beard.

  Heather’s words and my own tag line start to play over and over in my head.

  When you least expect him, expect him.

  Here goes nothing.

  As I close the space between us, he finally looks up; our eyes meet and a shock wave pulses through me.

  I should introduce myself, but I’m not even sure I remember my own name.

  Then, I hear a voice from over my left shoulder.

  “Jessie. Jessie Patrick?”

  I flip my head around to see a g
uy dressed in skinny black trousers and a matching jacket that looks two sizes too small. His hair has dark black roots, but the tips are highlighted platinum blond.

  Suddenly, I feel nothing.

  “You’re Jessie, right? Helga showed me your picture.” He steps toward me from the back hall, where the buzzing ‘restrooms’ sign flickers above him as I nod in reluctant agreement. “I’m Derek. You wanna drink?”

  I turn in his direction, toss a quick glance over my shoulder as a shudder of disappointment replaces the sonic boom I felt a moment ago. I shrug my shoulders then shift my gaze to the floor trying to retain my bearings.

  I let go of my downward gaze to see Derek is standing just in front of me. His eyes are glassy, and his breath holds the scent of more than a few beers laced with other liquor.

  Not lucky number twenty-eight, Heather.

  I can’t help the one last look where my hopes for something different sit reading F. Scott Fitzgerald, then back toward Derek, who is now looking down at his phone. The dream boat at the table is looking at me from over the edge of his book, green eyes the color of a shamrock cut through my daydreams as I force myself to turn on my heel and head to where the next forty-five minutes of my life will be lost.

  Chapter 2

  Torin

  What.

  The.

  Fuck?

  She doesn’t belong here.

  She belongs under me.

  And not just for a night. For every night.

  Did I just think that? What is happening?

  Nothing like her has ever walked through the door at a shit stain of a cop bar like this. It’s where a lot of us come after shift to disappear. Three decades of Detroit cops have kept this place afloat in an area of slow decline where the surrounding street’s businesses have long been shuttered and dark.

  The place itself is a nothing bar with no top shelf liquor and four taps of cheap, domestic beer. The walls are covered with newspaper articles about big busts and pictures of officers that gave it all in the line of duty.