Love You Better (Better Love 1)

Underneath the fury, buried under the new-found hatred, is loss.

Loss and longing.

Mourning for the man beside me, the man I thought I knew. The man who is not at all who he lead me to believe he was.

* * *

Chapter One

Four Weeks Earlier

I smell like stale beer and French fries.

It’s disgusting. I’ll never let myself get used to it.

My shoes stick to the floor as I walk back and forth, wiping things down and replenishing what needs replenished. Limes, lemons, oranges, green olives, and my favorite, maraschino cherries. I snag one before putting the garnish tray back in the ice chest.

“I’m about finished here,” I call to my manager, wiping my hands on my bar towel.

“You’re good, B. Thanks for coming in tonight. I know you’ve got a lot going on.”

“It’s cool,” I shrug. “I can always use the money. Even if it is a slow Wednesday, cash is cash.”

I grab a toothpick from the jar on the bar and steal another cherry from the tray. Popping it in my mouth, I wink at the guy two bar stools down. He left me a decent tip earlier. The least I can do is pay him one last bit of attention since he’s likely to be back.

“Alright, girl, well head out and I’ll see you on Saturday night. You’re closing.”

Jada pulls a draft for another guy and slides him the pint. A group of them came in to watch some sporting something or other earlier and then stayed. I couldn’t care less about it, but it’s the only reason I made any money tonight.

I say goodbye to Jada and head to the back of the bar to get my stuff. Switching out my hideous non-slips for my boots, I drop the shoes in my locker and grab my helmet and crossbody purse.

I should change my shirt, I know I stink like a bar, but I’m just too damn exhausted. I’ve been working more since Jada promoted me to lead bartender at Bar 31, my classes have been kicking my ass, and I’ve been spending all my free time trying to concoct the perfect cookie for the Bakery on Main cookie contest next month. My body is pissed at me and letting me know it, but if I can win that contest? The two-grand in prize money would make it worth it, and having my name and cookie displayed on their menu would be pretty great too.

I duck out the back exit and walk to my bike. She’s my Baby. A black 2012 Honda Rebel 250. I bought it used from the guy who owns the auto garage back home for 1,500 bucks. It was a fucking steal, but I think he felt sorry for me and cut me a deal.

Sometimes there are advantages to being the girl everyone pities.

Putting my purse in the saddle bag, I swing my leg over the bike, put my helmet on my head, and start her up. No matter how tired I am, the rumble of her engine always gives me a jolt of excitement. Something about the freedom and the danger, maybe. I rev her twice, just for fun, and then cruise out onto the street.

It’s already 12:15 a.m. when I pull into the parking lot of the convince store. It’s late, I’m beat, and I only need one thing, so I’m braving it.

I hate having to shop so close to campus. I don’t like running into people I know.

Working at one of the popular campus bars means a lot of people recognize me. Occupational hazard, and definitely not ideal. Unfortunately, there’s not a lot of jobs where I can make 500 bucks on a weekend fully clothed, so when I’m on the clock, I fake it. Makes me quite a damn peach when I clock out.

After locking my helmet onto the backrest and grabbing my purse, I pop in my earbuds—a whole other level of antisocial. I spent the last three hours being on. Any more human interaction and I might develop a twitch.

My 2000’s pop punk playlist is blaring in my ears, and I head to aisle six where they keep the baking stuff. I scan the shelf, find what I need and go to grab for it, then stop.

Shit.

This store actually has pure vanilla extract. I drop my hand. I was gonna get the imitation stuff—it’s what I’ve been using—but if I want to win this contest, I need quality ingredients.

Shit. Eight freaking bucks for two ounces? I can get eight ounces of the imitation for $1.99.

I groan. This hurts. Like actually flipping hurts. It’s that poor kid mentality.

I sigh, resigned, and reach for the bottle, just as another hand snatches it from the shelf. I whip around keeping my eyes on the precious bottle—the only one this stupid convenience store has—and huff.