Breaking Him (Love is War 1)

Also, and much to my disappointment, Leona was dating the first officer.

She was young, only twenty-six, but just a little over two years ago she’d been through a really ugly divorce.

I’d gone through it with her.

And now she was finally dating again, but it was a fucking pilot.

Said pilot was with the captain buying us all a third round at the bar while we lounged on a long, red couch and blatantly scoped out the room.

It was packed with men, and even though we were in San Francisco, at this particular bar most of the men were usually straight.

“Never date a pilot,” I told Leona, for maybe the thousandth time, as I watched her not quite boyfriend smile at the female bartender.

“He’s a nice guy,” she defended.  “I think it’s going well.”

“He’s totally into Leona,” Demi added.

“Of course he is,” I agreed.  “Look at her.  But it’s not about her or how he feels about her.  He’s a pilot.”

Leona waved me off.  “Time will tell.  They can’t all be bad.  There are exceptions to every rule.”

I decided to drop it.  She wasn’t budging, and much as I hated it, she might just have to learn this one the hard way.

I nodded my head at a hipster dude at the bar.  He’d gone so full-on hipster that he was borderline lumberjack.  “I might give that one the time of day.”

Leona’s delicate nose scrunched up.  It was pretty dang cute.  Everything she did was cute.  Normally I hated cute girls, but with Leona, it was just part of her charm.  “You don’t like beards.  You always say how they smell bad, how they’ve done tests on men with beards like that, and they always find shit in them.  Literal shit.”

I giggled.  “You said literal shit.”

“I did.  That guy is not your type.”

“Who cares,” I shrugged.  “He keeps staring at me.  I like it.”

“He’s not the only guy staring at you.  Why him?”

“Because tequila.”

Demi giggled.  “That’s the best toast ever.  We’re all getting shots of Patrón.  Because tequila!  This is happening.”

I nodded.  The more the better.  Leona thought that I was impaired and it was affecting my judgement, but the sad truth was that I wasn’t even close to being drunk

I needed to remedy that and quick.

Demi had just brought us all limes and shot glasses over brimming with tequila when Leona said quietly, her eyes aimed right over my shoulder, “Bastard at six o’clock.”

Fuck.

“Because tequila!” we all chanted the toast.

I did the shot and chased it with a deep gulp of my cocktail.

I’d won the last round.  Dante was supposed to disappear after a defeat like that.

What was his fucking problem?

And I wasn’t even drunk.  I downed the rest of my cocktail and still didn’t get there.

What a fucking lousy day.

I was so annoyed by that that when I turned to watch Dante approaching, I already had a few bullets in the chamber.

I began to stride toward him, deciding to meet him halfway.

“You’re back,” I said when I got close.

“I’m back,” he agreed.  His suit was wrinkled, his hair mussed, but otherwise he’d recovered rather miraculously.  In fact, if I was masochistically honest with myself, he looked edible.

“You sobered up fast,“ I drawled out grudgingly.

He shrugged.  “Mostly.  If it makes you feel better, I’m still a little drunk.”  It did, barely.  “Can we go somewhere quiet to talk?”

As he spoke his eyes moved over me.

I’d dressed cute, at least.  Cute maybe wasn’t the word.

With the small possibility I’d see him again, I’d suited up for the night like I was putting on armor.  Sex appeal as a weapon.

My light gray dress was edgy and sexy, with a sculptured bodice that hugged tight to my ribs and waist, a harness strap built-in bra that teased as much as it showed off, and a hi-low peplum skirt over a sleek mini dress.

My legs were bare, tan, and sky-high in a pair of cheerful yellow platform stilettos.

My look was hot and right on trend.  It was a cheap as hell knockoff of a designer look, though only a discerning eye could tell it wasn’t name brand.

I hated that he’d been raised with just such an eye, and there was no way he wouldn’t spot the difference.

“How’s Tiffany?” I asked him, tone pleasant as could be considering that it was shaping the name I despised more than any other in the world.

He smirked.  “She’s fine.  She still hates you.”

“Oh?”  I couldn’t keep the delight out of my voice or expression.

“Every woman I’ve ever tried to have any kind of a relationship with has good reason to hate you.”

“Good.  The feeling is mutual.”

“That sounds like jealousy, tiger.”

I rolled my eyes, trying not to wince at his use of my other nickname.  “How cute that you want to think so,” I bit back, “but you know me better.  It’s a more simple hate I have for those stupid women.  You know I never could tolerate idiots.”

“And you’re saying every woman I’ve dated is an idiot?”

“Every one of them that settled for my leftovers, yes.”

“Well, now, that’s all of them.”

“You’re a quick one.  How’s your mother?”