The Perfect Stroke (Lucas Brothers #1)

The Perfect Stroke (Lucas Brothers #1)

Jordan Marie



The trouble with being from a small town is that everyone knows everyone. I’ve lived here my whole life. It’s not been good, but it’s not been bad. We didn’t have much—just me and Banger. Banger was my dad. Well, sort of. He’s actually the old man that my womb donor shacked up with. She ran off with a traveling vacuum salesman when I was seven and it’s just been me and Banger ever since. Yes, I know my life has been pretty cliché. I deal. Banger was a former POW. He’s a big, growly, bearded mountain of a man who never made me feel unwanted. He didn’t know much about having kids—never mind if that kid was a girl—but we muddled through.

By the time I was ten, I could change oil, rotate tires, and rebuild carburetors. By the time I was fifteen, I could rebuild an engine. I mastered transmissions at the age of sixteen. Banger said I was a natural, but the truth was that I just wanted to make him proud. He owned the only garage in town, and I wanted to make sure I helped him as much as I could.

He found out he had cancer on my seventeenth birthday. We got drunk together. Banger was many things, but he wasn’t worried about legalities or society rules. It’s probably one of the things I loved most about him. He passed away the summer I turned nineteen and I just kind of found myself taking over the garage. Now at the age of twenty-six, the people in Crossville, Kentucky know me pretty well. They’ve learned to trust my work, and Claude’s garage stays busy. That’s my name, by the way. Claudia Cooper. Banger always called me Claude and it just stuck. If it ever bothered me, I’ve learned to accept it now. I’ve found that with life, you just have to deal with what it gives you. Things could always be worse.

But back to why I’m in Lexington tonight: Lexington is probably the closest city to Crossville. It takes me almost three hours to drive here. I do it every so often, and I do it for one reason: If I don’t escape Crossville from time to time, I’d probably end up one of those nut cases on the six o’clock news who goes postal. Really, it’s a public service I’m doing. People should be grateful.

“Ready for a refill, darlin’?”

I grin up at the bartender, who admittedly is the only reason I stayed in this bar. It’s not my speed. I’m more into the biker bar about three streets over. One of my customers recommended this place because they have a live band on Saturday nights, so I said to hell with it. Ten minutes in when the band started singing a Black-Eyed Peas song that I could barely remember, I knew I was in trouble. Then Mr. Tall—blue eyes, in faded jeans with holes, black t-shirt, and curly sandy-brown hair—smiled at me when I sat down at the bar. He got me a drink and I’ve been here ever since. Sure, he got me a drink because he’s the bartender, but he keeps looking at my boobs.

I think it’s pretty clear what’s going on here.

“Hit me,” I tell him with an easy grin. Easy, because after a shot of Jack and then a glass of Jack and Coke on top of that, I’m pretty damn loose—so loose, that with this second drink, I’m pretty sure my ass will be finding a hotel to snooze the night away. Maybe I can convince the bartender to go with me. Again, do not judge me. The last time I had sex, I’m pretty sure, was two presidents ago. If you want to do the math, we’re talking six years. Six years. Women can say what they want about vibrators, but they do not, under any circumstance, take the place of the real thing. And the bartender who keeps smiling at me definitely looks like he could be packing the real thing.

“Damn, babe. You’re busy tonight,” I hear a deep voice say in front of me. When I look up, another man who looks like he just stepped off the pages of the Sexiest Man Alive magazine is talking—unfortunately, to the bartender I’ve had my eye on. They share a quick but heated kiss. I cry a little bit inside, give up my dream of me and the bartender tonight, and go back to my drink.

That saying about all the good ones being married or gay is so freaking true. It’s probably why I am still single and my friend Raymond has a great guy at home.

“Can I buy you another, sweet lips?”

Sweet lips?

“I don’t think so,” I tell him, barely looking up. It doesn’t matter what he looks like; being called sweet lips is enough to turn me off immediately.

“I’ll have a scotch and get the lady whatever she’s having.”

“The lady is just fine. Persistent, aren’t you?”

“Sometimes, it pays to be,” he says, and finally his country twang and the aw-shucks-good-old-boy-vibe makes me look up. He’s tall and broad, with brown, sandy hair shaved close, a five o’clock shadow—which is so dark I’d say it’s closer to six—brown eyes, and a face that looks like an sculptor chiseled it from stone. A god, maybe. He’s that pretty. Though he fires everything feminine up inside of me, his good looks is a turn-off. I’ve dated a perfect guy before. The only thing perfect was the reflection in the mirror. I don’t need to go back down that road again—ever.

“I was just getting ready to leave,” I tell him, and that’s not completely a lie.

“Don’t leave yet. You’re the first thing I’ve seen that gives me a reason for being in this town. What’s your name?”

“Well, it’s definitely not ‘sweet lips’,” I tell him, picking up the new drink the man of my dreams bartender—though gay and taken—puts down. The guy smiles at my comment and sits down beside me, then leans into me like we’re long lost lovers. I try to ignore the way he smells, but find it’s a little impossible. He wears a cologne that I’ve never smelled before. It must feed every pheromone I’ve got, because combined with his rugged male scent, it’s making a woman like me drunk… and horny. Dangerous. He’s definitely dangerous. I may want a good time, but this guy screams “player”—rich player. The bartender is much more my speed. It’s not that I’m a snob. Just the opposite, really. I find that rich people are obnoxious as hell.