A Girl Walks into a Bar Read online

  Contents

  How to Get the Most Fun Out of This Book

  A Girl Walks into a Bar

  Teaser

  About the Authors

  Also by Helena S. Paige

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  How to Get the Most Fun Out of This Book

  Dear Reader,

  This isn’t a regular novel with a set beginning, middle, and end. This is your story, and you’re in charge. Of your life, your sexuality, your fantasies.

  So here’s how it works: At the end of every scene, you’ll be given a choice, with instructions to go to the page that corresponds with your selection. It’s simple: YOU pick what you want to do, where you want to go, who you want to be with. There are no right or wrong decisions. Just keep going through to the pages, and you’re guaranteed a wild ride that you shape and control.

  Wondering “what if”? Want to try something different? Unlike in life, here you can press a reset button. Just go back to the previous fork in the road, pick something different, and head out on a new adventure.

  Because remember: it’s your fantasy, your rules.

  Enjoy!

  A Girl Walks into a Bar

  ALL WOMEN KNOW THAT you can’t expect too much from a single pair of underwear. If you want drop-dead sexy, you’re going to have to sacrifice on the comfort front. If it’s pure comfort you’re after, it’s unlikely you’ll be wearing anything particularly pretty or glamorous. If you’re in need of support, then control-top is your friend, but you aren’t going to be breathing very easily.

  You let your towel slip to the floor and lean naked over your underwear drawer to consider your options. You and your best friend, Melissa, have been threatening to paint the town red for weeks—chances are it’s going to be a big night. There’s the ridiculously expensive purple lace G-string with the silk ribbon woven along the edges. You run your fingers over one of the velvety ribbons and feel a little nostalgic—you haven’t worn sexy undies in ages.

  Next to them are your favorite most-comfy panties. The elastic isn’t as tight as it used to be, and they’re slightly faded from all that washing, but that’s kind of what you like about them.

  Instinctively you suck in your stomach as you reach for the control-top underwear. They make you feel like you’re crammed into a sausage skin, but at least they give you a flat stomach. But what if you get lucky tonight? You’ll need a can opener to get out of them, and there’s nothing sexy about that. Maybe you should just go commando, you think. You smile a little at the thought. You’ve never done that before. Wouldn’t it be incredibly sexy to be the only one who knows you’re not wearing anything under your dress?

  If you choose the purple lacy G-string, click here.

  If you choose the comfy panties, click here.

  If you choose the control-top underwear, click here.

  If you choose to go commando, click here.

  You’ve chosen the purple lacy G-string

  YOU DO SOME FINAL touch-ups to your makeup in the mirror, then step back to appraise the view. Work has been so hectic, it’s been ages since you glammed up like this, and you’d forgotten what fun it can be. The little black dress with the low-cut neckline showcases your curves, and these are your favorite heels—they give you the calves and height of a goddess. You’re pleased with what you see: the purple G-string was absolutely the right choice. Who knows, tonight might just be the night you break your drought. You might just get lucky.

  Click here.

  You’ve chosen the comfy panties

  YOU CHECK YOURSELF OUT in the mirror. It’s a good look, the little black number with black high heels. You’re feeling pretty sexy tonight for the first time in ages. You turn around to check the back of your dress and catch a glimpse of your granny–panty line marring the smooth fabric of your dress. Nope, that won’t do. You whip off the granny panties and briefly consider going commando . . .

  If you want to go commando, click here.

  . . . but you decide against it. That’s a little too breezy for your liking. Instead, you open the drawer again and reach for the purple lacy G-string. You climb into it, careful not to snag it on a high heel.

  Click here.

  You’ve chosen the control-top underwear

  YOU HAVE TO LIE on the bed to get into your control-top underwear. Who invented them? Clearly a sadist who doesn’t like women very much. And what are they made out of–the same fabric they use in space shuttles? You take a deep breath, hold it, and drag the underwear past your thighs.

  Just before you pass out from lack of oxygen, you manage to heave them over your tummy. Wiping a bead of sweat off your face, you scramble up and check yourself in the mirror. On the upside, your stomach is flat. Unnaturally so—it’s almost concave. On the downside, you feel a little dizzy, you might have cracked a rib, and you probably won’t be able to sit down all night.

  Who said beauty is supposed to hurt? Something’s got to give. You grab a pair of scissors and cut yourself out of the Lycra straitjacket, breathing out with relief.

  Then you reach for the purple G-string instead and slip it up your legs. After the industrial-strength Lycra, the lace feels like feathers. You hold your breath as you look in the mirror, and it has the same effect as the sadistic underwear, but without cutting off your circulation. You’ll just have to remember to suck in your stomach every time someone looks at you, you think as you reach for your handbag.

  Click here.

  You’ve chosen to go commando

  YOU WALK TO THE kitchen to pour yourself some wine, swinging your hips. It feels strange not to be wearing anything under your dress. The friction of your thighs pressing against each other as you walk feels good. In fact, every move you make is a bit of a turn-on. You’ve never been this aware of your nethers. So this is what it must be like for guys, you think—your sexuality reminding you that it’s there with every move you make.

  You take your glass back to the bedroom. Just that short walk has made heat flood through your body. It’s too much, you think. You won’t make it to the bar at this rate. You decide you need something between you and your dress if you’re going to be able to look anyone in the eye tonight without blushing violently. You reach for the minimal purple G-string—it’s the next best thing to going naked.

  Click here.

  Arriving at the bar

  YOU HAVE TO BLINK a few times as your eyes adjust to the dim lighting inside the bar. The background music is subtle, but you can feel the rhythmic beat in your chest, along with a pleasant quiver of expectation. You’ve been so focused on work, it’s been a while since you went out. You have every intention of having fun tonight.

  You’ve never been here before; this trendy celebrity hangout was Melissa’s idea, and you gaze around, hoping to spot her. A long mahogany bar counter stretches along the length of one side of the room, and groups of stylishly dressed people are laughing and lounging at the booths and tables. There’s a roped-off area at the back, with a bouncer the size of Conan the Barbarian parked in front of it. It must be the VIP section. No chance you’ll ever get in there, you think.

  You scope out the bar, but there’s no sign of Melissa, so you check the tables. You can’t help noticing a striking man sitting at one of the booths in the corner. He’s deep in conversation with another guy, but something about him tugs at you. He’s clearly a little older than you, but he makes it look good in a George Clooney kind of way. He looks up and catches your eye, as if sensing your attention. His stare is intense. You blush and make a show of looking at your watch, as much to check the time as to have an excuse to look away from him. It’s five past eight. You’re on time. Where the hell is Me
lissa?

  You take one more careful look around the room, then make your way over to the bar and perch on a stool, your back to Mr. Intense. You shiver—you can almost feel the pressure of his gaze on your back.

  “Hi, what can I get you?” asks the bartender.

  You glance up, taken aback at how attractive he is, even if he looks barely old enough to be serving alcohol. His skin is flawless, set off by espresso-colored hair and eyes. He’s wearing jeans and a plain white cotton shirt, and he smiles sweetly, if a little hesitantly, as he snags an empty can off the bar counter next to you. Then in one smooth move he turns and tosses it into the trash, getting it in the first time. His crisp white cotton sleeves are rolled up, revealing the sculpted muscles in his arms. You can’t help wondering how old he is—twenty-one, twenty-two at a guess. Hmm. You could show him a thing or two.

  You’re not sure what to order. This is a celeb hangout, after all. Champagne? A cocktail? A martini? Then you remember a scene you saw in a movie. “A glass of prosecco, please,” you say, hoping you pronounced it correctly.

  The bartender flicks his hair out of his eyes and gives you that sweet and rather shy smile again. It floors you for the second time.

  “Coming right up.” He reaches for a champagne glass. His shirt lifts and you get a perfect view of his smooth, muscled stomach. A dark line of silky hair runs from just below his navel to the button of his jeans. You can’t help it—your mouth waters a little. Where’s Melissa? She needs to see this. Good choice of bar, you’ll tell her. You cross your legs and squeeze them together.

  Your cell phone vibrates in your hand, startling you. It’s a text from Melissa:

  Stuck at work, Evil Boss sprang horror deadline on me. Sorry! So upset I can’t make it. Have fun for me!

  Your heart sinks. Now what? You thump your phone down. All dressed up with nowhere to go. If only she’d let you know earlier. When will Melissa learn to say no to her controlling bastard of a boss?

  You’re not even sure you’re in the mood for a drink anymore, but the cute bartender is already expertly opening a bottle of sparkling wine. He pours a glass, holding it at a slant, then puts it down in front of you with another shy smile, and you cheer up a little. You wonder what it would feel like to run a thumb along the line of his lips, which are full and temptingly kissable. You smile back at him and reach for your bag to pay.

  “No, no need,” he says.

  Is he coming on to you? You’re about to thank him when he points to the far end of the bar, an apologetic look on his face. “It’s from that guy over there.”

  You check out your admirer. His garish shirt is open to his midriff, and there’s more hair on his chest than on his head. A thick gold chain nestles in the thicket above the beginnings of a hefty paunch. He pops a toothpick in his mouth, gets up, and swaggers his way over to you. Maybe if you don’t make eye contact, this walking cliché will get the message . . . No such luck.

  “Hello, darlin’,” he says, shifting the toothpick from side to side with his tongue. “This seat taken?” He plonks himself down next to you before you have a chance to answer. “I’m Stanley Glenn,” he says, as if he expects you to recognize the name. A burp slips out of his mouth, and garlic wafts toward you. You lean as far back as you can, but there’s no escaping it. “Pardon me, but better out than in, right? That’s what I always say.” He holds up both hands, points his fingers, and fires them off at you with a wink and a double-click of the mouth.

  Your first instinct is to tell him and his chest wig to get lost, but that would be rude, and you don’t want to make a scene. But you shift in your seat so you can knee him in the nuts if he comes any closer with that lethal breath of his. You’re about to politely decline the drink when you feel a hand on your shoulder. Startled, you swivel to face a man standing just behind you. You recognize him immediately: it’s the guy who caught your eye when you first arrived at the bar.

  “Hello, sweetheart, sorry I’m late,” he says, leaning forward and kissing you on the cheek. You suck in a breath at the unexpected closeness. He smells like cedar and leather, and this close, you can see the sexy salt-and-pepper at his temples and the smile lines at the corners of his eyes.

  Keeping one arm draped casually over your shoulder, he holds out his other hand to Stanley. “Thank you so much for keeping her company. Running a little late. Business stuff, you know how it goes.”

  Aware that you’re shamelessly taking advantage of the situation, you lean back a little against your rescuer’s arm. Chest Wig mumbles something and gets to his feet. As they shake hands, you notice that Stanley winces. The toothpick disappears, and you wonder if he’s swallowed it. His face puce, Chest Wig backpedals out of sight.

  “Hi, I’m Miles,” says your new acquaintance, lifting his arm from your shoulder.

  “And I’m grateful,” you say, your skin still tingling where he touched you.

  “I hope that wasn’t too presumptuous of me?”

  “I could have handled it, but thanks for the help,” you smile.

  “I have no doubt you could have dispatched him with a single look if you’d wanted to,” he says. “But I needed an excuse to come over and introduce myself.”

  This sounds promising, and you’re about to offer to buy him a drink when he goes on: “It was very nice to meet you, but I’d better get back to my colleague; we’re just finishing up a bit of business.”

  “Oh, right.” You don’t want him to leave, but you don’t know how to ask him to stay. “Thanks again.”

  “It’s my pleasure.” He gazes at you for another long second before turning to go back to his table. You watch him walk away. He’s wearing exquisitely cut trousers and a shirt with the faintest blue pinstripe, open at the collar. Stylish and clearly not cheap. He turns, catches you checking him out, and raises his hand in a wave. You smile back and then turn to your bubbly for a big sip, your mouth dry.

  “Another one?” asks the young bartender as you drain your glass. The bubbles are delicious, but you’re thirsty, so you ask for Perrier.

  “Prosecco, Perrier—you’re in a Mediterranean mood,” says the bartender, surprising you. That’s not normal bar chat, and you look at him more closely. Even in the dim, artificial lighting, his skin glows.

  “So what’s a nice guy like you doing in a place like this?” you say, feeling a little flirty—blame it on the bubbly.

  “Splitting a shift with my cousin; he’s the regular bartender here. The money helps—textbooks are expensive.”

  “Oh, you’re a student?”

  “Yes, and please don’t ask me what I’m studying . . .”

  “Well, I wasn’t going to, but now you’ve got me curious.”

  He looks a little sheepish. “Philosophy of religion. Especially Eastern religions.”

  “Really? I can’t imagine that opens up a whole bunch of career options.”

  He looks serious for a moment. “You’d be surprised. I’d like to work in international peacekeeping at some point, maybe end up at the UN. Travel the world, you know.”

  Interestinger and interestinger. The face of an angel, the body of a sinner, and a brain as well? Plus he really does want world peace.

  You give him a slow, promising smile. It may be cradle robbing, but you’re tempted to pursue this a bit more. But first you’d better head to the ladies’ room. If you’re going to flirt with a seriously cute twenty-something, you should probably check your makeup.

  The ladies’ room is an oasis of calm and soft lighting. There’s only one other woman in here with you, and she’s busy at the mirror, applying makeup.

  She is easily one of the most dramatic-looking women you’ve ever seen. Her glossy hair is piled up in loose ringlets on her head and pinned with a coral comb. Her brows almost meet in the middle, and she has a beauty spot low down on one cheek. Her long skirt is draped on her hips, the jewel-colored fabric catching the light. Vintage for sure, maybe even Valentino. She looks up from what she’s doing and appraises y
ou in the mirror, then smiles, as if she likes what she sees. You can’t help but notice her breasts in her clinging lace top: either she’s impervious to gravity or she is wearing the most expensively engineered bra known to womankind.

  In the beam of her calm gaze, you feel a bit drab in your little black number, like a pigeon who has strayed into the peacock enclosure.

  “I’m sorry, I’m hogging the mirror,” she says. Her voice has a little growl in it, or is that a hint of an accent?

  “No, no, it’s fine. I’m just going to use the facilities,” you say, feeling awkward next to her elegance and self-possession. She smiles at you again, and you escape into a stall, your heart racing. You can’t get that beauty spot out of your mind.

  When you’re done, you wash your hands and join her at the mirror to fix your makeup. Your eyeliner has smudged, and you could do with some lipstick.

  “I love your hair,” she says as you fish a comb out of your bag.

  “Thank you,” you say, bringing a hand up to your head self-consciously. “Funnily enough, I’d kill to have hair like yours.”

  “Isn’t that always the way?” she says. “We all want what we can’t have.” She holds your eyes for a moment too long, and you’re shocked to find yourself momentarily imagining running your tongue over that beauty spot. Where did that come from?

  “Wait, you’ve got a little . . . Here, let me,” she says, and, turning to you, she holds your chin with a firm hand and uses a tissue to wipe away the smudged liner under your eyes. Her face is so close to yours you can barely breathe, but you’re hyperaware of her scent, an exotic blend of spices.

  Then she reaches into her makeup bag for an eyeliner pencil and one of those eye-shadow palettes. She holds them up in front of you. “You don’t mind, do you? Close your eyes for me.”

  Unsure exactly what she’s asking, you do as she says. You shiver a little as she strokes the eyeliner along the edge of your lids, then uses the pad of her finger to work it in a little. Then she repeats the process, this time with the slate-colored eye shadow and contrasting highlighter, delicately blending the fine powder onto your eyelids and up onto the brow bone. Her touch on your skin is incredibly soft, and you’re beginning to feel a little light-headed.