CHAPTER ONE
MIRIAM
“World-devastating war. Cataclysmic earthquakes. Evil wizards and their minions bent on total annihilation. Mankind has survived them all. Yet love ... fucking love will be the end of us all.”
—Sarafina Rose, Ravaged Lands
There are times when I wish my job was as a psycho clown with a particularly virulent hatred for vigilantes dressed like bats so I could throat punch them. Guilt-free.
I mean, being one-third owner of Breaking Up, Reversing Nuptials & Evading Disasters—or BURNED Inc., a full-service breakup company—isn’t always shits and giggles. There is the enormous amount of paperwork; the occasional asshole clients my sister, Zora, won’t allow me to drag ’cause of their assholery; the sometimes stifling constraints of the marketing and promotional projects. The “Who’s handling Miriam?” side-eye traded by my older brother and sister.
Yeah. Not always shits and giggles.
But today is not that day.
Or rather night.
I pick up a chilled bottle of champagne out of the black-and-gold ice bucket on the low smoked-glass table in front of me. The light from the overhead fixtures hits the liquid, and for a moment, I’m captivated by the pale shade. It’s so fragile. So innocent, almost. And yet strong, capable of felling a person if not prudently handled. I love this color. No, no. I respect this color.
And maybe I just need to pour the champagne.
Carefully, I pour the bubbly into two waiting flutes, not stopping until the gold alcohol almost meets the rims. With a satisfied grin, I replace the bottle in the bucket and hand one of the glasses over to the gorgeous brunette perched next to me on the black leather sofa.
“Cheers.” I clink my glass to hers and sip the wine, humming as the light, delicious liquid flows over my tongue. “Ooh. This is good.”
I’m glad I demanded my client not skimp on the amenities. Top bottle service. The most expensive and private VIP booth with the best view of the popular Denver nightclub dance floor teeming with gyrating bodies. The soundproof glass prevents most of the sonorous bass and music spun by one of the country’s top DJs from infiltrating the luxuriously appointed space. More leather furniture, opaque switchable privacy windows ... oh yes, my client went all out.
As he should since he’s dumping this poor girl like last night’s Chinese-food takeout.
Which is probably how long he dated her too.
Fucking athletes.
But hey. Clients are clients.
Still, millionaires or not, when I’m breaking up with their “girlfriends,” it’s going to be done with dignity and respect for these women who have the misfortune to fall for the bullshit lines these players dish out like free pancake breakfasts. And while I love free shit as much as the next person, what I’ve learned is it will probably give you worms. Or worse.
Ronnie—doubt that’s her government name—eyes me over the rim of her glass. “Thanks for this.” She tips her head to the side, and her sheet of thick, shiny dark hair flows over a shoulder. That’s a trick I’ve never been able to master. Even if I straightened my natural shoulder-length curls, I’d still never achieve that move. And not only because of the hair. It requires a coyness that I’m incapable of. “And not to sound ungrateful, because I’m very appreciative. But will Linc be arriving soon?”
Lincoln “Linc” Young. Star point guard for the Nuggets, another of Jordan Ransom’s teammates. And my client.
As one of the three owners of BURNED, I’m not usually responsible for the actual breaking up with people; we have staff for this who carry out any number of packages that range from ending relationships through text to a fancy dinner to even skywriting. Okay, fine, not skywriting. Zora and Levi vetoed my idea, but we have broken up with someone by singing telegram. Singing. Telegram, folks. I kid you not. But I digress ...
This—sitting in the superelite and private VIP section of the hottest nightclub in the city on a Friday evening—isn’t my usual gig. But when your clientele encompasses celebrity athletes who, thanks to your best friend, have not only discovered your company as a way of avoiding messy “scenes” but have adopted you as their unofficial little sister, then you give the customer what they want. And my customers happen to want my personal touch. Which means I’m stuck breaking up with their girlfriends. Or hookups. Or hookups who stay too long and believe they’re girlfriends.
Fucking athletes.
“Listen, Ronnie.” I cross one black-leather-clad leg over the other, prop my arm on it, and lean forward. Even though the soundproofing in here is excellent and she can hear me perfectly. “You’re gorgeous, got a body that could make a priest rethink the whole celibacy thing, have confidence that rocks your sexy factor from a ten to a fifteen, and justfrom the time we’ve spent together, you’re not only beautiful but smart and witty too.” I snort, catching the slight stiffening of her shoulders and the small shifting of her body away from mine. “Calm down, sis. I’m not hitting on you. Although, you should be so lucky. I’m a great fucking catch.”
I really am.
But only for a night or two. Then I’d throw my own self back overboard.
“Oh.” She lets out a breathy and relieved laugh. I’m trying hard not to be offended. “I didn’t think you were. I just didn’t know where you were going for a moment there.”
“It shouldn’t be an odd thing for us to compliment each other. Especially women. We should normalize straightening each other’s crown, not suspecting an ulterior motive but instead knowing I’m not going to let anyone try to knock it off. Anyone.” Ronnie starts to frown, and I softly inhale and let it out. “Lincoln’s not coming, Ronnie,” I say. And not softly, not gently. Not in any manner she can mistake for pity. Because the last thing this woman wants—or needs—is pity. “This is his way of letting you go and asking you to move on from him. He wanted to treat you one last time.”
I wave a hand, indicating the well-appointed room, the top-service alcohol, and the club beyond. From what Linc told me during our consultation, he’d met Ronnie at this club ... he thought. Maybe. At least he believed it was Ronnie he’d met here.
