Page 35 of Trigger Happy Ending

“No story.”

“Same, honey.” She laughs, unconvinced. “So, where are you from?”

“Boston,” I say quickly. “You?”

“Louisiana.” Cherry takes a sip of her drink. “But I’ve been in New York for a while.”

“So, what’s your story?”

Cherry shrugs, the light in her eyes dimming. “How long do you have?”

“Long enough.”

Her smile falters. She stirs her drink with the straw. “I’m such a cliché. I’ve got daddy issues and a psycho ex.”

Her tone is offhand, but I hear the truth under it. Pain. My bet? She’s a runaway.

“What happened?”

“God,” she drawls. “What didn’t happen? I’m from a small town. Dead mom. Deadbeat dad. Moved to the big smoke, chasing Broadway dreams. I fell for the wrong guy who hurt me in all the worst ways. So I hurt him back. Then I ran. Now I serve drinks, dance, and flash my tits to strangers while I save up to start over somewhere far from here. New name, new me, new life.”

Her dream is simple, and more than that … It’s attainable. For her, anyway. Escaping to a nowhere town with a clean slate. Envy hits me in the chest as it always does when I hear people describe what life can be like. The difference between us, though, is Cherry’s making hers a reality; mine is just a fantasy.

“You don’t say much, do you?”

“Not big on small talk.”

“Small talk!” Cherry hollers. “I’m dumping my tragic life story on y’all!”

I give Cherry a lop-sided smile. “Sorry.”

She waves it off. “Means I’ll just have to talk enough for both of us.”

Her eyes drift down my face. “What’s your real name?”

I give her a quizzical look over the rim of my vodka soda. “Angel.”

The red-haired beauty looks at me like I’ve been caught with my hand in the cookie jar. “Angel,” she deadpans. “Your real name is Angel.”

“Yeah.”

“Bullshit.”

Bullshit?

No one has called me on my lies before. My instinct is to push back, to defend, convince her that Angel is indeed my real name. Instead, I keep my mouth sewn shut and stare at her. She holds my stare, which is no small feat. The look on Cherry’s face tells me she’s debating whether to go there with me. She wants to challenge me, somehow she knows I’m lying to her face. This tells me something I’ve always known. Women are so much smarter than men.

“What’s yours?” I ask.

“Chevonne,” she says quickly, taking a sip of her drink. “But I’ve gone by Cherry since I was a teenager.”

“You suit Cherry better.”

“I know.” She smiles before nodding at my scarred wrists. “How’d you get those?”

Shit. My throat locks, and my stomach tightens. I really need to wear bracelets from now on. I can’t have strangers question me on my scars, even if they are visible.

“It’s okay,” she says softly. “You don’t have to tell me.”