Page 1 of Mixed Motives

CHAPTER 1

HENRY

They say revenge is a dish best served cold, but I’m going to do it in silver sequined hot pants and a black leather harness.

I angrily raise my fist and prepare to pound on the heavy, dark wood door to a nicely kept-up Spanish-style home. It’s a cool January day, and potted rosemary plants scent the air from either side of the stoop.

There are a few things wrong with this picture.

First, it may be obvious, but this white stucco home with a red tile roof is most definitely not a nightclub. Also, I’m not generally the kind to wear booty shorts; they’re left over from a trip to SF when I turned twenty-one. Happier times. And most of the time, I’m quite a peaceful person.

Not today, though. I have plans. I seek vengeance. My wrath will be known.

So, a few moments ago, I marched right up to this cute home at two in the afternoon on a Wednesday like I’m an invading marauder. A marauder who makes unusual fashion choices.

Focus, Henry. Remember why you’re here.

I’m here because I’m pissed. Kerrigan Fitzpatrick needs to pay. I glare at the door.

Part of me wants to kick it down. The rest of me is having second thoughts. I pause, holding my breath and counting as I hover my fist even closer. On the count of three.

One … two … three.

I exhale so hard my shoulders sink.

Dammit. Retribution really isn’t my style.

Neither is this getup. The shorts are wedged up my ass, and my cell phone is shoved inside the waistband, making a weird lump on my hip next to the packets of condoms and lube that are sticking to my skin. Good thing these pants are tight, or I’d be dribbling prophylactics out a leg hole.

Now that I’m taking a moment to think, I’m pretty sure my plan is the worst idea I’ve ever had—although when I came up with it, it seemed like the best.

Reasons why it’s the worst idea mainly revolve around the mortification I’m going to suffer if—as seems likely—this all goes to hell. It’ll make my previous most embarrassing moment seem like nothing.

(Which, incidentally, was that time I thought the sexy Southwinds Coffee barista was passing me a steaming pile of trash instead of a warm banana nut muffin wrapped in kraft paper, after I’d washed my hands and everything … so I snatched it from him and swished it like a basketball into a garbage can, then shouted, “Three points!” He handed me another muffin without comment. I go to a different coffee shop now.)

Reasons why it’s the best idea: because that motherfucking jackass deserves everything that’s coming to him.

And since—as I kept reminding myself on the five-minute drive here—the possibility of payback is beating potential chagrin by a country mile right now, I’m going to go through with this.

Kerrigan Fitzpatrick needs to know how it feels. I can’t do what he did; I’m not that awful of a person. And even if I were, we broke up, so I can’t cheat on him. But I can do this.

Any minute now, I’ll do it.

Just give me a sec.

Anger reignites like a wildfire hot spot as the image of him balls-deep in Ian Davis flashes through my brain. Throwing two years of my life down the crapper.

Then I shiver, because even though my emotions are running hot, it’s still kind of cold on the central coast of California in January. My nipples are definitely complaining.

My conscience is raising an objection as well. What I’m intending to do is, I would argue, a very reasonable plan of seduction, but I can’t deny it’s on the side of evil.

… and I’m now learning I’m not very good at being bad.

Dammit.

Fuck. I suck at this. While I want to hold on to my fury, other emotions like doubt and dread are elbowing their way into my mind, settling in next to my constant companion—anxiety—and making me second-guess myself and whether this plan will work.

It won’t.

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