Page 1 of All Her Broken Pieces

CHAPTER1

Bridget

Numbers are easy to interpret.

Numbers don’t hide behind fancy words and pretty lies.

Numbers won’t break my heart.

I treat men like a number. You, sir, are good for one night only. Good for two fingers of whiskey and a double orgasm. Ten inches is way too fucking many if I want to walk away with my cervix intact. I’ll settle for a sixty-nine if he knows how to use his tongue.

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy the company of men—I just don’t get emotions involved. I didn’t get this far in life by letting feelings make my decisions. The right man can provide me with the release I need when my own hands and toys aren’t enough, which is quite often lately. I might be open to the idea of a full-time fuck buddy, depending on his skills, but really, I just need something to get me through the next few weeks. Work is kicking my ass, causing my cortisol levels to fuck with my mood and sleep. As the CFO of a major supplement company, I’m responsible for making sure our finances are in order as we work to acquire a smaller brand.

Tonight, however, I’m only looking for a good time, someone who will help me temporarily forget the weight on my shoulders. The pulsating bass reverberates through the club, each beat syncing with the erratic rhythm of colorful strobe lights. I sip my bourbon, the smoky flavor overwhelming my senses as Becka and I navigate through a throng of writhing young bodies on the dance floor. The air is thick with perfume, sweat, and anticipation, a heady mix that assaults my senses.

“Bridget, look at all these hot, young men!” Becka shouts over the music. “I think I have T-shirts older than most of the people in here.”

“Damn, you need to get a new wardrobe if that’s the case,” I joke with a wink. Becka laughs, her eyes scanning the crowd as if searching for potential candidates for me. I know she’s not looking for herself; I’m pretty sure her college sweetheart-turned-husband Robert would have a problem with that.

“Seriously, when did you become a cougar?”

“I’m just looking for a good time. I need to not think for a night, preferably while underneath a man who knows his way around the female anatomy,” I admit, my words almost drowned out by the pounding beats.

“I’d bet a hundred bucks that most of this club has no clue what a cassette tape is, let alone how to use it, so good luck assuming they would know where the clit is. Why did I let you talk me into coming here? These aren’t men, these are boys. Can we go somewhere else where I don’t feel like the adultiest adult in the room?” Becka complains, her voice shouting above the music.

I’m so done with men my age. They’re all either married, wanting to get married and start a family, divorced for good reason, or the weird leftovers you leave in your fridge for weeks and don’t want to touch. “The younger they are, the longer the stamina.”

“You’re really committed to this whole ‘no strings attached’ thing, huh?”

I shoot her a defiant look as a man slides between us, grabbing my hips while pulling me into him to dance. “It’s just a bit of fun. No complications, no heartbreak.”

“What? I can barely hear you!” Becka cups her ear as the music swells in a crescendo.

“I need to get fucked!” I yell, and, of course, that’s precisely when the DJ decides to change songs, allowing everyone around us to hear my candid admission, including the man grinding his pelvis on me. Becka shoots me a raised eyebrow, a mixture of concern and amusement in her eyes.

“I think I can help with that,” the man croons into my ear as his fingers dig into my hips.

“Move along, Romeo!” Becka shoos my dance partner away and pulls me by the hand toward a booth in the back, away from the subwoofers and grinding bodies. She squeezes my hand, her concern evident. “Bridget, you deserve more than a temporary escape. I thought this was just a phase. You’ve never been in a serious relationship as long as I’ve known you, but I’m starting to think that you’re deflecting a bigger issue.”

“I’m fine,” I say firmly, though the words feel hollow even to me. At this point, I’m not sure what it’ll take to fix what’s broken inside me.

Becka arches her eyebrow. “You’re not, but I’ll support you, even if it means navigating through a sea of boys who think Meat Loaf is just a dish their moms make them.” She motions for me to lead the way back to the dance floor.

As we make our way through the pulsating crowd, my eyes stay fixed on the ground, watching my steps. I’ve had some near-misses in these heels before, and falling on my ass isn’t an effective way to pick up a one-night stand.

“There’s nowhere to fucking sit, bro. Wait, I think that booth is open.” Those are the last words I hear before a hard body slams into me, knocking me sideways.

“Shit, Bridget!” Becka yelps as a strong arm encircles my waist, catching me almost horizontally before righting me again.

“Careful there, Grace, we don’t need you breaking anything.” A pair of emerald eyes lock on mine as his lips pull into a crooked smile. His hand lingers on my waist, and my skin tingles on the spot before he lets me go, shoving his hands in his jeans pockets.

“My name isn’t Grace,” I snap back, my words sharper than intended. I pull at my dress, smoothing down the fabric.

“What, Grace isn’t short for Graceful?”

I stare at him blankly.

“Sorry. It was my lame attempt at a joke.” He runs his hand through his chestnut locks, pushing them back. A hint of something—embarrassment?—flushes his tan cheeks before the crooked smile returns, along with a single dimple.

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