Page 1 of Unhitched

Chapter one

Kace

“This is why you didn’t want to see me tonight?

” I scream, waving a hand like a madman as my feet carry me toward the unsuspecting blonde and her date.

Clenching my fingers into fists at my sides, I halt in front of their table, staring her down and waiting for an explanation she won’t be able to give me.

Gritting my teeth, I inhale through my nose. I don't know my next step–I didn't think that far ahead. It was supposed to be simple: pick a random couple and ruin their date to prove to myself that it’s not me –that all relationships are fragile when they encounter an obstacle.

It’s the reason I’m standing in a fancy-ass restaurant on this godforsaken Valentine’s Day–to convince myself that I’m not a complete moron for being blind to the flames that engulfed my relationship.

There’s no rhyme or reason for why I chose her .

It’s just another random part of my plan.

The plan. What a joke. My life apparently no longer consists of plans, commitments or security .

My favorite quality ripped from me without my consent.

It’s fucked up, is what it is. The new “qualities” that have taken over my subconscious? Cynicism and skepticism. Even worse.

The couple is halfway through a pasta course with nearly empty glasses of wine on the white tablecloth–they probably need alcohol to enjoy each other’s company.

The woman just stares back, her mouth open in shock, undoubtedly seeing the rage lasers shooting from my eyes.

It’s not like my acting needs to be faked–it doesn’t.

Just like it doesn’t matter that one woman in particular fucked me up.

I’m doing everyone a fucking favor by making them see love inevitably leads to broken trust and lies.

Her wide eyes dart to who I assume is her boyfriend sitting across from her.

Although, I doubt they’ll last. I plan to stick around just long enough to leave a relationship crumbling in my wake, hopeful that the world will gain a couple more miserable humans like myself tonight.

Misery loves company, right? I’ve tried everything else to hurt less and nothing has worked, so I’m attempting to fight fire with fire.

Or maybe I’m a masochist. I’m not sure, but I’ll stoke the fire either way. “What the fuck, babe?” I fold my arms at my chest. “Are you going to just stare, or is there a lie on the tip of your tongue? Spit it out.”

Her gaze shifts back to me. The heat of other people’s stares bore into me from all sides, sending tingles of discomfort across my skin.

Casual conversation at nearby tables turns into whispers.

I’m vaguely aware of the man sitting across from this woman asking her who I am, but the rest of the dimly lit restaurant only seems to darken more as she studies my face.

What the hell is she looking at with those stupid green eyes that hardly hold an ounce of anger?

I swivel to face the guy. His knuckles are white as he grips his fork.

His brows are pinched as he glares at his girlfriend.

His shoulders… are slumped? Fuck. He looks defeated.

He probably thinks she’s actually cheating on him.

No shit. That’s the picture I painted–a painting that’s ugly no matter how you frame it.

This was a terrible plan, and I don’t feel better in the slightest. My skewed reasoning clouded my mind, but the devastation on this dude’s face makes it clear as fucking day that I’m too old to be acting like this.

I scoff, angry with the situation for making me act out of character.

Or maybe angry with myself for letting it affect me this way.

I get stressed or upset as much as the next guy, but I can usually goosfraba myself off the ledge.

Apparently that was a power I only possessed before everything went to shit.

“Excuse me, sir.” My head whips toward a man in a suit with hard eyes, clearly the manager. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave, or I’ll call the cops.”

“Chill the fuck out,” I snap, rage overwriting the script my logic had planned as I tug my fingers through my hair. “I’m leaving.” Dropping the act, I spin on my heel and storm toward the door without any clue of who I’m angry with anymore.

Behind me, I hear the woman pleading. “Please put your phone away. I know him. Don’t call the cops.

” What the fuck? I sure as shit do not know her, so why the hell is she coming to my defense?

I need to get out of here. With a shake of my head, I don’t waste another second, passing the hostess stand and pushing the cold metal bar that leads me to an even colder outside.

Shoving my hands into the pockets of my bomber jacket, I stumble onto the sidewalk because my feet can’t fucking keep up with my racing thoughts.

Sucking in a breath, I pause just outside the door to adjust to the bite of the cool night air.

Moving to Washington state was one of the best decisions I made in my life, but I refuse to admit that at this moment.

Scanning the downtown street, puddle water sprays over the cement in front of me as a car whirs past, far over the speed limit.

Idiots. A group of couples wait at the crosswalk a dozen steps ahead of me, arms linked and leaning into each other.

I roll my eyes, wishing even more that I had stayed home with my semi-comfortable couch and a bowl of cereal .

As I step toward the crosswalk, the suction of the door opening behind me causes me to turn around.

Before I have time to process, the woman whose date I just crashed launches herself at me, throwing her arms around my neck and nearly knocking me over with the force.

I steady myself by gripping her waist, my fingers sinking into the texture of her sweater. What the–

She squeezes her arms tight around me like we’re long-lost lovers or some shit, nuzzling her face into my chest. She smells edible–like fucking marshmallows or something. Why is she so close that I can smell her? I brace my hands on her hips, pressing hard enough to encourage her to let go.

Thankfully, she takes the hint, releasing me and allowing oxygen back into my lungs.

“Thank you so much,” she whispers, the willpower of her tears holding strong and refusing to fall down her face.

Her beautiful face. Damn, this girl is gorgeous.

The lighting from under the restaurant awning makes her skin glow, the few freckles sprinkled across her nose barely noticeable.

Her long blonde hair is in waves past her shoulders.

And her green eyes. Fuck. They're so bright that they starkly contrast the tan sweater falling off her shoulder. My gaze dips to where it’s tucked into a tight black skirt showing off her lean legs–at least what's visible above her knee-high black boots. How is she not freezing?

I shake my head, clearing away the appraisal of the stranger in front of me and shove my hands back into my pockets. Wait. Thank you? “Excuse me?”

She twists her fingers into the sweater at her waist, breaking her stare to focus on her nervous fidgeting. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“I just ruined your night.” I deadpan, unsure why I’m even entertaining her. I’d rather step on Legos than deal with this shit, but there’s a gleam in her eyes that keeps me from walking away.

“No.” She shakes her head. “You saved it.” Confusion must outweigh the I don’t give a fuck in my features because she continues.

“ I’ve wanted to break up with him for a few weeks now.

It’s just…” Her pause allows me the satisfaction of exploring her eyes again.

“It’s hard, you know? We’ve only been together for three months, and I feel like I should give it more of a chance to feel right.

But it’s like… Do you sacrifice the time you’ve put in so you can start over?

Or settle and not throw away a chunk of your life again ? ”

My eyes widen, fidgeting with my apartment key inside my pocket. Why is this girl confessing her life to me? Can’t she see I don’t want to be here? She should take this somewhere else. Like a diary. “Am I being Punk’d?”

The corners of her mouth quirk up in a smile.

“I wish Ashton Kutcher were here, but I highly doubt he is.” “Great.” I run a hand through my hair.

“Well, I’m glad I could help you figure shit out.

” At least one of us feels better about this encounter.

Turning away from her, I take a few steps toward the only thing I want in my immediate future–Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

“Wait,” she calls after me, and I pivot back toward her like an idiot.

“What?” I mean to snap, but my voice betrays me, coming out calm and patient. Sad maybe. Of course I’m sad. This girl thinks three months is a long time to throw away? Try eight years . Almost a fourth of my life out the window like a fly being swatted away, never to be seen again.

Emotions finally catch up to her, a tear carving a path down each of her cheeks, illuminating her freckles even more.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened in there–considering I’ve never seen you before–but I needed you to show up more than you could ever understand.

I hope that brings a little peace to whatever your heart is feeling right now.

” Her voice soothes me like a pretty girl curled into your side on a cold night, and fuck if my stupid manipulated brain isn’t malfunctioning at her soft and genuine words.

“My heart doesn’t feel a damn thing,” I manage to respond with what I wish were the truth. I’m convinced it’s bad luck that’ s been building up because I never forwarded those chain emails a decade ago.

“Okay.” She sighs and swipes away the tears. “Well, have a good night.” I give a curt nod, determined to finally get back to my couch when she continues. “I’m Mya, by the way.”

Of course she would have a beautiful name. “Kace,” I tell her, even though it doesn’t matter. “See ya.” I walk away, questioning my choice of words because I’m positive I will never see this woman again.

The crosswalk sign lights up as I reach it. Thank fuck. I was strongly considering jaywalking, which goes against every fiber of my being, considering I’ve worked in some form of security since I was twenty. People are unpredictable and insane. Mya just proved that. I just proved that.

Crossing the street, I turn right, only walking about a hundred feet before I’m standing in front of my apartment building.

I let myself in, swiping my key card at the elevator and taking it to the seventh floor.

It’s surprisingly dead in here for a Thursday evening.

Usually there’s an excess of people coming home late from work or heading to the gym before turning in for the night.

Everyone is too busy celebrating the pointless Hallmark holiday.

I stare at the back of the stainless steel doors. The metal reflection doesn’t reveal the intricacies of how shitty I look and feel right now. Glancing at the mirror to my right, I get confirmation.

My hair looks deceivingly good, considering I’ve been running my fingers through it all night.

By some miracle, it appears like I purposely styled it to have that messy look I’ve heard women find attractive.

My facial hair could probably be trimmed a little cleaner, but I’ve managed to shower every day this week, and that’s all that should be expected of me currently.

A plain white T-shirt is crisp under my brown bomber jacket, paired with dark jeans and Chelsea boots. It’s what I would have worn if I were on a date tonight, but I haven’t been on one of those in a long fucking time.

I tear my eyes from myself as the elevator rises another floor.

I usually appreciate this mirror because it’s an added level of security, to be able to see any passengers.

But right now, it’s a reminder that despite my clothes, it’s evident that I haven’t slept well in weeks, and my brain is far from functioning at optimal levels.

It’s probably not a good thing, considering my job requires me to be on top of my game.

The elevator opens, revealing an empty hallway and my front door directly across from me.

Slipping the keys from my pocket, I unlock the door and head straight to my kitchen.

I can't help but scoff at the irony of my favorite beer from Brothers Cascadia Brewing waiting for me in the fridge. Or maybe it’s intentionally clever.

Even if you have a shit day, you can drink a Best Day Ever IPA and claim you had… well, a Best Day Ever.

Gripping the fridge handle, a chuckle escapes me at the thought, but it’s immediately wiped away when I spot the remains of tonight’s trigger on the marble counter. How did I forget that was there?

Ruby and I broke up two months ago, and while I’ve been doing terribly since she dumped me out of the blue, today I found a bag of tagless lingerie in the back of our closet.

My closet. I had never seen them before.

It’s not like I wasn’t aware our relationship was probably in need of a refresh, but how in the hell was I supposed to know it was bad enough that she was buying new underwear to wear for someone else?

I guess it could have been for me, but considering I hadn’t seen my girlfriend in anything sexy–hadn’t seen her in nothing –for a long ass time, I highly doubt it was for my eyes.

Despite the intention or reason, they landed in my lap nonetheless this morning. And from that moment until now, all I saw was a red deeper than the color of the fabric. And the emerald green of those eyes .

Fuck. I swipe the bag of infidelity off the counter and toss it in the trash under the sink.

Pulling a can of beer from the fridge, I crack the top and take a sip before reaching back for the milk.

I set both drinks on the counter as I grab a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch from the row of boxes lined up under the white cabinets and make myself the world's biggest bowl of cereal.

Happy fucking Valentine’s Day to me.