Sour Cherry
Chapter One
Some people are cursed with the ability to remember every object and scent in their surroundings for the rest of their lives. Sherlock Holmes, Sean Spencer from Psych, and even Sheldon Cooper from The Big Bang Theory share this predicament. They possess something called Eidetic Memory.
I, however, do not.
Which would explain why I couldn’t remember how I’d ended up with a broken nose on Las Vegas Boulevard at eight in the morning.
Oh, wait. Yes, I could.
The bitch standing in front of me had just hit me in the face. With a skateboard.
My name is Cherish Williams, Cherry for embarrassment's sake, and right now, I looked at a whole lot of woman. Blonde, to be exact, with tattoos, and a set of Double Ds. Complete opposite of my five-foot-six gangly frame. Along with the fact that I’ve never been the kind of person to hit someone in the face with a skateboard as they walked down the Las Vegas Strip. I tried to inhale the hot, dry air through my now-broken nose, but the sounds of passing cars reverberated too loudly in my head to concentrate on one simple task. Breathe in. Breathe out.
All I could see was Blondie. The amount of pain coursing through my head wouldn’t be anything compared to how much it would hurt for me to deflate that chest of hers, but if anger management had taught me anything, it was to evaluate first then react. I coddled my nose, wincing when waves of pain filled my skull. “What the hell is wrong with you? Do you just randomly hit people in the face with skateboards?”
Blood dripped into my mouth, the salty liquid working its way down my throat. I tried to spit it out, but the damage had already been done. I could practically taste the wood in the blood. Like a good wine, flavors tended to reveal themselves the longer you savored.
“You really think you can hide from me?” Blondie asked.
I pushed myself from the ground, wiping some of the blood away with the back of my hand. The sight of that much blood didn’t bother me so much as getting a pretty decent view up Blondie’s skirt. Yikes.
“I don’t even know who you are, you stupid bimbo, but you should seriously consider wearing some underwear.” I ran my tongue over my teeth. Everything intact. Thank God.
Blondie’s face contorted, her lips drawing back into a snarl.
I would die on Las Vegas Boulevard at the hands of an oversized Barbie, but if she happened to leave me for dead, my own club would finish the job. I was supposed to be back at the shop over an hour ago, and if I’d learned anything in the past two years, they wouldn’t grant leniency just because I was a woman. With hands raised in front of me, I backed away from Big and Blonde unsteadily. Not only was she twice my size, but Blondie obviously didn’t have reservations about hurting random people. I didn’t think this was someone I wanted to tussle with. “Listen, I don’t know what the hell your problem is—”
She burst into tears. “I can’t believe you! Why’d you have to sleep with him?”
I couldn’t explain it and I’m sure the expression on my face mirrored my confusion. What the hell just happened? “Uh...”
I searched for a camera, Bob Saget or something to make sense of the bawling woman in front of me. Candid Camera had to be hiding around the corner. “Are you all right?”
Wait. Shouldn’t someone be asking me that? I was the one with the possibly broken nose, after all.
Blondie dropped the skateboard and I watched it roll down the sidewalk as a distraction. “I’m sorry!” She stumbled toward me, hands outstretched. Her arms wrapped around me as she buried her face in my shoulder. I could feel that chest of hers squishing against my B-cups. At least she wore a bra. “My therapist says I need to work out my frustrations in a safe place and I—” Something slimy dripped down my shoulder. “I can’t believe him!”
“Oh.” I had to get out of here.
Blondie pulled away, snot and tears clinging to my T-shirt and leather cut. Her baby blues darted to my chest. I covered my goods unconsciously, worried she might have the same idea about popping some balloons. “You’re with the Outriggers Motorcycle Club?” More sniffles.
“Uh huh.” Behind Blondie, a man nearing thirty crossed the street toward the black Harley Fat Boy parked about fifty feet away. My thighs tightened as flashes of last night flickered across my mind. Cooper, bartender extraordinaire, and the reason I would be late for my own crucifixion, didn’t seem to have the same afterglow I did this morning. “Glad we’re caught up. I gotta get going.”
Long, red-tipped, slender fingers gripped my arms as I watched my one night stand drive off. “You can help me.”