Read Online By Design by Jayne Denker - Free Book Online

failed, and gave up. She was doing some serious drinking, and for that, she didn’t need to look good; she just needed her lifting arm to work.
    She pulled the door open and walked out of the bathroom, coming up behind a couple who had just entered the bar. The man had his hand on the small of the woman’s back to steer her in. Emmie made a face; she always hated it when Kyle did that to her—as if she was so stupid that she’d wander off in a random direction unless he guided her. As they moved farther inside, the man flung his arm around the girl’s neck.
    Emmie’s alcohol-influenced synapses were firing slowly, so it took her several seconds of following the couple, and an exchange of glances with an astonished-looking Trish, who had a better view from her barstool across the room, before the penny dropped.
    “KYLE!”
    The man ahead of her spun around, startled. Kyle acted like nothing was out of the ordinary—he could have been holding a motorcycle helmet under his arm for all the guilt he displayed. He smoothly took his arm from around the woman (that poofy-haired tart, Caitlynn, again ) and eased her away from him with practiced skill as he put on a welcoming smile. “Hey, baby! What are you doing here? I thought you were at that housewife party.”
    Out of the corner of her eye, Emmie saw Caitlynn snicker as she retreated to the bar. Ever loyal, Trish gave the girl her best vicious mommy-glare, and Emmie felt bolstered by the support. She wasn’t sure what to say to Kyle. He was caught red-handed, but acted like nothing at all was wrong. He didn’t even look nervous. And that was the worst part.
    Finally Emmie spat out, “You bastard.”
    “What?”
    Ah. That goofy look on his face meant Kyle was nervous. That habit of his was infuriating. Whenever Emmie wanted to argue, but Kyle treated it like a joke (even though he almost didn’t realize he was laughing), it only made her want to throw things.
    Then, without another thought, that was exactly what she was doing.
    She reached out to her right and made contact with a pyramid of shot glasses stacked up on the bar—one of Carl’s misguided attempts at classing up the joint—and suddenly the air was full of a hailstorm of flying glass. Emmie, who might or might not have been shouting epithets at her boyfriend—or, rather, ex- BF as of about twenty seconds ago—as the missiles started flying, didn’t really know exactly what she was doing. But whatever it was, it sure felt good, especially when Kyle put his arms over his face and, survival instinct kicking in, turned sideways to let his thick tan Carhartt jacket absorb the worst of the impact.
    “Geez, Emmaline!” Kyle shrieked several times, but Emmie didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop.
    One shot glass for all the times he’d used her as a booty call. One shot glass for how he repeatedly belched in the middle of a meal and thought it was funny. One for all the times he steered her through doors with a hand to the small of her back. One for all the times he had throttled her with a possessive arm around her neck. One for his damned fake-cowboy persona. One for all his beer. One for the bleached-blond ho at the bar. One—no, two—for all the lousy sex. One for each month of her life she’d wasted with him. Those ten took a while to fling at him, one by precious one.
    The observer part of Emmie’s brain wondered why she wasn’t stopping, or why nobody was stopping her. After a few moments enjoying the entertainment, however, Carl and Trish saw fit to show Kyle some mercy. Or Carl finally calculated the cost of replacing the shot glasses, most of which lay shattered on the floor, although a few rolled in lazy arcs, safe and whole, at Kyle’s feet. Whichever, Carl rounded the bar at a trot, preceded by his large belly, elbows akimbo, and Trish launched herself off her barstool to stop the barrage.
    “All right, Emmie, take it easy,” Carl commanded, holding out a beefy hand in front of her, but