Does It Hurt?: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

Jamie Harris.

I stare at the ID for a brief second before sliding it over to the bartender. He glances at the card, back to me, and then at the card again.

“You’re American,” he notes.

“Unfortunately,” is my answer.

“You don’t look twenty-nine,” he comments, before returning the card. That’s insulting because I’m only a year younger than what the ID says.

I force a smile. “I’m terribly sorry for not passing your standards on what a woman of twenty-nine years should look like. Thank my skincare routine. Can I have my drink now?”

The bartender rolls his eyes before moving away to make said drink. The second he steps away, I deflate. My chest is tight with anxiety, but I don’t dare let that show.

That’s my face on the ID, but not my name.

Jamie Harris is a successful business owner in Los Angeles, California, has a stellar credit score, and a credit card limit of a whopping fifty-thousand dollars.

He’s also a man and doing quite well for himself.

Well, I suppose it’s me that’s doing well for myself now. 

However, I have no plans to spend all that money—not more than absolutely necessary. Before flying here, I took out enough cash to last me a while.

All of my victims are men, and most of them have unisex names, making it easier for me to impersonate them. I’ve also slept with almost every one of them. Some… I didn’t really want to, and my skin crawled with every touch. But it was necessary to take what I needed. 

I don’t have the skills to do it online, so the good old-fashioned way is my only method. And in order to get close enough to obtain their private information—they have to take me home.

I could get a job, but that would mean either stealing the identity of a dead person that no one knows is dead or using my real name, and both make me want to fucking vomit. If I’m being honest, stealing other people’s lives, to begin with, makes me want to die.

I’m a shit person, no doubt about that. But I’m not a sociopath, either. I don’t lack empathy, and I’m not guilt-free. 

Nevertheless, no one can know where I am. Who I am.

So no, I can’t sleep at night, nor do I look myself in the mirror. 

But I’m doing what I can—the only thing I know how to do to survive.

The bartender comes back with my vodka and Sprite and slides it over, shooting me a disgruntled look. 

“What’s your name?” I ask, sipping on my drink and instantly smiling. For someone who doesn’t seem to believe me, he made the drink awfully strong.

Which I’m glad for, considering this is the only drink I plan on buying. I can’t risk getting drunk. Not when I’m working tonight and need to have all my wits. 

Though I didn’t come here only to work, but to celebrate as well. The pregnancy test came back negative. After that scare, I immediately got an IUD. It cost me money that I didn’t want to spend, but it’s a hell of a lot cheaper than a child. No babies or periods for the foreseeable future, and that’s something to definitely fucking celebrate.

The nurse at the clinic confirmed that my period is most likely late due to stress and also pointed out a few other health concerns. Apparently, I’m underweight, and hardly being able to eat certainly doesn’t help.

While Jamie’s credit limit would allow me to buy a brand-new car if I wanted, I can’t bring myself to buy more than the bare minimum. Once I leave a place, I never use their card again in case they figure out who I am and get the police to track me down. Don’t know if that’s possible or not, but my paranoia won’t allow it otherwise.

“I have a busy bar to run,” is his answer. I glance both ways down said bar, spotting not a single soul. It’s one o’clock in the afternoon on a Thursday. This bar is shit, and apparently, the bartender’s attitude isn’t any better than the outdated décor. 

“You really don’t like me. Why?”

“You give me a feral dog vibe.”

My mouth parts, before a bout of shocked laughter bursts from my throat.

“A feral dog?” I repeat incredulously. It’s so true that I can’t even be offended. I rest my chin on my hand, a grin on my face. “Do tell.”

He rests both arms on the bar and leans down. “You’re destructive and uncontrollable.”

“You must be a psychologist,” I return dryly.

“I just know trouble when I see it.”

I tighten my lips and then shrug, taking another sip instead of giving him a verbal answer. Still not wrong.

He eyes me, waiting for a response. When I only take another sip, looking him straight in the eye as I do, he nods as if confirming something to himself.

“You’re scared. That makes you dangerous,” he finishes. My expression drops, and with that validation, he clicks his tongue, slowly sliding his arms from the bar and walking away.

To tend to the ghosts, I suppose, since there’s still nobody fucking here.

Or at least I thought so.

“Didn’t you know? A drink comes with free therapy these days.”

The deep, accented voice from behind me is startling, though it’s not the familiar Australian accent I’m used to hearing. I jump, twist in the barstool, and take one look, then immediately turn back around.

“Nope. I could get pregnant just looking at you. Go away.”

He grunts. “Isn’t that a rite of passage to manhood? Knock a girl up and leave?”

I snort. “That’s what they seem to think.”

The man takes a seat next to me, enveloping me in the smell of the ocean and a hint of sandalwood. He’s wearing board shorts and a black tank top—and what man wears a tank top and gets away with it? Maybe because he possesses the most delicious arms I’ve ever seen.

He’s exactly the type of guy that I stay away from. I prefer to go for the men who are dressed in suits and ties and wear mortgages on their wrists. The type that is so overworked and stressed they pass out after fifteen seconds of… well, whatever they consider sex.

This man next to me? I’d have to work hard to tire him out, and by the time I accomplish that, then I’d be too fucking tired to do anything else.

He’s dangerous.

I lean into him, nearly pressing my nose to his muscular bicep, and inhale deeply, rolling my eyes to the back of my head. 

“You smell good, too,” I groan. “Get away.”

I angrily snatch my drink, seriously mad about how tempting he is. I peek at him, enraptured as he shakes his head, clearly annoyed. Yet, he doesn’t move away.

“Don’t sniff me.”

I raise my brows. I’ve never been able to arch just one, and I always wished I could. It’d make my next response extra flavorful. “Then leave.”

The bartender said I was dangerous, but this man embodies danger. His hair is buzzed close to the scalp—short little spikes that would probably feel incredible against my hands—hazel eyes with a dark splotch on the right one, and deeply tanned skin. A light dusting of hair is scattered across his sharp jawline, accentuating the near-criminal look he’s got going on.

Body of a Greek god? Check.

Could ruin my life with just the tip? Check.

Has a permanent scowl and carries himself like he hates the world? Just fuck me already.

“Make me,” he retorts, tipping his chin at the bartender. The direct challenge in his tone causes shivers to run down my spine, even if it does sound condescending. Doesn’t stop me from needing to clench my thighs.

Clearing my throat, I say, “I’d rather not embarrass you in front of company.”

His gaze slowly slides to mine, a stoic expression on his stupidly handsome face. “Do I look like I have anything to be embarrassed about?”

Before I can reply, the bartender approaches, his demeanor much less feral, while the asshole next to me orders his drink. He doesn’t even get carded.

I scoff. Men. They all suck.

I lean toward the bartender. “’Scuse me. This man—” I pause and look to the side. “What’s your name?”

“Enzo,” he supplies readily, as if I’m not about to tattle on him. I scowl. He has a ridiculously sexy name.

“Enzo is bothering me,” I say, looking back to the bartender and nodding my head toward the culprit. “I’m scared for my life.”

I swiftly turn to Enzo and add in a quick, “My name’s Jamie, by the way, thanks for asking,” before facing the bartender again, giving him an expectant look.

All I get is an eye roll from him before he walks away. I slump, and my new companion chuckles deeply from beside me.

“He really doesn’t like you.”

“I know!” I say, throwing up my hands. “Never hurt a fly.”

I nearly choke on the blatant lie, and my mood plummets with the reminder that I only hurt people for a living. 

Seeming to notice the sudden change in my demeanor, he flicks his gaze at me. I’m not too fond of the way he’s observing me. I shift in my seat, my thighs sticking to the cheap leather.

“I’m going to move away now,” I warn him.

He stares at me, and I glare at my empty drink. I don’t move. Not even an inch. And he just lets me get swept away in the tornado in my brain. 

“How does another drink sound instead?”

“So, you’re telling me that you swim with sharks? As in the big scary monsters in the ocean that eat people?”

He shoots me a droll look, unimpressed with my assessment.

“They don’t eat people. You’re more likely to get in a car accident than get bit by a shark.”

“Really, that lame ol’ statistic? They say that with everything.” I deepen my voice mockingly and say, “You’re more likely to get in a car accident than a plane crash. Why don’t you make it more interesting and say you’re more likely to get killed by a falling coconut?”

He shakes his head, though there’s a glimmer in his eye while the corner of his mouth turns up ever so slightly, and in that moment, my soul leaves my body.

He has dimples. 

Fuck me. Not cool.

It’s also the first time I got him to smile. Or at least, that’s what I’m telling myself. I’d barely call it amusement any other time. 

Enzo may act annoyed with me, but he secretly enjoys my company. A man like him wouldn’t force himself to stay if he didn’t want to. In fact, I think he’d find enjoyment out of telling me to fuck off.

“It’s true,” he shrugs. “Sharks are very misunderstood, and the media portrays them as man-eating beasts, but that’s not the case at all. They’re curious animals that commonly mistake humans for seals. Sharks don’t enjoy the taste of us.”

“So, you’re saying that if I got in the water with a shark, it wouldn’t go Jaws on me?”

He hoods his eyes, and I know he doesn’t mean for it to appear seductive, but it’s the most heart-turning look I’ve ever had aimed my way. 

My thighs have long since started to ache from constantly keeping them clenched in the past two hours Enzo and I have been talking. But it also goes beyond physical. Something about him draws me in, has me hanging on his every word, and makes it impossible to look away.

Maybe it’s the alcohol. Or maybe it’s not.

He stares deeply into my eyes when I speak; I’ve never felt so heard. The best part—he doesn’t offer unsolicited advice or lackluster comfort. He just… listens, and attentively at that. Like the next thing out of my mouth just might be the cure for cancer. Too bad I am the fucking cancer.

We’re both slightly buzzed now, and while he’s not exactly the nicest, he’s easy to talk to. 

I like that he speaks as if he’s dying and doesn’t have time to be pleasant when he has no fucking interest in doing so. He doesn’t waste time on false narratives and assurances. He’s the type that will sit next to you because he wants to and stays in a conversation because he cares enough to know what you’re going to say next.

He’s intentional.

And somehow, it’s made for a very intriguing conversation. 

“It wouldn’t put a personal hit out on you. But at the end of the day, they’re wild animals and need to be respected. They can be temperamental and territorial and will attack if you agitate them or if they mistake you for food.” He shrugs. “But more often than not, they’ll just keep on swimming.”

I rest my chin on my hand, enraptured by how he talks. He’s passionate about his job. His hazel eyes are sparkling with excitement, he talks with his hands when he gets really fired up, and there’s always a trace of a dimple on his right side when he speaks about his profession, as if he knows something the rest of the world doesn’t. 

I guess, in a way, he does. He knows what it’s like to swim alongside one of the world’s oldest and most feared predators, and not many could say the same.

He may not have the best of manners, but I can admire his passion. The only thing I’ve ever been passionate about is surviving, and even then, I feel like giving up most days.

“Have you ever been bitten?” 

“Not by a shark,” he drawls. I do a double take, sensing the innuendo within his words. 

“You say that like you enjoy being bitten by not-sharks.”

He arches a brow, a slight grin pushing that dimple deeper into his cheek. He can arch one brow. Suppose it’s no surprise. God has always played favorites. 

“Is there a reason not to?”

I sigh loudly. “Stop trying to knock me up, Enzo. We’re not even friends.” I pick up my drink and finish it off just to distract myself from testing his theory. 

“I’ll try my best,” he states dryly.

“And I will accept nothing less. The only type of daddy I’m interested in is the sugary ones.”

“Would you like to go write your number on the bathroom wall?” he proposes. “Don’t think whoever calls would be the type to take home to your parents, though.”

His words are innocent, but they create a stabbing pain in my chest anyway. Sharp enough to cause me to set my glass down a little too roughly. 

Noticing the shift in my mood, he sets his drink down and looks at me. Just… looks at me. Waiting without asking.

I force a smile and shrug easily. “Don’t have those.”

“No family?”

“Just me.”

Again, he waits quietly while I fiddle with the wet napkin soaking up the perspiration from the ice in my cup.

“I had them until me and my brother, Kevin, were eighteen. They were driving home drunk and fighting like they always did. Probably because Dad got too handsy with another woman again. They went off a bridge and didn’t come back up until the next day. Found scratch marks all over Dad’s face from her nails, and both of their alcohol levels were high.”

He nods slowly, then asks, “Twins?”

“Yeah,” I confirm quietly. “Kev and I were twins. But now it’s just me.” I finish the statement with a broad smile, signaling the end of that depressing conversation.

He casts an indecipherable look my way but ultimately says, “Come on, I want to show you something.” He nods his head toward the exit. “I don’t want to spend my entire fucking day in this shitty bar.”

Valid. So, I pick up his drink and finish it off. 

Whiskey. Gross.

“You’re really rude,” Enzo observes, standing up and looking down at me with an unimpressed quirk to his brow.

He’s so fucking tall. Like, he has a solid foot on me.

“And you’re a mammoth,” I retort.

The bartender—who finally relented and told me his name is Austin—snatches the glasses while passing by without a glance, even as Enzo fishes out his wallet to slip out some bills and slap them down on the bar to cover our tab.

“You’re annoying.”

Not the first time I’ve heard that one.

“Does that mean you’re canceling our date?” I ask, a hint of hope in my tone. As much as I need Enzo to take me home—I always hate what comes after.

“It’s not a date. But, no, if you want out, then leave by yourself like a big girl.”

God, he’s mean. Why do I like it? 

“Whatever. Let me just get the money for—”

“You put any money out and I’ll shove it down your throat,” he warns, his voice deepening dangerously.

My eyes snap to him, round with shock. 

“Jesus, if you want to be a gentleman, just say that. Weirdo.”

He ignores me, and brushes past, heading toward the exit without a backward glance. The dickhead just assumes that I’ll follow him.

Well.

He’s right.

I’ve never been one to possess self-control. I hop off the barstool and hurry after him, my flip-flops clacking against the sticky floor as I work to catch up to him.

“I appreciate your unreasonably fast pace,” I pant as we emerge into the hot Australian sun. I squint, the blaring light stabbing at my sensitive eyes. “Doesn’t waste any time. I like that. I’m a busy woman, you know?”

I’m already sweating, his long legs eating up an ungodly amount of space far quicker than my little legs can handle. 

“Somehow, I doubt that.”