Excerpt from SERVED HIM RIGHT by Lisa Unger:
This is a mistake. One of many, if you want to know the truth.
Still, I pull my car into the nearly empty parking lot and come to a stop, tires crunching on gravel. A blue neon sign that has seen better days flickers and buzzes over the roadside bar. Gina’s, the sign reads in aspirational cursive when all the letters light at the same time. A tilted martini glass glows green, until it goes dark and stays that way a while before stuttering to life again. The sun is sinking hot pink beyond the stand of pines that reach to the horizon line.
Sunset is always beautiful, isn’t it? Even in the parking lot of a dump like this, the kind of place that’s always empty until it isn’t. Where truckers stop for the night, or maybe biker gangs gather for a rowdy afternoon. This evening, there’s only a smattering of other cars parked. And I wonder why he chose this place. Forty minutes from anywhere, anything.
I should probably go, right? This is a bad idea.
Instead, I kill the engine and look at his picture on my phone, then freshen up my makeup in the visor mirror and climb out of the car into the chilly twilight. I’m aware, as I often am, of a kind of hunger, a low hum of need. When I act from this place, that’s when I am my worst self, do the things I later regret. But knowing this doesn’t stop me tonight. Sometimes there’s no stopping me.
In the lot beside the bar, there’s an impressive collection of junk. Rusted-out cars, discarded appliances, shattered televisions, a waist-deep pile of computer keyboards, white and brittle as bones. As the electric-pink sun disappears below the horizon line, the broken and unwanted things are slowly, subtly painted rose. There’s a strange, sweet reek of rot.
That’s when I see them. The stray cats. Too mangy, too rangy, prowling in their bony elegance, leaping weightless from dangerously precarious mounds of sharp edges, peering yellow- eyed from shadows. I stop to watch them a moment. I’m comfortable in feline company. Cats are survivors like me. They always seem to think a lot of themselves despite their circum- stances, like the black tom missing an eye who perches imperious as a king, watching as I continue moving toward the bar.
I swear I still feel that yellow eye on me as I step through the door.
What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this? I imagine the tomcat would ask, licking his lips.
Well, Tom, I would answer, the truth is, I’m not a nice girl. Not at all.
Inside, it’s a surprisingly decent space, with wood floors and cozy booths, a glowing juke box, several pool tables and a long bar, lit and mirrored, rows and rows of colorful liquor bottles, lined up like soldiers in the war against good sense and right behavior. A predictably muscled and tattooed bartender in a black tank top and too-tight jeans wipes surfaces clean, gives me a nod.
“Welcome in,” he says, eyes lingering.
In one of the booths toward the back, I see the man I’ve come to meet. He offers a wave and then gets to his feet to greet me. Unbelievably, he’s better looking than his picture on the app. How often does that happen? We’re all such liars, aren’t we? He’s tall and clean-cut, stylish if a bit rumpled in black jeans and suede bomber jacket. I imagine telling my sister, Vera, that I’ve driven out of town to meet a man I connected with on an app that exists only for no-strings attached sexual encounters called HookUp. What are you thinking? she’d surely ask, her tone striking all the notes of disappointment and disapproval I expect from her.
I catch my reflection in the mirror, slim, high-heeled, dressed all in black, my go-to color. My posture is erect, gait easy, ex- pression flat, uninterested. But that’s just the outer shell, the projection that I allow you to see. I’m a matryoshka doll. You could spend all day looking for the real woman, the hard, tiny kernel of truth inside all my painted-on selves. But you won’t find her; I’ll never allow that.
He reaches out a hand as I approach, and I find that appealingly nerdy considering the reason we’ve both come. His hand is warm in mine, handshake firm but not one of those that seems to need to prove how strong he is. This man is not buff and styled like my pretty ex with his moisturized skin and yoga- toned ass, the bespoke wardrobe he could ill afford. But there’s something in this stranger’s smoky dark hazel eyes that gets my heart to pumping as we slide across from each other into the leather booth. There’s something familiar, though I know I’ve never seen him before.
He asks me what I want to drink, then walks over to the bar to order. I look at the items he’s left on the table. A set of keys, a phone. I tap the screen, wondering what picture will pop up—a girlfriend, his wife and kids, his dog—but there’s nothing, just a black screen with the time and, strangely, the lunar phase. Waxing gibbous.
Which reminds me, we’re approaching the Wolf Moon, the first full moon of January, of the new year. It’s meant to be a time of reflection on what has been, and what is ahead. It is a moment when we celebrate that in the dull gray cold of winter, the rebirth of spring approaches. The old will fade, the new will blossom green and bright. It’s an important night in my circle, and for reasons I can’t fully explain I’m always on edge as it approaches.
The stranger returns with my vodka soda, places it on the table as I thank him.
“I’ve never done this before,” he says. “The app. I’m new to it.”
“So am I,” I lie. “I’m just getting out of a bad relationship. I’m not looking for anything serious.”
That much is true. Sometimes a girl just needs to have a little fun, right? Long-term relationships with men are all handholding and ego-stroking, then it’s cooking and picking up socks off the floor. And that’s the best-case scenario. Things got ugly with my ex. I rub at my arm which still aches a little, more like a ghost pain than a real injury.
“Got it,” he says. No ego, no rush to say how he’s not looking for anything serious either, no defensive posture. Just a slow, knowing smile. Those eyes—there’s intelligence, a kind of seeing that makes me a little nervous. Like maybe he could see through all my layers, to the person inside, the one I have to protect.
A little more flirty chit chat. And then I kick off my shoe under the table and put my foot on the inside of his calf feeling the roughness of his jeans against my toes. The muscles of his leg are toned and strong. He startles a little, color coming up on his cheeks. He is new to this. I find that charming.
I take a deep swallow of my drink, then slip back into my shoe and rise, walk toward the rear of the bar, through the door that leads to the restrooms. He follows.
In the women’s bathroom, he shuts and locks the door. It heats up fast, his arms around me, his lips on my neck, breath in my ear, then his mouth on mine, hot and sweet. I unbutton his shirt, feel the smooth heat of his skin. He’s not ripped, but solid. He backs me up against the wall. He’s strong, taking what he wants, but somehow gentle.
“Is this okay?” he asks. “Are you alright?”
Normally I find this a turnoff. But I don’t mind it from him.
I nod, press my mouth to his so that he doesn’t talk anymore. He hikes my skirt and lifts me onto the sink. And then I’m lost in the heat of him, of us, the rhythm of our bodies in this seedy place, the cracked mirror where I can only see fractured pieces of myself, the graffiti-covered walls filled with names and numbers and lines of bad poetry.
And it’s good, deep, pleasure. There’s no note of violence or undercurrent of malice, as there was with my ex, and so many of the other men in my life.
I know. I need to look at that.
When I open my eyes, he’s staring at me.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, pupils dilatated slightly in the dim light.
I’m not one of those who feels the need to match a compliment with another one, so I just smile and kiss him again. And then we’re both lost, not even bothering to stay quiet.
Afterward, he gives me another slow, deep kiss before he leaves, tender and respectful in spite of our tawdry ladies room romp. “I’ll wait for you outside.”
“Okay,” I say, fully expecting him to be gone when I return to the table. I am not new to this. I know how it goes. How it should go.
I pull myself together, wipe the smear of lipstick from around my mouth, feeling him all over me. My legs are shaking as I tug down my skirt. Well, then.
When I step outside, he’s sitting in the booth, waiting like he said he would. There’s a moment when I see him, and he doesn’t see me. There’s something about him, both virile and almost boyish. He’s not staring at his phone like most people would, on to the next thing, the next hookup, the next whatever, but off into the distance at nothing. It’s weird. I think I actually like him. Which was not the plan.
I turn around and find the back door, slip outside into the night, pick my way through the alley, make my way past the junk in the lot next door.
There, on top of one of the rusted-out cars, is that one- eyed cat again. Black with a white star on his chest. He meows mournfully as I pass him by, headed for my car.
I told you I wasn’t a nice girl, Tom. Didn’t you believe me?
Excerpted from SERVED HIM RIGHT by Lisa Unger, Copyright © 2026 by Lisa Unger Published by Park Row Books.
SERVED HIM RIGHT by Lisa Unger
Narrator: Vivienne Leheny, Brittany Pressley, Kristen Sieh, Petrea Burchard, Soneela Nankani
A Twisted Thriller of Betrayal, Vengeful Murder, and Long-Buried Secrets
A woman’s brunch with friends quickly turns dark in this gripping thriller from New York Times bestselling author Lisa Unger
Ana Blacksmith has gathered her closest friends and sister Vera for a brunch to celebrate her recent breakup from her boyfriend Paul. But when shocking news about Paul arrives, all eyes are on Ana, the angry ex with a bad reputation. Suspicions only intensify when Ana’s best friend falls deathly ill after the brunch.
But Ana is not the only one who had a score to settle with Paul. As the investigation unfolds, rumors of a secret network that uses ancient methods to obtain justice begin to emerge. Vengeance is sweet, but it can also be deadly. Ana and Vera are determined to find the truth before Ana takes the fall and their own long—buried history comes to light.
Mystery Psychological [ Park Row Books, On Sale: March 10, 2026, Hardcover / e-Book / audiobook, ISBN: 9780778360056 / eISBN: 9780369767561 ]
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About Lisa Unger
Lisa Unger is the New York Times and internationally bestselling author of seventeen novels, including THE STRANGER INSIDE. With millions of readers worldwide and books published in twenty-six languages, Lisa Unger is widely regarded as a master of suspense. In 2019, she received two Edgar Award nominations, an honor held by only a few writers including Ruth Rendell and Agatha Christie. The Edgar-nominated UNDER MY SKIN is also a finalist for the prestigious Hammett Prize, and the Macavity Award for Best Novel. And the original short story THE SLEEP TIGHT MOTEL is a #1 bestselling single.
Unger’s critically acclaimed books have been voted “Best of the Year” or top picks by the Today show, Good Morning America, Entertainment Weekly, Amazon, IndieBound and many others. Her writing has appeared in The New York Times, Wall Street Journal, NPR, and Travel+Leisure. She lives on the west coast of Florida with her family.
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