“Can I get a drink over here, or what?” a guy whose voice doesn’t sound familiar says harshly.
But when I turn to him, he’s smiling, his brown eyes kind of sparkling in the overhead lights. He’s got a handsome face, soft yet chiseled in all the right places, especially along the jaw. His lips are just full enough, very kissable. The leather jacket he’s wearing is stretched taut along his biceps, which is always a welcome sight. He’s got nice hands too, broad and strong-looking. His hair’s a little longer than I usually like on guys, but I’m always up for trying new things. I’ve definitely never seen him around here before. I’d remember. I’d try hard to go with him when he left.
“Or am I interrupting you?” he asks, his grin growing to reveal very nice teeth that sparkle just as much as his eyes.
“Depends on how you look at it,” I say and smile back. “What will it be?”
“A beer,” he says.
I surprise even myself with the promptness of reaching into the fridge for a bottle, opening it deftly, and placing it on the counter in front of him.
“You sure are practiced at this,” he says, wrapping his fingers around the bottle but not taking a drink.
“It’s a job, and I aim to please,” I say, flipping my hair back behind my shoulder and leaning on the bar near him.
“Do you now?” he asks, the sparkles in his eyes flaring up in a totally different light. Reddish. The color of lust and desire and flame. Just the type I like to cause in men’s eyes. And haven’t been able to in any of the guys around here. To the Sinners, I’m worth less than the trash I clean up after in this bar.
“Somehow I doubt that,” he adds, grins again and takes a drink, his eyes still full of interest, but a different kind—the kind that sees too clearly past the show I’ve started to put on for him. I’m rusty. I’ve lost my touch with men.
“And what brings you here tonight?” I ask, shifting my stance and leaning deeper on the counter to give him a good view of the mounds of my breasts. When I got here six months ago, this bra I’m wearing could barely contain them, but now I have to work for the same effect with all the weight I’ve lost. “I haven’t seen you around here before.”
The maneuver worked. His eyes slide down to my décolletage like a nice warm breeze on a summer night. Maybe I can get out of here tonight. For good. It’s high time.
“Just passing through,” he says and glances at something or someone over my shoulder.
Him looking away from me shouldn’t, but it dashes, slashes, kills all my hope. I almost turn to see who or what he’s looking at. Maybe Lisa. She’s good at commanding the attention of most guys in here with her fire-red hair and legs for days. I used to be her. I used to be the woman a roomful of men slobbered after. But not here. Here I’m trash.
“You’re on the way to somewhere, then?” I ask, sounding so wistful I want to smack myself.
“You could say that,” he’s full-on shifted his attention to something else now.
But whether it’s Lisa weaving her way through the tables, Ace who just walked in without Stormi on his heels, or Piston who’s at the other end of the bar glaring at us, I can’t be sure. Piston’s a little wimp, but he’s the best chance of bettering my situation around here. Maybe I should stop talking to this guy.
But I don’t want to stop talking to this guy.
I want to do more than just talk to this guy.
Even if he doesn’t end up being my ticket out of here. Even if it’s just a night of fun. I like him like I haven’t liked a guy in a very long time. I want him just because.
I don’t recognize the me that’s thinking that, but here it is.
“That guy over there would prefer it if you were talking to him,” he says, gesturing at Piston with a slight nod of his head.
I purse my lips and shake my head. “But it’s not about what he wants, now is it?”
He chuckles at that, and I really like his smile. Like how it’s fresh and touching and warm, yet lustful at the same time.
“What’s your name, then?” he asks.
I almost say Brandy, the name another old biker not much different than Monarch called me by because I’m such a rare and delicious treat, apparently. But instead, I say, “Brenda.” Giving him the name my daddy gave me.
“I’m Colt,” he says.
And as we shake hands—his hand just as warm and strong and right as I knew it would be—it feels like a deal’s been made. A new beginning sparking into a possibility like a string of firecrackers going off.
But in the next second his attention is gone from me again. Ace is being led into the back, Piston at his back. But I don’t know if that’s what’s he’s looking at.
And now I think I just imagined the connection between us because I’ve lost my mind. If I ever do get out of here my next stop will be an asylum somewhere. Maybe the same one where they keep my mom. She wasn’t that much older than me when she lost it completely.
Colt
This bar the Sinners run is as low as it gets. Rickety tables, the chairs in even worse condition. I bet I’m getting splinters in my ass from this bar stool I’m sitting on. The smell is overpowering too, and not in a good way—old smoke, spilled booze, sweat, blood, and so many other things I’d rather not even try to find a name for. Do they ever even open a window? And every time the door opens, dust from the damn gravel road leading here enters in a cloud. It’s exactly the type of place my old man would feel right at home in. As for me, if I somehow wandered in here just for a drink, I’d turn right around and wander somewhere else instead. Even the club girls all look like they’ve seen better days.
Except the one behind the counter. I’ve been trying to get her attention for the past ten minutes, but she’s just staring over the mass of bikers gathered in here at the front door, not thinking anything kind, judging by the wicked fire in her eyes. Elbows on the counter, boobs squeezed together and threatening to pop out, her hips swaying gently to the music, the short jean skirt she’s wearing barely concealing her round ass. Any guy’d be hard-pressed to choose which is hotter, her ass or her boobs, and I’m no exception. Although it’s her hair that got my attention first and held it. Long and dark and spilling in lush, thick waves down her back and around her boobs. I bet her eyes are blue—dark blue—a deadly combination. A regular Snow white. And I bet she can handle more than seven dwarves. Just the way I like them. Bad and wild and a little wicked. I never knew what to do with a nice girl.
And what the fuck am I thinking now?
I’m supposed to be on a job. I’m supposed to be proving myself, so I’ll be sent on more of them. I’m not supposed to be wondering about what color Snow White’s panties are. Red, I bet, like her bra and the apple.
Fuck. Focus.
Blaze is by the back door, acting drunk, but glancing from the door to me and back to the bottle of beer in his hands way too often. Although to be fair, I’m probably the only one who’s noticing that, since I’ve known Blaze for so long I barely have to look at him to know what he’s thinking. Besides, I also know why we’re really here. We’re supposed to warn Ace to get out because the shit’s about to hit the fan for the Sinners sooner rather than later.