Chapter 4
Hannah
For fuck’s sake, Hannah.
“Are you looking for your friend?”
The music pounds, loud enough to muddle most voices into a single hum, but his cuts through. His low, sultry voice stands out against the reverberating volume filling the bar. Slowly turning, I meet the face behind the voice.
He appears to be in his thirties, sitting at the same table the earlier group had claimed, like the seat had been waiting just for him.
However, I don’t recognize this man from the previous introductions. He’s sporting a black Scally cap pulled low, a beard that could make knees weak, and smoky-green eyes locked directly on me.
The patch above his heart reads: Sarge.
There is no way he was here earlier; I would have noticed him. He looks like a rugged Ryan Gosling in glasses and a motorcycle kutte.
Yum.
Shit. How drunk am I?
I clear my throat, my mind scrambling to find its footing. “Yes,” I manage, already spinning around again to scan the crowd for Martin. “Do you know him?”
How is it even possible that Martin and five giant bikers managed to evaporate in the ten minutes it took me to get a round of drinks? One second, I was part of a circle, and the next, I’m an island in a sea of unfamiliar faces.
“Sarge” sits up in his seat, relaxed, as if the chaos of the bar bends around him.
Standing there awkwardly double fisting drinks, I wish someone would fill the silence.
His left arm catches my eye and try not to openly stare. The skin is marked with jagged lines that resemble cracked earth. Some are red and raised, others faded brown. Those are some serious scars.
“A little,” he offers, his voice a low rumble. “I’ve seen him here a few times. Knows a couple guys in the club. Hang-around, really.” Then he smiles with his eyes more than his mouth.
Oh, that smile should come with a warning label.
Wait. How did he know I came with a friend?
When he sits back, I take notice of his dark gray denim kutte. It stands out against the sea of black leather that was here before.
He doesn’t have that “biker with something to prove” vibe. No cocky posture. No cigarette dangling from his lips. He looks like a man who could hold his own but doesn’t feel the need to broadcast it to the room.
I like that. A lot more than I probably should, but I can’t help it. I’ll blame the alcohol.
The way he sits there—calm, watching—makes everyone else in this loud-ass room look like they’re trying too hard.
My gaze flicks to his left hand wrapped around a glass of something dark. Coke, maybe. I can’t help but notice there’s no ring.
For fuck’s sake, Hannah. We are not here to find a man.
“I saw your friend head toward the front door a few minutes ago,” Sarge says, pointing a thumb toward the door. “Not smart of him to leave you alone in a room full of drunk men.”
I arch a brow. “How chivalrous. Were you watching me that whole time?”
His mouth twitches. “Not entirely. But when I saw him wander off, I figured I’d make sure none of these drunk assholes tried their luck. We don’t get many women like you hanging around this shit hole, so I can only imagine what’s running through every hungry man’s mind.”
“Oh?” I ask, cocking a hip. “And what’s running through yours?”
Sarge gives a soft chuckle that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m a hungry man, too, Butterfly. Unlike the piranhas circling you, I actually know how to control myself.”
“Cute,” I say, taking a sip of my drink. “But I think I can hold my own. I see drunk men nearly every day. And the name’s Hannah.”
Butterfly? He thinks he has me pinned and labeled. Like I’m just something pretty to admire. Something fragile and so easily caught.
Half of me wishes Martin would come back. The other half hopes he doesn’t, just so Sarge can see I’m more than what meets the eye.
Why the fuck do I care about that? It doesn’t matter what this man thinks he knows about me. We’re never going to see each other again.
Ha. Unless he likes strip clubs.
“Well, nice to meet you, Hannah. I’m Sarge.” He offers his hand.
His grip is strong, his calloused skin noticeable against my soft palm. A shiver runs down my spine at the sudden, uninvited thought of that strong hand collaring my neck.
For fuck’s sake, woman. Get your shit together. I work with men; I take my clothes off for them almost every night. Is the palm my new G-spot? It was only a handshake.
Martin would make a great buffer right now—or anyone, really. How were there so many men at this table a minute ago, and now it’s only Sarge and me?
I honestly shouldn’t be surprised that Martin wandered off. He knows no stranger and can’t resist saying hello.
Well, since drinks aren’t allowed outside and I know better than to leave them here unattended, I drop into the chair across from Sarge.
“I’m just going to wait here for Martin if that’s okay,” I say with only half confidence.
“Don’t mind at all. But if you didn’t drive here, I hope you have a backup ride. Just in case.” He says before taking a swig of his amber drink.
I let out a sigh and scroll through Snapchat. The possibility of Martin leaving me here is fairly high, but I like to think he’d have the courtesy to text me first. I don’t have another way home, aside from a ride share.
Feeling uneasy, I drag my gaze upward. Sage colored eyes meet mine, so steady and intense. I’ve always had a knack for reading people, but this guy is pure static.
I think he could win the lottery, and his face would look the same. He doesn’t necessarily lack emotion, but his face is no ticker tape either.
The stare should be creepy, but instead it fills me with warmth from the inside out. My face flushes, and I tell myself it’s from the collective body heat in this small space.
I open my mouth to try and spark a conversation right as someone stumbles into our table. A drink sloshes over the edge of a glass and lands inches from me.
“Booker,” Sarge says, deadpan. “Looks like you found the table, man.”
The drunk grins at me, sloppy and way too close. “Hey, what’s your name?” He says on a wink, reeking of booze and cologne.
His presence isn’t awful, it’s just... too close. There’s no buffer between us like there is at the club. No rules.
“I’m Lily,” I say before I even know why.
Sarge’s gaze cuts to Booker, sharp enough to slice.
“Well, hi, Lily. I’m Booker. Work here. Bartender.” He beams like he’s announcing royalty.
“Off tonight, I assume?” I ask dryly.
“Oh yeah, and they’ve served me well,” he chuckles.
“We can tell.” Sarge stands, stepping between us. “Time to head home, Booker. I’ll help you call an Uber.”
Booker blinks, swaying. “Oh, I think Lily can decide if she wants me gone.”
He turns his drunk puppy eyes on me. “Well?”
I plaster on a polite smile. “Looks like you’ve had a good night.”
“I have, and I can make yours better.” He reaches, clumsily brushing a strand of my hair over my shoulder.
Sarge moves fast, his hand quickly plucking Booker’s away from me. Voice steel. “Time to go.”
Booker stumbles along without much choice, but calls back, “Good night, Lily!”
“Drink some water!” I call, chuckling to myself.
Sarge disappears into the crowd with him.
Oddly protective. Too protective, and I should be annoyed. Instead, I feel... pulled.
Welp. Alone again. Or am I?
Only minutes later, a body in a vest drops into the chair across from me. One I recognize from earlier—Raydar. He looks younger than Sarge, maybe in his mid-twenties, and undeniably handsome, with his honey-colored eyes and well-built frame.
His head is shaved down almost to the skin, with a tattoo of a skeleton’s skull on his scalp. Not creepy at all. I’m sure he’s a very nice man.
I noticed before that he was the shortest in the group, maybe 5’8”. But the guy is built like a damn bouncer—the kind of guy who probably hasn’t skipped a gym day since birth.
Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if he chased his shots of whiskey with creatine and protein powder.
The thought slips out in a snort of laughter before I can stop it. His head turns, eyes locking on me, and I freeze like I’ve just laughed in church. Oh, shit. Great job, Hannah. Nothing says “please don’t murder me, scary biker dude” like laughing in his face for absolutely no reason.
His chest says “Vice President”, which is a very fitting job title for him. I imagine with a name like “Raydar”, not much gets past him.
He doesn’t try to talk to me, and honestly, I’m grateful. The man looks like he could bench-press me and the high-backed barstool I’m sitting on. He doesn’t exactly scream, “I like small talk.” So, I nurse my drink, making mental notes to pace myself.
Spoiler: I don’t.
It’s pushing two in the morning, and I’m easily eight drinks deep, wobbling like I’m trying to find my sea legs on a sinking ship.
I’ve been dancing for who knows how long, and my lungs are burning. I finally stumble off the floor and navigate the maze of bodies toward the bathroom again, because of course.
At this point, I’m basically paying for the privilege of expensive pee. I’m realizing that I didn’t truly buy these drinks; I just paid for a short-term rental, and the lease is officially up.
The bathroom is cramped, full of girls in denim skirts and low-cut tops, fixing makeup and gossiping like queens of the dive bar.
I slip past and do my business while their laughter fills the room.
“I’m getting on the back of his bike tonight. That man is hot, and he’s been single far too long. And those scars? They honestly make him hotter, you know? Rugged,” one girl says.
Coming out of the stall, I spot the woman speaking. She’s absolutely beautiful with auburn hair and killer legs.
“Shut up.” A curvy blonde sporting a sequined cropped top, distressed black shorts, and black combat boots retorts, “He never takes anyone. He doesn’t even carry a spare helmet.”
Scars. My mind flashes to Sarge’s arm and the ridges I’d traced with my eyes.