Chapter 7 YOUR BELT, OUR RULES
HART
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I LEAN AGAINST the worn edge of the bar. My fingers tap the wood as I wait for Bucky.
“What can I get for you, boy?”
I’m not even close to a boy, but I guess compared to the eighty-something man, I’m still a young one.
“Bourbon. Neat. I need the burn.”
A grin cracks his crooked lips. “On it.”
The older man also eyes the biker crew—loud boots, louder voices, patch-covered backs taking over the pool tables and all the space around.
“You always drink like you’re about to confess something?” A smoky voice edged with amusement comes from my left.
I glance over.
I don’t want to.
I’m not interested.
She has the look—dark eyeliner, a black tank that hugs tattooed shoulders, jeans that fit like they were poured on, and that confident lean that women get when they’re used to being noticed.
She’s with the biker crew.
There’s no mistaking it.
“You pegging me already?” I offer a polite half-smile. “A bit fast, don’t you think?”
She laughs, low and amused. “You’ve got that strong and silent thing going. Like a cowboy with a past.”
She has no idea.
I shrug, accepting my drink from Bucky. I notice the look he gives me. The crew is in trouble.
He knows.
I know it.
It’s only a matter of time before someone is throwing them out on their ass. We don’t like trouble here—not unless it’s our own. And even then, they get a boot out the back door.
“You always this talkative?” She teases, curling her hair around one finger.
“Only when I’ve got something to say.”
She rests her elbow on the bar, angling herself toward me. “You got a girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Oh, good.” She smiles, as if that is all the invitation she needs. “I’m Trish. You got a name, cowboy?”
“I do.”
She raises a brow, waiting.
I take a slow sip. Maybe she’ll leave. Perhaps she’ll get the hint. Likely, she won’t.
“Hart.”
“Well, Hart”—her eyes rake over me in a way that makes it clear she’s not here for small talk—“you riding with anyone tonight?”
“Just my truck.”
“That’s a shame.”
Is it?
I don’t say it, but it hangs between us.
I mean, she’s attractive. Bold. Easy in her skin and making no secret of her interest. The kind of woman you know exactly what a night with her would be.
No strings.
No pretending.
Maybe a good lay would shake something loose in me. Something that has been rusted and coiled too tightly for too long.
But then my eyes drift—just a glance—and catch Jade. They’ve moved to the dartboard, hung on the wall, with decades of bad aim scarring the wood around it. She aims a dart at the board, his hand lingering a little too long on her hip.
My jaw ticks.
I turn back to Trish.
“Look, you seem like fun,” I say, voice even. “But I’m not much for fun these days.”
She tilts her head, all biker confidence and knowing smirk. “That so?”
“It’s not true.” The voice comes from my other side, sweet, smug, and definitely local.
A blur of cutoff shorts that barely qualify as legal, shining cowboy boots, and a knotted halter top that’s doing zero work to hide the lace bralette underneath, slides onto the stool beside me.
Trouble wrapped in flirting.
“Evening, Hart.” She draws out my name like it’s chocolate.
“Peggy-Ann.” The town flirt, but I am not about to bang a married woman.
Her finger runs along my forearm where my sleeves are rolled up. “You like fun. You just have preferences.”
Here we go.
Trish tilts her head, eyes sparkling with interest.
Peggy-Anne leans in. “Heard a little rumor about what kind of fun you’re into.”
I’m not surprised.
“Oh?” Trish sips her drink, also leaning closer over the bar in front of me. “Do tell.”
“I heard”—Peggy-Ann taps her manicured nail on the bar—“that Hart here likes being tied up.”
“I—what? No.”
My brain short-circuits.
Damn Jade and her rumors.
Peggy-Ann grins like a cat who’s just knocked a vase off the table. “Don’t worry, I’m not judging. Just saying I’ve got some silk scarves and zero plans tonight.”
Trish snorts. “Now, this is fun.”
“I don’t—” I blink, trying to reboot my entire existence. “I’ve never said that.”
“I mean, I wouldn’t think you the type.” Trish swirls her drink. “You seem more like the guy who ties up other people.”
“Oh. Lord,” I mutter into my glass.
Peggy-Ann pouts. “Come on. You’re telling me that you weren’t at Bronx’s last bash? Upstairs? Something about a belt and a chair?”
“Not me,” I say flatly, staring straight ahead.
This isn’t the first time a woman has cornered me in this exact spot at this same bar.
Hell, women are always making assertive moves like this, spouting off kinky things I’ve never done—never thought of. And Jade is to blame.
“A chair?” Trish echoes. “Kinky and resourceful. I’m intrigued.”
“I didn’t use a damn chair,” I grit.
Peggy-Ann shrugs, sipping her drink like she’s just reporting the local news. Local gossip, more like. My frustration can’t be measured.
“That’s not what I hear. Heard she came downstairs walking funny and grinnin’ like she won the lottery.”
My head snaps toward her. “I didn’t use a fucking chair.”
“You sure? She said flannel, calloused hands, excellent stamina.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Don’t be shy,” Peggy-Ann coos. “We don’t have to tie you up. You could do the honors.”
“Take turns,” Trish adds.
“Or don’t,” Peggy-Ann says. “Tie us both up at the same time.”
Good Lord.
“You ever had two women at once?” Trish leans in, real close. “It could be your belt, our rules.”
“No,” I say, firmly, standing up and almost falling back over the stool. “Absolutely not.”
My hand scrapes something under the stool, and it comes loose in my palm and starts buzzing. I open my fingers, and the women follow my gaze to a pocket-sized dildo.
What the fuck?
Trish’s eyes light up when they land on me. “Kinky.”
Fuck.
“This isn’t mine. I’m not into—” I can’t even finish the sentence.
What the hell is this? And what the hell is it doing hiding in Bucky’s bar? Good Lord, is it used? And if so, by whom?
I inwardly gag.
Peggy-Ann puts a hand on my arm, just two fingers. “You sure? It could be good for you. Blow off some steam.”
Does she forget she’s married?
“That’s not mine—just—stop.”
Trish laughs, full-on delighted. “You’re blushing.”
“I’m leaving.” I toss the toy on the counter, backing away from both of them.
I’m not convinced they won’t physically pounce on me.
“You’re missing out,” Peggy-Ann calls after me, picking up the purple toy and running her fingers around it.
“I’ll take the risk.”
I shoot Bucky a look that says Please save me next time, then head toward the back to tell my brothers I’m out.
I came here for a drink and five minutes of peace.
Instead, I got rope rumors, threesomes, a dildo, and a chair I don’t even own.
God help me.
I need the fuck out of here. That’s when I feel a sting and see a dart lodged into my shoulder.
What the actual fuck?